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LADY BALTIMORE
By Owen Wister
To
S. Weir Mitchell
With the Affection and Memories of All My Life
 To the Reader
You know the great text in Burns, I am sure, where he wishes he
could see himself as others see him. Well, here lies the hitch in many
a work of art: if its maker—poet, painter, or novelist—could but have
become its audience too, for a single day, before he launched it
irrevocably upon the uncertain ocean of publicity, how much better
his boat would often sail! How many little touches to the rigging he
would give, how many little drops of oil to the engines here and
there, the need of which he had never suspected, but for that trial
trip! That's where the ship-builders and dramatists have the
advantage over us others: they can dock their productions and tinker
at them. Even to the musician comes this useful chance, and
Schumann can reform the proclamation which opens his B-flat
Symphony.
Still, to publish a story in weekly numbers previously to its
appearance as a book does sometimes give to the watchful author
an opportunity to learn, before it is too late, where he has failed in
clearness; and it brings him also, through the mails, some few
questions that are pleasant and proper to answer when his story
sets forth united upon its journey of adventure among gentle
readers.
How came my hero by his name?
If you will open a book more valuable than any I dare hope to
write, and more entertaining too, The Life of Paul Jones, by Mr.
Buell, you will find the real ancestor of this imaginary boy, and fall in
love with John Mayrant the First, as did his immortal captain of the
Bon Homme Richard. He came from South Carolina; and believing
his seed and name were perished there to-day, I gave him a
descendant. I have learned that the name, until recently, was in
existence; I trust it will not seem taken in vain in these pages.
Whence came such a person as Augustus?
Our happier cities produce many Augustuses, and may they long
continue to do so! If Augustus displeases any one, so much the
worse for that one, not for Augustus. To be sure, he doesn't admire
over heartily the parvenus of steel or oil, whose too sudden money
takes them to the divorce court; he calls them the 'yellow rich'; do
you object to that? Nor does he think that those Americans who
prefer their pockets to their patriotism, are good citizens. He says of
such people that 'eternal vigilance cannot watch liberty and the
ticker at the same time.' Do you object to that? Why, the young man
would be perfect, did he but attend his primaries and vote more
regularly,—and who wants a perfect young man?
What would John Mayrant have done if Hortense had not
challenged him as she did?
I have never known, and I fear we might have had a tragedy.
Would the old ladies really have spoken to Augustus about the
love difficulties of John Mayrant?
I must plead guilty. The old ladies of Kings Port, like American
gentlefolk everywhere, keep family matters sacredly inside the family
circle. But you see, had they not told Augustus, how in the world
could I have told—however, I plead guilty.
Certain passages have been interpreted most surprisingly to
signify a feeling against the colored race, that is by no means mine.
My only wish regarding these people, to whom we owe an
immeasurable responsibility, is to see the best that is in them prevail.
Discord over this seems on the wane, and sane views gaining. The
issue sits on all our shoulders, but local variations call for a sliding
scale of policy. So admirably dispassionate a novel as The Elder
Brother, by Mr. Jervey, forwards the understanding of Northerners
unfamiliar with the South, and also that friendliness between the two
places, which is retarded chiefly by tactless newspapers.
Ah, tact should have been one of the cardinal virtues; and if I
didn't possess a spice of it myself, I should here thank by name
certain two members of the St. Michael family of Kings Port for their
patience with this comedy, before ever it saw the light. Tact bids us
away from many pleasures; but it can never efface the memory of
kindness.
LADY BALTIMORE
 I: A Word about My Aunt
Like Adam, our first conspicuous ancestor, I must begin, and lay
the blame upon a woman; I am glad to recognize that I differ from
the father of my sex in no important particular, being as manlike as
most of his sons. Therefore it is the woman, my Aunt Carola, who
must bear the whole reproach of the folly which I shall forthwith
confess to you, since she it was who put it into my head; and, as it
was only to make Eve happy that her husband ever consented to eat
the disastrous apple, so I, save to please my relative, had never
aspired to become a Selected Salic Scion. I rejoice now that I did so,
that I yielded to her temptation. Ours is a wide country, and most of
us know but our own corner of it, while, thanks to my Aunt, I have
been able to add another corner. This, among many other
enlightenments of navel and education, do I owe her; she stands on
the threshold of all that is to come; therefore I were lacking in
deference did I pass her and her Scions by without due mention,—
employing no English but such as fits a theme so stately. Although
she never left the threshold, nor went to Kings Port with me, nor
saw the boy, or the girl, or any part of what befell them, she knew
quite well who the boy was. When I wrote her about him, she
remembered one of his grandmothers whom she had visited during
her own girlhood, long before the war, both in Kings Port and at the
family plantation; and this old memory led her to express a kindly
interest in him. How odd and far away that interest seems, now that
it has been turned to cold displeasure!
Some other day, perhaps, I may try to tell you much more than I
can tell you here about Aunt Carola and her Colonial Society—that
apple which Eve, in the form of my Aunt, held out to me. Never had
I expected to feel rise in me the appetite for this particular fruit,
though I had known such hunger to exist in some of my neighbors.
Once a worthy dame of my town, at whose dinner-table young men
and maidens of fashion sit constantly, asked me with much
sentiment if I was aware that she was descended from Boadicea.
Why had she never (I asked her) revealed this to me before? And
upon her informing me that she had learned it only that very day, I
exclaimed that it was a great distance to have descended so
suddenly. To this, after a look at me, she assented, adding that she
had the good news from the office of The American Almanach de
Gotha, Union Square, New York; and she recommended that
publication to me. There was but a slight fee to pay, a matter of fifty
dollars or upwards, and for this trifling sum you were furnished with
your rightful coat-of-arms and with papers clearly tracing your family
to the Druids, the Vestal Virgins, and all the best people in the
world. Therefore I felicitated the Boadicean lady upon the illustrious
progenitrix with whom the Almanach de Gotha had provided her for
so small a consideration, and observed that for myself I supposed I
should continue to rest content with the thought that in our
enlightened Republic every American was himself a sovereign. But
that, said the lady, after giving me another look, is so different from
Boadicea! And to this I perfectly agreed. Later I had the pleasure to
hear in a roundabout way that she had pronounced me one of the
most agreeable young men in society, though sophisticated. I have
not cherished this against her; my gift of humor puzzles many who
can see only my refinement and my scrupulous attention to dress.
Yes, indeed, I counted myself proof against all Boadiceas. But you
have noticed—have you not?—how, whenever a few people gather
together and style themselves something, and choose a president,
and eight or nine vice-presidents, and a secretary and a treasurer,
and a committee on elections, and then let it be known that almost
nobody else is qualified to belong to it, that there springs up
immediately in hundreds and thousands of breasts a fiery craving to
get into that body? You may try this experiment in science, law,
medicine, art, letters, society, farming, I care not what, but you will
set the same craving afire in doctors, academicians, and dog
breeders all over the earth. Thus, when my Aunt—the president,
herself, mind you!—said to me one day that she thought, if I proved
my qualifications, my name might be favorably considered by the
Selected Salic Scions—I say no more; I blush, though you cannot
see me; when I am tempted, I seem to be human, after all.
At first, to be sure, I met Aunt Carola's suggestion in the way that
I am too ready to meet many of her remarks; for you must know
she once, with sincere simplicity and good-will, told my Uncle
Andrew (her husband; she is only my Aunt by marriage) that she
had married beneath her; and she seemed unprepared for his
reception of this candid statement: Uncle Andrew was unaffectedly
merry over it. Ever since then all of us wait hopefully every day for
what she may do or say next.
She is from old New York, oldest New York; the family manor is
still habitable, near Cold Spring; she was, in her youth, handsome, I
am assured by those whose word I have always trusted; her
appearance even to-day causes people to turn and look; she is not
tall in feet and inches—I have to stoop considerably when she
commands from me the familiarity of a kiss; but in the quality which
we call force, in moral stature, she must be full eight feet high.
When rebuking me, she can pronounce a single word, my name,
"Augustus!" in a tone that renders further remark needless; and you
should see her eye when she says of certain newcomers in our
society, "I don't know them." She can make her curtsy as appalling
as a natural law; she knows also how to "take umbrage," which is
something that I never knew any one else to take outside of a book;
she is a highly pronounced Christian, holding all Unitarians wicked
and all Methodists vulgar; and once, when she was talking (as she
does frequently) about King James and the English religion and the
English Bible, and I reminded her that the Jews wrote it, she said
with displeasure that she made no doubt King James had—"well,
seen to it that all foreign matter was expunged"—I give you her own
words. Unless you have moved in our best American society (and by
this I do not at all mean the lower classes with dollars and no
grandfathers, who live in palaces at Newport, and look forward to
every-thing and back to nothing, but those Americans with
grandfathers and no dollars, who live in boarding-houses, and look
forward to nothing and back to everything)—unless you have known
this haughty and improving milieu, you have never seen anything
like my Aunt Carola. Of course, with Uncle Andrew's money, she
does not live in a boarding-house; and I shall finish this brief
attempt to place her before you by adding that she can be very kind,
very loyal, very public-spirited, and that I am truly attached to her.
"Upon your mother's side of the family," she said, "of course."
"Me!" I did not have to feign amazement.
My Aunt was silent. "Me descended from a king?"
My Aunt nodded with an indulgent stateliness. "There seems to be
the possibility of it."
"Royal blood in my veins, Aunt?"
"I have said so, Augustus. Why make me repeat it?"
It was now, I fear, that I met Aunt Carola in that unfitting spirit,
that volatile mood, which, as I have said already, her remarks often
rouse in me.
"And from what sovereign may I hope that I—?"
"If you will consult a recent admirable compilation, entitled The
American Almanach de Gotha, you will find that Henry the Seventh
—"
"Aunt, I am so much relieved! For I think that I might have
hesitated to trace it back had you said—well—Charles the Second,
for example, or Elizabeth."
At this point I should have been wise to notice my Aunt's eye; but
I did not, and I continued imprudently:—
"Though why hesitate? I have never heard that there was
anybody present to marry Adam and Eve, and so why should we all
make such a to-do about—"
"Augustus!"
She uttered my name in that quiet but prodigious tone to which I
have alluded above.
It was I who was now silent.
 "Augustus, if you purpose trifling, you may leave the room."
"Oh, Aunt, I beg your pardon. I never meant—"
"I cannot understand what impels you to adopt such a manner to
me, when I am trying to do something for you."
I hastened to strengthen my apologies with a manner becoming
the possible descendant of a king toward a lady of distinction, and
my Aunt was pleased to pass over my recent lapse from respect. She
now broached her favorite topic, which I need scarcely tell you is
genealogy, beginning with her own.
"If your title to royal blood," she said, "were as plain as mine
(through Admiral Bombo, you know), you would not need any
careful research."
She told me a great deal of genealogy, which I spare you; it was
not one family tree, it was a forest of them. It gradually appeared
that a grandmother of my mother's grandfather had been a Fanning,
and there were sundry kinds of Fannings, right ones and wrong
ones; the point for me was, what kind had mine been? No family
record showed this. If it was Fanning of the Bon Homme Richard
variety, or Fanning of the Alamance, then I was no king's
descendant.
"Worthy New England people, I understand," said my Aunt with
her nod of indulgent stateliness, referring to the Bon Homme
Richard species, "but of entirely bourgeois extraction—Paul Jones
himself, you know, was a mere gardener's son—while the Alamance
Fanning was one of those infamous regulators who opposed
Governor Tryon. Not through any such cattle could you be one of
us," said my Aunt.
But a dim, distant, hitherto uncharted Henry Tudor Fanning had
fought in some of the early Indian wars, and the last of his known
blood was reported to have fallen while fighting bravely at the battle
of Cowpens. In him my hope lay. Records of Tarleton, records of
Marion's men, these were what I must search, and for these I had
best go to Kings Port. If I returned with Kinship proven, then I might
be a Selected Salic Scion, a chosen vessel, a royal seed, one in the
most exalted circle of men and women upon our coasts. The other
qualifications were already mine: ancestors colonial and bellicose
upon land and sea—
"—besides having acquired," my Aunt was so good as to say,
"sufficient personal presentability since your life in Paris, of which I
had rather not know too much, Augustus. It is a pity," she repeated,
"that you will have so much research. With my family it was all so
satisfactorily clear through Kill-devil Bombo—Admiral Bombo's
spirited, reckless son."
You will readily conceive that I did not venture to betray my
ignorance of these Bombos; I worked my eyebrows to express a
silent and timeworn familiarity.
"Go to Kings Port. You need a holiday, at any rate. And I," my
Aunt handsomely finished, "will make the journey a present to you."
This generosity made me at once, and sincerely, repentant for my
flippancy concerning Charles the Second and Elizabeth. And so,
partly from being tempted by this apple of Eve, and partly because
recent overwork had tired me, but chiefly for her sake, and not to
thwart at the outset her kindly-meant ambitions for me, I kissed the
hand of my Aunt Carola and set forth to Kings Port.
"Come back one of us," was her parting benediction.
 II: I Vary My Lunch
Thus it was that I came to sojourn in the most appealing, the
most lovely, the most wistful town in America; whose visible sadness
and distinction seem also to speak audibly, speak in the sound of the
quiet waves that ripple round her Southern front, speak in the
church-bells on Sunday morning, and breathe not only in the soft
salt air, but in the perfume of every gentle, old-fashioned rose that
blooms behind the high garden walls of falling mellow-tinted plaster:
Kings Port the retrospective, Kings Port the belated, who from her
pensive porticoes looks over her two rivers to the marshes and the
trees beyond, the live-oaks, veiled in gray moss, brooding with
memories! Were she my city, how I should love her!
But though my city she cannot be, the enchanting image of her is
mine to keep, to carry with me wheresoever I may go; for who,
having seen her, could forget her? Therefore I thank Aunt Carola for
this gift, and for what must always go with it in my mind, the quiet
and strange romance which I saw happen, and came finally to share
in. Why it is that my Aunt no longer wishes to know either the boy
or the girl, or even to hear their names mentioned, you shall learn at
the end, when I have finished with the wedding; for this happy story
of love ends with a wedding, and begins in the Woman's Exchange,
which the ladies of Kings Port have established, and (I trust)
lucratively conduct, in Royal Street.
Royal Street! There's a relevance in this name, a fitness to my
errand; but that is pure accident.
The Woman's Exchange happened to be there, a decorous resort
for those who became hungry, as I did, at the hour of noon each
day. In my very pleasant boarding-house, where, to be sure, there
was one dreadful boarder, a tall lady, whom I soon secretly called
Juno—but let unpleasant things wait—in the very pleasant house
where I boarded (I had left my hotel after one night) our breakfast
was at eight, and our dinner not until three: sacred meal hours in
Kings Port, as inviolable, I fancy, as the Declaration of
Independence, but a gap quite beyond the stretch of my Northern
vitals. Therefore, at twelve, it was my habit to leave my Fanning
researches for a while, and lunch at the Exchange upon chocolate
and sandwiches most delicate in savor. As, one day, I was luxuriously
biting one of these, I heard his voice and what he was saying. Both
the voice and the interesting order he was giving caused me, at my
small table, in the dim back of the room, to stop and watch him
where he stood in the light at the counter to the right of the
entrance door. Young he was, very young, twenty-two or three at
the most, and as he stood, with hat in hand, speaking to the pretty
girl behind the counter, his head and side-face were of a romantic
and high-strung look. It was a cake that he desired made, a cake for
a wedding; and I directly found myself curious to know whose
wedding. Even a dull wedding interests me more than other dull
events, because it can arouse so much surmise and so much
prophecy; but in this wedding I instantly, because of his strange and
winning embarrassment, became quite absorbed. How came it he
was ordering the cake for it? Blushing like the boy that he was
entirely, he spoke in a most engaging voice: "No, not charged; and
as you don't know me, I had better pay for it now."
Self-possession in his speech he almost had; but the blood in his
cheeks and forehead was beyond his control.
A reply came from behind the counter: "We don't expect payment
until delivery."
"But—a—but on that morning I shall be rather particularly
engaged." His tones sank almost away on these words.
"We should prefer to wait, then. You will leave your address. In
half-pound boxes, I suppose?"
"Boxes? Oh, yes—I hadn't thought—no—just a big, round one.
Like this, you know!" His arms embraced a circular space of air.
"With plenty of icing."
 I do not think that there was any smile on the other side of the
counter; there was, at any rate, no hint of one in the voice. "And
how many pounds?"
He was again staggered. "Why—a—I never ordered one before. I
want plenty—and the very best, the very best. Each person would
eat a pound, wouldn't they? Or would two be nearer? I think I had
better leave it all to you. About like this, you know." Once more his
arms embraced a circular space of air.
Before this I had never heard the young lady behind the counter
enter into any conversation with a customer. She would talk at
length about all sorts of Kings Port affairs with the older ladies
connected with the Exchange, who were frequently to be found
there; but with a customer, never. She always took my orders, and
my money, and served me, with a silence and a propriety that have
become, with ordinary shopkeepers, a lost art. They talk to one
indeed! But this slim girl was a lady, and consequently did the right
thing, marking and keeping a distance between herself and the
public. To-day, however, she evidently felt it her official duty to guide
the hapless young, man amid his errors. He now appeared to be
committing a grave one.
"Are you quite sure you want that?" the girl was asking.
"Lady Baltimore? Yes, that is what I want."
"Because," she began to explain, then hesitated, and looked at
him. Perhaps it was in his face; perhaps it was that she remembered
at this point the serious difference between the price of Lady
Baltimore (by my small bill-of-fare I was now made acquainted with
its price) and the cost of that rich article which convention has
prescribed as the cake for weddings; at any rate, swift, sudden
delicacy of feeling prevented her explaining any more to him, for she
saw how it was: his means were too humble for the approved kind
of wedding cake! She was too young, too unskilled yet in the world's
ways, to rise above her embarrassment; and so she stood blushing
at him behind the counter, while he stood blushing at her in front of
it.
 At length he succeeded in speaking. "That's all, I believe. Good-
morning."
At his hastily departing back she, too, murmured: "Good-
morning."
Before I knew it I had screamed out loudly from my table: "But he
hasn't told you the day he wants it for!"
Before she knew it she had flown to the door—my cry had set her
going, as if I had touched a spring—and there he was at the door
himself, rushing back. He, too, had remembered. It was almost a
collision, and nothing but their good Southern breeding, the way
they took it, saved it from being like a rowdy farce.
"I know," he said simply and immediately. "I am sorry to be so
careless. It's for the twenty-seventh."
She was writing it down in the order-book. "Very well. That is
Wednesday of next week. You have given us more time than we
need." She put complete, impersonal business into her tone; and
this time he marched off in good order, leaving peace in the
Woman's Exchange.
No, not peace; quiet, merely; the girl at the counter now
proceeded to grow indignant with me. We were alone together, we
two; no young man, or any other business, occupied her or
protected me. But if you suppose that she made war, or expressed
rage by speaking, that is not it at all. From her counter in front to
my table at the back she made her displeasure felt; she was
inaudibly crushing; she did not do it even with her eye, she
managed it—well, with her neck, somehow, and by the way she
made her nose look in profile. Aunt Carola would have embraced her
—and I should have liked to do so myself. She could not stand the
idea of my having, after all these days of official reserve that she
had placed between us, startled her into that rush to the door
annihilated her dignity at a blow. So did I finish my sandwiches
beneath her invisible but eloquent fire. What affair of mine was the
cake? And what sort of impertinent, meddlesome person was I,
shrieking out my suggestions to people with whom I had no
acquaintance? These were the things that her nose and her neck
said to me the whole length of the Exchange. I had nothing but my
own weakness to thank; it was my interest in weddings that did it,
made me forget my decorum, the public place, myself, everything,
and plunge in. And I became more and more delighted over it as the
girl continued to crush me. My day had been dull, my researches
had not brought me a whit nearer royal blood; I looked at my little
bill-of-fare, and then I stepped forward to the counter, adventurous,
but polite.
"I should like a slice, if you please, of Lady Baltimore," I said with
extreme formality.
I thought she was going to burst; but after an interesting second
she replied, "Certainly," in her fit Regular Exchange tone; only, I
thought it trembled a little.
I returned to the table and she brought me the cake, and I had
my first felicitous meeting with Lady Baltimore. Oh, my goodness!
Did you ever taste it? It's all soft, and it's in layers, and it has nuts—
but I can't write any more about it; my mouth waters too much.
Delighted surprise caused me once more to speak aloud, and with
my mouth full. "But, dear me, this Is delicious!"
A choking ripple of laughter came from the counter. "It's I who
make them," said the girl. "I thank you for the unintentional
compliment." Then she walked straight back to my table. "I can't
help it," she said, laughing still, and her delightful, insolent nose well
up; "how can I behave myself when a man goes on as you do?" A
nice white curly dog followed her, and she stroked his ears.
"Your behavior is very agreeable to me," I remarked.
"You'll allow me to say that you're not invited to criticise it. I was
decidedly put out with you for making me ridiculous. But you have
admired my cake with such enthusiasm that you are forgiven. And—
may I hope that you are getting on famously with the battle of
Cowpens?"
I stared. "I'm frankly very much astonished that you should know
about that!"
 "Oh, you're just known all about in Kings Port."
I wish that our miserable alphabet could in some way render the
soft Southern accent which she gave to her words. But it cannot. I
could easily misspell, if I chose; but how, even then, could I, for
instance, make you hear her way of saying "about"? "Aboot" would
magnify it; and besides, I decline to make ugly to the eye her quite
special English, that was so charming to the ear.
"Kings Port just knows all about you," she repeated with a sweet
and mocking laugh.
"Do you mind telling me how?"
She explained at once. "This place is death to all incognitos."
The explanation, however, did not, on the instant, enlighten me.
"This? The Woman's Exchange, you mean?"
"Why, to be sure! Have you not heard ladies talking together
here?"
I blankly repealed her words. "Ladies talking?"
She nodded.
"Oh!" I cried. "How dull of me! Ladies talking! Of course!"
She continued. "It was therefore widely known that you were
consulting our South Carolina archives at the library—and then that
notebook you bring marked you out the very first day. Why, two
hours after your first lunch we just knew all about you!"
"Dear me!" said I.
"Kings Port is ever ready to discuss strangers," she further
explained. "The Exchange has been going on five years, and the
resident families have discussed each other so thoroughly here that
everything is known; therefore a stranger is a perfect boon." Her
gayety for a moment interrupted her, before she continued, always
mocking and always sweet: "Kings Port cannot boast intelligence
offices for servants; but if you want to know the character and
occupation of your friends, come to the Exchange!" How I wish I
could give you the raciness, the contagion, of her laughter! Who
would have dreamed that behind her primness all this frolic lay in
ambush? "Why," she said, "I'm only a plantation girl; it's my first
week here, and I know every wicked deed everybody as done since
1812!"
She went back to her counter. It had been very merry; and as I
was settling the small debt for my lunch I asked: "Since this is the
proper place for information, will you kindly tell me whose wedding
that cake is for?"
She was astonished. "You don't know? And I thought you were
quite a clever Ya—I beg your pardon—Northerner.
"Please tell me, since I know you're quite a clever Reb—I beg your
pardon—Southerner."
"Why, it's his own! Couldn't you see that from his bashfulness?"
"Ordering his own wedding cake?" Amazement held me. But the
door opened, one of the elderly ladies entered, the girl behind the
counter stiffened to primness in a flash, and I went out into Royal
Street as the curly dog's tail wagged his greeting to the newcomer.
 III: Kings Port Talks
Of course I had at once left the letters of introduction which Aunt
Carola had given me; but in my ignorance of Kings Port hours I had
found everybody at dinner when I made my first round of calls
between half-past three and five—an experience particularly
regrettable, since I had hurried my own dinner on purpose, not then
aware that the hours at my boarding-house were the custom of the
whole town. (These hours even since my visit to Kings Port, are
beginning to change. But such backsliding is much condemned.)
Upon an afternoon some days later, having seen in the extra looking-
glass, which I had been obliged to provide for myself, that the part
in my back hair was perfect, I set forth again, better informed.
As I rang the first doorbell, another visitor came up the steps, a
beautiful old lady in widow's dress, a cardcase in her hand.
"Have you rung, sir?" said she, in a manner at once gentle and
voluminous.
"Yes, madam."
Nevertheless she pulled it again. "It doesn't always ring," she
explained, "unless one is accustomed to it, which you are not."
She addressed me with authority, exactly like Aunt Carola, and
with even greater precision in her good English and good
enunciation. Unlike the girl at the Exchange, she had no accent; her
language was simply the perfection of educated utterance; it also
was racy with the free censoriousness which civilized people of
consequence are apt to exercise the world over. "I was sorry to miss
your visit," she began (she knew me, you see, perfectly); "you will
please to come again soon, and console me for my disappointment.
I am Mrs. Gregory St. Michael, and my house is in Le Maire Street
(Pronounced in Kings Port, Lammarree) as you have been so civil as
to find out. And how does your Aunt Carola do in these contemptible
times? You can tell her from me that vulgarization is descending,
even upon Kings Port."
"I cannot imagine that!" I exclaimed.
"You cannot imagine it because you don't know anything about it,
young gentleman! The manners of some of our own young people
will soon be as dishevelled as those in New York. Have you seen our
town yet, or is it all books with you? You should not leave without a
look at what is still left of us. I shall be happy if you will sit in my
pew on Sunday morning. Your Northern shells did their best in the
bombardment—did you say that you rang? I think you had better
pull it again; all the way out; yes, like that—in the bombardment,
but we have our old church still, in spite of you. Do you see the
crack in that wall? The earthquake did it. You're spared earthquakes
in the North, as you seem to be spared pretty much everything
disastrous—except the prosperity that's going to ruin you all. We're
better off with our poverty than you. Just ring the bell once more,
and then we'll go. I fancy Julia—I fancy Mrs. Weguelin St. Michael—
has run out to stare at the Northern steam yacht in the harbor. It
would be just like her. This house is historic itself. Shabby enough
now, to be sure! The great-aunt of my cousin, John Mayrant (who is
going to be married next Wednesday, to such a brute of a girl, poor
boy!), lived here in 1840, and made an answer to the Earl of
Mainridge that put him in his place. She was our famous Kings Port
wit, and at the reception which her father (my mother's uncle) gave
the English visitor, he conducted himself as so many Englishmen
seem to think they can in this country. Miss Beaufain (pronounced in
Kings Port, Bowfayne), as she was then, asked the Earl how he liked
America; and he replied, very well, except for the people, who were
so vulgar. 'What can you expect?' said Miss Beaufain; 'we're
descended from the English.' Mrs. St. Michael is out, and the servant
has gone home. Slide this card under the door, with your own, and
come away."
She took me with her, moving through the quiet South Place with
a leisurely grace and dignity at which my spirit rejoiced; she was so
beautiful, and so easy, and afraid of nothing and nobody! (This must
be modified. I came later to suspect that they all stood in some
dread of their own immediate families.)
In the North, everybody is afraid of something: afraid of the
legislature, afraid of the trusts, afraid of the strikes, afraid of what
the papers will say, of what the neighbors will say, of what the cook
will say; and most of all, and worst of all, afraid to be different from
the general pattern, afraid to take a step or speak a syllable that
shall cause them to be thought unlike the monotonous millions of
their fellow-citizens; the land of the free living in ceaseless fear!
Well, I was already afraid of Mrs. Gregory St. Michael. As we walked
and she talked, I made one or two attempts at conversation, and
speedily found that no such thing was the lady's intention: I was
there to listen; and truly I could wish nothing more agreeable, in
spite of my desire to hear further about next Wednesday's wedding
and the brute of a girl. But to this subject Mrs. St. Michael did not
return. We crossed Worship Street and Chancel Street, and were
nearing the East Place where a cannon was being shown me, a
cannon with a history and an inscription concerning the "war for
Southern independence, which I presume your prejudice calls the
Rebellion," said my guide. "There's Mrs. St. Michael now, coming
round the corner. Well, Julia, could you read the yacht's name with
your naked eye? And what's the name of the gambler who owns it?
He's a gambler, or he couldn't own a yacht—unless his wife's a
gambler's daughter."
"How well you're feeling to-day, Maria!" said the other lady, with a
gentle smile.
"Certainly. I have been talking for twenty minutes." I was now
presented to Mrs. Weguelin St. Michael, also old, also charming, in
widow's dress no less in the bloom of age than Mrs. Gregory, but
whiter and very diminutive. She shyly welcomed me to Kings Port.
"Take him home with you, Julia. We pulled your bell three times, and
it's too damp for you to be out. Don't forget," Mrs. Gregory said to
me, "that you haven't told me a word about your Aunt Carola, and
that I shall expect you to come and do it." She went slowly away
from us, up the East Place, tall, graceful, sweeping into the distance
like a ship. No haste about her dignified movement, no swinging of
elbows, nothing of the present hour!
"What a beautiful girl she must have been!" I murmured aloud,
unconsciously.
"No, she was not a beauty in her youth," said my new guide in her
shy voice, "but always fluent, always a wit. Kings Port has at times
thought her tongue too downright. We think that wit runs in her
family, for young John Mayrant has it; and her first-cousin-once-
removed put the Earl of Mainridge in his place at her father's ball in
1840. Miss Beaufain (as she was then) asked the Earl how he liked
America; and he replied, very well, except for the people, who were
so vulgar. 'What can you expect?' said Miss Beaufain; 'we're
descended from the English.' I am very sorry for Maria—for Mrs. St.
Michael—just at present. Her young cousin, John Mayrant, is making
an alliance deeply vexatious to her. Do you happen to know Miss
Hortense Rieppe?"
I had never heard of her.
"No? She has been North lately. I thought you might have met her.
Her father takes her North, I believe, whenever any one will invite
them. They have sometimes managed to make it extend through an
unbroken year. Newport, I am credibly informed, greatly admires her.
We in Kings Port have never (except John Mayrant, apparently) seen
anything in her beauty, which Northerners find so exceptional."
"What is her type?" I inquired.
"I consider that she looks like a steel wasp. And she has the
assurance to call herself a Kings Port girl. Her father calls himself a
general, and it is repeated that he ran away at the battle of
Chattanooga. I hope you will come to see me another day, when you
can spare time from the battle of Cowpens. I am Mrs. Weguelin St.
Michael, the other lady is Mrs. Gregory St. Michael. I wonder if you
will keep us all straight?" And smiling, the little lady, whose shy
manner and voice I had found to veil as much spirit as her
predecessor's, dismissed me and went up her steps, letting herself
into her own house.
 The boy in question, the boy of the cake, John Mayrant, was
coming out of the gate at which I next rang. The appearance of his
boyish figure and well-carried head struck me anew, as it had at
first; from his whole person one got at once a strangely romantic
impression. He looked at me, made as if he would speak, but passed
on. Probably he had been hearing as much about me as I had been
hearing about him. At this house the black servant had not gone
home for the night, and if the mistress had been out to take a look
at the steam yacht, she had returned.
"My sister," she said, presenting me to a supremely fine-looking
old lady, more chiselled, more august, than even herself. I did not
catch this lady's name, and she confined herself to a distant, though
perhaps not unfriendly, greeting. She was sitting by a work-table,
and she resumed some embroidery of exquisite appearance, while
my hostess talked to me.
Both wore their hair in a simple fashion to suit their years, which
must have been seventy or more; both were dressed with the dignity
that such years call for; and I may mention here that so were all the
ladies above a certain age in this town of admirable old-fashioned
propriety. In New York, in Boston, in Philadelphia, ladies of seventy
won't be old ladies any more; they're unwilling to wear their years
avowedly, in quiet dignity by their firesides; they bare their bosoms
and gallop egregiously to the ball-rooms of the young; and so we
lose a particular graciousness that Kings Port retains, a perspective
of generations. We happen all at once, with no background, in a
swirl of haste and similarity.
One of the many things which came home to me during the
conversation that now began (so many more things came home than
I can tell you!) was that Mrs. Gregory St. Michael's tongue was
assuredly "downright" for Kings Port. This I had not at all taken in
while she talked to me, and her friend's reference to it had left me
somewhat at a loss. That better precision and choice of words which
I have mentioned, and the manner in which she announced her
opinions, had put me in mind of several fine ladles whom I had
known in other parts of the world; but hers was an individual
manner, I was soon to find, and by no means the Kings Port
convention. This convention permitted, indeed, condemnations of
one's neighbor no less sweeping, but it conveyed them in a
phraseology far more restrained.
"I cannot regret your coming to Kings Port," said my hostess, after
we had talked for a little while, and I had complimented the balmy
March weather and the wealth of blooming flowers; "but I fear that
Fanning is not a name that you will find here. It belongs to North
Carolina."
I smiled and explained that North Carolina Fannings were useless
to me. "And, if I may be so bold, how well you are acquainted with
my errand!"
I cannot say that my hostess smiled, that would be too definite;
but I can say that she did not permit herself to smile, and that she
let me see this repression. "Yes," she said, "we are acquainted with
your errand, though not with its motive."
I sat silent, thinking of the Exchange.
My hostess now gave me her own account of why all things were
known to all people in this town. "The distances in your Northern
cities are greater, and their population is much greater. There are but
few of us in Kings Port." In these last words she plainly told me that
those "few" desired no others. She next added: "My nephew, John
Mayrant, has spoken of you at some length."
I bowed. "I had the pleasure to see and hear him order a wedding
cake."
"Yes. From Eliza La Heu (pronounced Layhew), my niece; he is my
nephew, she is my niece on the other side. My niece is a beginner at
the Exchange. We hope that she will fulfil her duties there in a
worthy manner. She comes from a family which is schooled to meet
responsibilities."
I bowed again; again it seemed fitting. "I had not, until now,
known the charming girl's name," I murmured.
My hostess now bowed slightly. "I am glad that you find her
charming."
 "Indeed, yes!" I exclaimed.
"We, also, are pleased with her. She is of good family—for the up-
country."
Once again our alphabet fails me. The peculiar shade of kindness,
of recognition, of patronage, which my agreeable hostess (and all
Kings Port ladies, I soon noticed) imparted to the word "up-country"
cannot be conveyed except by the human voice—and only a Kings
Port voice at that. It is a much lighter damnation than what they
make of the phrase "from Georgia," which I was soon to hear
uttered by the lips of the lady. "And so you know about his wedding
cake?"
"My dear madam, I feel that I shall know about everything."
Her gray eyes looked at me quietly for a moment. "That is
possible. But although we may talk of ourselves to you, we scarcely
expect you to talk of ourselves to us."
Well, my pertness had brought me this quite properly! And I
received it properly. "I should never dream—" I hastened to say;
"even without your warning. I find I'm expected to have seen the
young lady of his choice," I now threw out. My accidental words
proved as miraculous as the staff which once smote the rock. It was
a stream, indeed, which now broke forth from her stony discretion.
She began easily. "It is evident that you have not seen Miss Rieppe
by the manner in which you allude to her—although of course, in
comparison with my age, she is a young girl." I think that this
caused me to open my mouth.
"The disparity between her years and my nephew's is variously
stated," continued the old lady. "But since John's engagement we
have all of us realized that love is truly blind."
I did not open my mouth any more; but my mind's mouth was
wide open.
My hostess kept it so. "Since John Mayrant was fifteen he has had
many loves; and for myself, knowing him and believing in him as I
do, I feel confident that he will make no connection distasteful to the
family when he really comes to marry."
 This time I gasped outright. "But—the cake!—next Wednesday!"
She made, with her small white hand, a slight and slighting
gesture. "The cake is not baked yet, and we shall see what we shall
see." From this onward until the end a pinkness mounted in her
pale, delicate cheeks, and deep, strong resentment burned beneath
her discreetly expressed indiscretions. "The cake is not baked, and I,
at least, am not solicitous. I tell my cousin, Mrs. Gregory St. Michael,
that she must not forget it was merely his phosphates. That girl
would never have looked at John Mayrant had it not been for the
rumor of his phosphates. I suppose some one has explained to you
her pretensions of birth. Away from Kings Port she may pass for a
native of this place, but they come from Georgia. It cannot be said
that she has met with encouragement from us; she, however, easily
recovers from such things. The present generation of young people
in Kings Port has little enough to remind us of what we stood for in
manners and customs, but we are not accountable for her, nor for
her father. I believe that he is called a general. His conduct at
Chattanooga was conspicuous for personal prudence. Both of them
are skillful in never knowing poor people—but the Northerners they
consort with must really be at a loss how to bestow their money. Of
course, such Northerners cannot realize the difference between
Kings Port and Georgia, and consequently they make much of her.
Her features do undoubtedly possess beauty. A Newport woman—
the new kind—has even taken her to Worth! And yet, after all, she
has remained for John. We heard a great deal of her men, too. She
took care of that, of course. John Mayrant actually followed her to
Newport.
"But," I couldn't help crying out, "I thought he was so poor!"
"The phosphates," my hostess explained. "They had been
discovered on his land. And none of her New York men had come
forward. So John rushed back happy." At this point a very singular
look came over the face of my hostess, and she continued: "There
have been many false reports (and false hopes in consequence)
based upon the phosphate discoveries. It was I who had to break it
to him—what further investigation had revealed. Poor John!"
 "He has, then, nothing?" I inquired.
"His position in the Custom House, and a penny or two from his
mother's fortune."
"But the cake?" I now once again reminded her.
My hostess lifted her delicate hand and let it fall. Her resentment
at the would-be intruder by marriage still mounted. "Not even from
that pair would I have believed such a thing possible!" she
exclaimed; and she went into a long, low, contemplative laugh,
looking not at me, but at the fire. Our silent companion continued to
embroider. "That girl," my hostess resumed, "and her discreditable
father played on my nephew's youth and chivalry to the tune of—
well, you have heard the tune."
"You mean—you mean—?" I couldn't quite take it in.
"Yes. They rattled their poverty at him until he offered and they
accepted."
I must have stared grotesquely now. "That—that—the cake—and
that sort of thing—at his expense?
"My dear sir, I shall be glad if you can find me anything that they
have ever done at their own expense!"
I doubt if she would ever have permitted her speech such freedom
had not the Rieppes been "from Georgia"; I am sure that it was
anger—family anger, race anger—which had broken forth; and I
think that her silent, severe sister scarcely approved of such
breaking forth to me, a stranger. But indignation had worn her
reticence thin, and I had happened to press upon the weak place.
After my burst of exclamation I came back to it. "So you think Miss
Rieppe will get out of it?"
"It is my nephew who will 'get out of it,' as you express it."
I totally misunderstood her. "Oh!" I protested stupidly. "He doesn't
look like that. And it takes all meaning from the cake."
"Do not say cake to me again!" said the lady, smiling at last. "And
—will you allow me to tell you that I do not need to have my
nephew, John Mayrant, explained to me by any one? I merely meant
to say that he, and not she, is the person who will make the lucky
escape. Of course, he is honorable—a great deal too much so for his
own good. It is a misfortune, nowadays, to be born a gentleman in
America. But, as I told you, I am not solicitous. What she is counting
on—because she thinks she understands true Kings Port honor, and
does not in the least—is his renouncing her on account of the
phosphates—the bad news, I mean. They could live on what he has
—not at all in her way, though—and besides, after once offering his
genuine, ardent, foolish love—for it was genuine enough at the time
—John would never—"
She stopped; but I took her up. "Did I understand you to say that
his love was genuine at the lime?"
"Oh, he thinks it is now—insists it is now! That is just precisely
what would make him—do you not see?—stick to his colors all the
closer."
"Goodness!" I murmured. "What a predicament!"
But my hostess nodded easily. "Oh, no. You will see. They will all
see."
I rose to take my leave; my visit, indeed, had been, for very
interest, prolonged beyond the limits of formality—my hostess had
attended quite thoroughly to my being entertained. And at this point
the other, the more severe and elderly lady, made her contribution to
my entertainment. She had kept silence, I now felt sure, because
gossip was neither her habit nor to her liking. Possibly she may have
also felt that her displeasure had been too manifest; at any rate, she
spoke out of her silence in cold, yet rich, symmetrical tones.
"This, I understand, is your first visit to Kings Port?"
I told her that it was.
She laid down her exquisite embroidery. "It has been thought a
place worth seeing. There is no town of such historic interest at the
North."
Standing by my chair, I assured her that I did not think there
could be.
 "I heard you allude to my half-sister-in-law, Mrs. Weguelin St.
Michael. It was at the house where she now lives that the famous
Miss Beaufain (as she was then) put the Earl of Mainridge in his
place, at the reception which her father gave the English visitor in
1840. The Earl conducted himself as so many Englishmen seem to
think they can in this country; and on her asking him how he liked
America, he replied, very well, except for the people, who were so
vulgar.
"'What can you expect?' said Miss Beaufain; 'we're descended
from the English.'"
"But I suppose you will tell me that your Northern beauties can
easily outmatch such wit."
I hastened to disclaim any such pretension; and having expressed
my appreciation of the anecdote, I moved to the door as the stately
lady resumed her embroidery.
My hostess had a last word for me. "Do not let the cake worry
you."
Outside the handsome old iron gate I looked at my watch and
found that for this day I could spend no more time upon visiting.
 IV: THE GIRL BEHIND THE
COUNTER—I
I fear—no; to say one "fears" that one has stepped aside from the
narrow path of duty, when one knows perfectly well that one has
done so, is a ridiculous half-dodging of the truth; let me dismiss
from my service such a cowardly circumlocution, and squarely say
that I neglected the Cowpens during certain days which now
followed. Nay, more; I totally deserted them. Although I feel quite
sure that to discover one is a real king's descendant must bring an
exultation of no mean order to the heart, there's no exultation
whatever in failing to discover this, day after day. Mine is a nature
which demands results, or at any rate signs of results coming sooner
or later. Even the most abandoned fisherman requires a bite now
and then; but my fishing for Fannings had not yet brought me one
single nibble—and I gave up the sad sport for a while. The beautiful
weather took me out of doors over the land, and also over the water,
for I am a great lover of sailing; and I found a little cat-boat and a
little negro, both of which suited me very well. I spent many
delightful hours in their company among the deeps and shallows of
these fair Southern waters.
And indoors, also, I made most agreeable use of my time, in spite
of one disappointment when, on the day following my visit to the
ladies, I returned full of expectancy to lunch at the Woman's
exchange, the girl behind the counter was not there. I found in her
stead, it is true, a most polite lady, who provided me with chocolate
and sandwiches that were just as good as their predecessors; but
she was of advanced years, and little inclined to light conversation.
Beyond telling me that Miss Eliza La Heu was indisposed, but not
gravely so, and that she was not likely to be long away from her
post of duty, this lady furnished me with scant information.
 Now I desired a great deal of information. To learn of an imminent
wedding where the bridegroom attends to the cake, and is
suspected of diminished eagerness for the bride, who is a steel wasp
—that is not enough to learn of such nuptials. Therefore I fear—I
mean, I know—that it was not wholly for the sake of telling Mrs.
Gregory St. Michael about Aunt Carola that I repaired again to Le
Maire Street and rang Mrs. St. Michael's door-bell.
She was at home, to be sure, but with her sat another visitor, the
tall, severe lady who had embroidered and had not liked the
freedom with which her sister had spoken to me about the wedding.
There was not a bit of freedom to-day; the severe lady took care of
that.
When, after some utterly unprofitable conversation, I managed to
say in a casual voice, which I thought very well tuned for the
purpose, "What part of Georgia did you say that General Rieppe
came from?" the severe lady responded:—
"I do not think that I mentioned him at all."
"Georgia?" said Mrs. Gregory St. Michael. "I never heard that they
came from Georgia."
And this revived my hopes. But the severe lady at once remarked
to her:—
"I have received a most agreeable letter from my sister in Paris."
This stopped Mrs. Gregory St. Michael, and dashed my hopes to
earth.
The severe lady continued to me:—
"My sister writes of witnessing a performance of the Lohengrin.
Can you tell me if it is a composition of merit?"
I assured her that it was a composition of the highest merit.
"It is many years since I have heard an opera," she pursued. "In
my day the works of the Italians were much applauded. But I doubt
if Mozart will be surpassed. I hope you admire the Nozze?"
You will not need me to tell you that I came out of Mrs. Gregory
St. Michael's house little wiser than I went in. My experience did not
lead me to abandon all hope. I paid other visits to other ladies; but
these answered my inquiries in much the same sort of way as had
the lady who admired Mozart. They spoke delightfully of travel,
books, people, and of the colonial renown of Kings Port and its
leading families; but it is scarce an exaggeration to say that Mozart
was as near the cake, the wedding, or the steel wasp as I came with
any of them. By patience, however, and mostly at our boarding-
house table, I gathered a certain knowledge, though small in
amount.
If the health of John Mayrant's mother, I learned, had allowed that
lady to bring him up Herself, many follies might have been saved the
youth. His aunt, Miss Eliza St. Michael, though a pattern of good
intentions, was not always a pattern of wisdom. Moreover, how
should a spinster bring up a boy fitly?
Of the Rieppes, father and daughter, I also learned a little more.
They did not (most people believed) come from Georgia. Natchez
and Mobile seemed to divide the responsibility of giving them to the
world. It was quite certain the General had run away from
Chattanooga. Nobody disputed this, or offered any other battle as
the authentic one. Of late the Rieppes were seldom to be seen in
Kings Port. Their house (if it had ever been their own property,
which I heard hotly argued both ways) had been sold more than two
years ago, and their recent brief sojourns in the town were generally
beneath the roof of hospitable friends—people by the name of
Cornerly, "whom we do not know," as I was carefully informed by
more than one member of the St. Michael family. The girl had
disturbed a number of mothers whose sons were prone to slip out of
the strict hereditary fold in directions where beauty or champagne
was to be found; and the Cornerlys dined late, and had champagne.
Miss Hortense had "splurged it" a good deal here, and the measure
of her success with the male youth was the measure of her
condemnation by their female elders.
Such were the facts which I gathered from women and from the
few men whom I saw in Kings Port. This town seemed to me almost
as empty of men as if the Pied Piper had passed through here and
lured them magically away to some distant country. It was on the
happy day that saw Miss Eliza La Heu again providing me with
sandwiches and chocolate that my knowledge of the wedding and
the bride and groom began really to take some steps forward.
It was not I who, at my sequestered lunch at the Woman's
Exchange, began the conversation the next time. That confection,
"Lady Baltimore," about which I was not to worry myself, had, as
they say, "broken the ice" between the girl behind the counter and
myself.
"He has put it off!" This, without any preliminaries, was her direct
and stimulating news.
I never was more grateful for the solitude of the Exchange, where
I had, before this, noted and blessed an absence of lunch customers
as prevailing as the trade winds; the people I saw there came to
talk, not to purchase. Well, I was certainly henceforth coming for
both!
I eagerly plunged in with the obvious question:—
"Indefinitely?"
"Oh, no! Only Wednesday week."
"But will it keep?"
My ignorance diverted her. "Lady Baltimore? Why, the idea!" And
she laughed at me from the immense distance that the South is from
the North.
"Then he'll have to pay for two?"
"Oh, no! I wasn't going to make it till Tuesday.
"I didn't suppose that kind of thing would keep," I muttered rather
vaguely.
Her young spirits bubbled over. "Which kind of thing? The wedding
—or the cake?"
This produced a moment of laughter on the part of us both; we
giggled joyously together amid the silence and wares for sale, the
painted cups, the embroidered souvenirs, the new food, and the old
family "pieces."
 So this delightful girl was a verbal skirmisher! Now nothing is more
to my liking than the verbal skirmish, and therefore I began one
immediately. "I see you quite know," was the first light shot that I
hazarded.
Her retort to this was merely a very bland and inquiring stare.
I now aimed a trifle nearer the mark. "About him—her—it! Since
you practically live in the Exchange, how can you exactly help
yourself?"
Her laughter came back. "It's all, you know, so much later than
1812."
"Later! Why, a lot of it is to happen yet!"
She leaned over the counter. "Tell me what you know about it,"
she said with caressing insinuation.
"Oh, well—but probably they mean to have your education
progress chronologically."
"I think I can pick it up anywhere. We had to at the plantation."
It was from my table in the distant dim back of the room, where
things stood lumpily under mosquito netting, that I told her my
history. She made me go there to my lunch. She seemed to desire
that our talk over the counter should not longer continue. And so,
back there, over my chocolate and sandwiches, I brought out my
gleaned and arranged knowledge which rang out across the
distance, comically, like a lecture. She, at her counter, now and then
busy with her ledger, received it with the attentive solemnity of a
lecture. The ledger might have been notes that she was dutifully and
improvingly taking. After I had finished she wrote on for a little while
in silence. The curly white dog rose into sight, looked amiably and
vaguely about, stretched himself, and sank to sleep again out of
sight.
"That's all?" she asked abruptly.
"So far," I answered.
"And what do you think of such a young man?" she inquired.
"I know what I think of such a young woman."
 She was still pensive. "Yes, yes, but then that is so simple."
I had a short laugh. "Oh, if you come to the simplicity!"
She nodded, seeming to be doing sums with her pencil.
"Men are always simple—when they're in love."
I assented. "And women—you'll agree?—are always simple when
they're not!"
She finished her sums. "Well, I think he's foolish!" she frankly
stated. "Didn't Aunt Josephine think so, too?"
"Aunt Josephine?"
"Miss Josephine St. Michael—my greet-aunt—the lady who
embroidered. She brought me here from the plantation."
"No, she wouldn't talk about it. But don't you think it is your turn
now?"
"I've taken my turn!"
"Oh, not much. To say you think he's foolish isn't much. You've
seen him since?"
"Seen him? Since when?"
"Here. Since the postponement. I take it he came himself about
it."
"Yes, he came. You don't suppose we discussed the reasons, do
you?"
"My dear young lady, I suppose nothing, except that you certainly
must have seen how he looked (he can blush, you know,
handsomely), and that you may have some knowledge or some
guess—"
"Some guess why it's not to be until Wednesday week? Of course
he said why. Her poor, dear father, the General, isn't very well."
"That, indeed, must be an anxiety for Johnny," I remarked.
This led her to indulge in some more merriment. "But he does,"
she then said, "seem anxious about something."
"Ah," I exclaimed. "Then you admit it, too!"
She resorted again to the bland, inquiring stare.
 "What he won't admit," I explained, "even to his intimate Aunt,
because he's so honorable."
"He certainly is simple," she commented, in soft and pensive
tones.
"Isn't there some one," I asked, "who could—not too directly, of
course—suggest that to him?"
"I think I prefer men to be simple," she returned somewhat
quickly.
"Especially when they're in love," I reminded her somewhat slowly.
"Do you want some Lady Baltimore to-day?" she inquired in the
official Exchange tone.
I rose obediently. "You're quite right, I should have gone back to
the battle of Cowpens long ago, and I'll just say this—since you
asked me what I thought of him—that if he's descended from that
John Mayrant who fought the Serapes under Paul Jones—"
"He is!" she broke in eagerly.
"Then there's not a name in South Carolina that I'd rather have for
my own."
I intended that thrust to strike home, but she turned it off most
competently. "Oh, you mustn't accept us because of our ancestors.
That's how we've been accepting ourselves, and only look where we
are in the race!"
"Ah!" I said, as a parting attempt, "don't pretend you're not
perfectly satisfied—all of you—as to where you are in the race!"
"We don't pretend anything!" she flashed back.
Another random document with
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Arbeit, den Schwierigkeiten, die sich ihm nach seiner Ansicht in
äußeren Umständen wie in seinem eigenen Wesen
entgegenstellten. Daß Jenny Winge nicht von sich selbst sprach,
merkte er kaum, wohl aber, daß sie es vermied, das Problem
Franziska mit ihm zu erörtern.
Es fiel ihm auch nicht auf, daß er so wie mit Jenny niemals mit
Franziska würde reden können, die ihn für weit weit bedeutender,
stärker und sicherer halten würde, als er in seinen eigenen Augen
war —.

Weihnachtsabend waren sie alle im Verein gewesen und gingen

darauf zur Mitternachtsmesse in die S. Luigi dei Franchesi.
Helge fand die Messe zuerst sehr stimmungsvoll. In der ganzen
Kirche herrschte Halbdunkel trotz der schimmernden Kristallkronen,
die freilich hoch oben unter der Decke schwebten. Die Altarwand
war ein einziges Lichtmeer, aus dem weichen, goldenen Schein
unzähliger Wachslichter zusammenfließend. Chorgesang und
Orgelton zitterten gedämpft durch den Kirchenraum. — Er saß
neben einer schönen Italienerin, die einem sammetgefütterten
Juwelenkästchen einen Rosenkranz aus Lapislazuli entnahm und in
ein andächtiges Gebet versank.
Nach einer kurzen Zeit aber begann Franziska halblaut zu
murren. Sie saß mit Jenny auf der Bank vor ihm.
„Ach Jenny, wir wollen gehen. Ist das vielleicht
Weihnachtsstimmung? Das ist ja nur ein gewöhnliches Konzert. Hör
doch den Burschen, der jetzt singt; ganz ohne Ausdruck, die Stimme
ist obendrein überschrieen. Pfui!“
„Still, Cesca, denk daran, daß wir in einer Kirche sind.“
„Kirche — pah. Dies hier ist ja ein Konzert — wir mußten sogar
Eintrittskarten und Programme haben. Greuliches Konzert — es
nimmt mir die ganze Laune.“
„Ja, ja, wir gehen, wenn diese Nummer zu Ende ist. Schweig jetzt
aber, solange wir noch hier sind.“
 „Nein,“ plauderte Cesca, „Sylvester im vorigen Jahre. Ich war in
Gesu — da war Stimmung. Te Deum. Ich kniete neben einem alten
Bauern aus der Campagna und einem jungen Mädchen, das krank
war — und so schön. Alle Menschen sangen, der alte Bauer konnte
das ganze Te Deum auf Lateinisch. Das war stimmungsvoll!“
Während sie sich leise einen Weg durch die überfüllte Kirche
bahnten, erklang das Ave Maria durch den Raum.
„Ave Maria,“ Franziska blies verächtlich durch die Nase. „Hört ihr
nicht, sie denkt überhaupt nicht an das, was sie singt — wie ein
Phonograph. Ich ertrage es nicht, wenn solche Musik derartig
mißhandelt wird.“
„Ave Maria,“ sagte ein Däne, der neben ihr ging. „Ich erinnere
mich da einer jungen norwegischen Dame — wie sang sie es doch
herrlich. Ein Fräulein Eck.“
„Berit Eck — kennen Sie die, Hjerrild?“
„Sie war vor zwei Jahren in Kopenhagen und sang mit Ellen Bech
dort. Ich kannte sie ziemlich genau. Sie kennen sie auch, Fräulein
Jahrmann?“
„Meine Schwester war mit ihr bekannt,“ sagte Franziska. „Richtig,
Sie trafen doch meine Schwester Borghild in Berlin. Mögen Sie
Fräulein Eck — Frau Herrmann heißt sie jetzt übrigens?“
„Sie war ein ganz reizendes Mädchen — entzückend. Und
ungewöhnlich begabt.“
Franziska blieb mit Hjerrild zurück.

Es war verabredet, daß Heggen, Ahlin und Gram bei den Damen
zu Abend essen sollten — Franziska hatte eine Weihnachtskiste von
zu Hause bekommen. Man hatte norwegischen Weihnachtskäse auf
den Tisch gebracht, der mit Tausendschön aus der Campagna und
Kerzen in siebenarmigen Leuchtern geschmückt war.
Franziska trat als letzte ein und hatte den Dänen mitgebracht.
„Ist es nicht nett, Jenny — daß Hjerrild mit kam?“
 Es stellte sich heraus, daß es sowohl Bier wie auch Genfer Likör
zu Tisch gab. Und norwegische Butter, braunen Käse und kalten
Auerhahn, Sülze und Räucherschinken.
Franziska hatte neben Hjerrild Platz genommen, und sobald das
Gespräch am Tisch sich belebte, wandte sie sich an ihn.
„Kennen Sie den Pianisten Herrmann, mit dem Fräulein Eck sich
verheiratet hat?“
„Ja, sehr gut. Ich habe in einem Pensionat mit ihm gewohnt, in
Kopenhagen, und jetzt in Berlin traf ich ihn wieder.“
„Wie finden Sie ihn?“
„Er ist ein netter Mensch. Ungeheuer begabt — er schenkte mir
seine letzten, nach meiner Meinung äußerst originellen
Kompositionen. Ja. Ich mag ihn recht gut leiden.“
„Haben Sie die Kompositionen mit? Darf ich sie nicht einmal
sehen? Ich würde gern in den Verein gehen und sie durchspielen.
Wir waren in früheren Zeiten befreundet,“ sagte Franziska.
„Richtig! Jetzt entsinne ich mich. Er besitzt Ihre Photographie! Er
wollte mir nicht erzählen, wer es war.“
„Ja, das stimmt,“ sagte Franziska leise. „Er bekam wohl einmal
ein Bild von mir, glaube ich.“
„Im übrigen —“ Hjerrild leerte sein Glas — „ist er ein wenig zu
brutal, kann unglaublich rücksichtslos sein. Aber — vielleicht ist es
eben das, was ihn bei den Frauen unwiderstehlich macht. Mir
persönlich war er mitunter etwas zu sehr — Prolet.“
„Eben das ist es.“ Sie suchte nach Worten. „Das bewunderte ich
gerade so an ihm. Daß er sich von unten herauf durchgekämpft
hatte zu dem, was er jetzt ist. So ein Kampf m u ß brutal machen,
finde ich. Ja — meinen Sie nicht, es entschuldigt sehr viel — fast
alles?“
„Halt, Cesca,“ sagte Heggen plötzlich: „Hans Herrmann wurde
entdeckt, als er dreizehn Jahre alt war — und seitdem hat man ihm
geholfen.“
 „Ja — aber fremde Hilfe annehmen — und für alles danken
müssen! Immer fürchten müssen, nicht genug beachtet, übersehen,
d a r a n e r i n n e r t zu werden, daß er — nun wie Hjerrild sagte, ein
Proletarierkind war.“
„Ich kann auch darauf pochen, daß ich ein Proletarierkind bin.“
„Nein, das kannst du nicht, Gunnar. Du bist immer erhaben über
deine Umgebung gewesen, dessen bin ich sicher. Wenn du in einen
Kreis kamst, der in sozialer Hinsicht höher stand als der, in welchem
du geboren bist — so warst du auch dort schon der Ueberlegene,
wußtest mehr, warst klüger, dachtest vornehmer. Du hast immer in
dem starken Bewußtsein leben dürfen, daß du dir alles selbst
erkämpft und erarbeitet hast. — Du warst niemals gezwungen,
anderen Menschen zu danken, von denen du wußtest, daß sie
vielleicht auf dich herabsahen um deiner Herkunft willen — Snobs,
die sich etwas darauf zugute taten, einer Begabung hilfreiche Hand
zu leisten, von deren Größe sie keinen Dunst hatten, die dir innerlich
unterlegen waren und glaubten, über dir zu stehen; du brauchtest
niemandem zu danken, gegen den du keine Dankbarkeit
empfandest. Du kannst nicht von den Gefühlen des Proletariers
reden, Gunnar. Du hast ja niemals gewußt, was das heißt.“
„Ein Mensch, Cesca, der solche Hilfe annimmt — von Leuten,
denen gegenüber er Dankbarkeit nicht empfinden kann — ist ein
unverbesserliches Individuum der Unterklasse.“
„Aber begreifst du denn das nicht, Junge? Man handelt so, wenn
man weiß, daß man Talent hat, vielleicht ein Genie ist, das nach
Entwicklung verlangt. Im übrigen, du: der du sagst, du seiest
Sozialdemokrat, du solltest nicht von Individuen der Unterklasse
sprechen, finde ich.“
„Ein Mensch, der vor seinem eigenen Talent Achtung hat,
prostituiert es nicht. Und was den Sozialdemokraten betrifft:
Sozialdemokratie, das ist das Verlangen nach Gerechtigkeit. Aber
die Gerechtigkeit fordert, daß Leute von seiner Art unterdrückt, auf
den Boden der menschlichen Gesellschaft niedergepreßt, mit Ketten
und Peitschen niedergehalten werden. Die tatsächliche, legitime
Unterklasse muß gebändigt werden.“
 „Das ist ein eigentümlicher Sozialismus,“ lachte Hjerrild.
„Es gibt keinen anderen — für reife Menschen. Ich rechne nicht
mit den hellen blauäugigen Kinderseelen, die da glauben, alle
Menschen seien gut und an dem Bösen sei die Gesellschaft schuld.
Wären alle Menschen gut, so wäre die soziale Gemeinschaft ein
Paradies. Die Proletarierseelen sind es aber gerade, die das
Schlechte hineintragen. Sie sind in allen Gesellschaftsklassen zu
finden: sind sie die Herren, so sind sie grausam und brutal; dienen
sie, so sind sie kriechend und heuchlerisch und faul. Ich habe genug
von dieser Sorte in den Reihen der Sozialdemokraten angetroffen.
— Ja, Herrmann rechnet sich ja auch zu den Sozialisten. Wenn sie
ein Paar Hände finden, die sie vorwärtsbringen wollen, so nehmen
sie die Hilfe an, um hinterher auf diesen selben Händen
herumzutrampeln. Wittern sie einen Trupp, der vorwärtsmarschiert,
so schließen sie sich ihm an, um Teil an der Beute zu haben —
Loyalität aber, Kameradschaftsgefühl, das besitzen sie nicht. Das
Ziel — sie verlachen es insgeheim. Die Gerechtigkeit — sie hassen
sie im Grunde, denn sie wissen ja, wenn sie siegt, so geht es ihnen
übel. — Alle, die die Gerechtigkeit fürchten, nenne ich eben das
legitime Proletariat, das bekämpft werden muß, schonungslos. Hat
es Macht über die Armen und Schwachen, so quält und tyrannisiert
es sie und macht auch sie zu Proletariern. Ist es selber arm und
schwach, so kämpft es nicht — nein, es bettelt und heuchelt sich
vorwärts und überfällt jeden hinterrücks, wenn es seinen Vorteil darin
erblickt. — Das Ziel muß eine Gemeinschaft sein, in welcher die
Oberklassenindividuen die Führer sind. Denn diese kämpfen niemals
für sich selbst, sie sind sich ihrer eigenen unerschöpflichen Quellen
wohl bewußt, sie verschwenden sie an die Armen, kämpfen um Licht
und Luft für jedes schwache Zeichen von Gutem und Schönem, das
sich bei den kleinen Seelen zeigt, die weder das eine noch das
andere sind, gut, wenn sie sichs leisten können, schlecht, wenn das
Proletariat sie dazu zwingt. Das Ziel ist, daß diejenigen zur Macht
gelangen, die ein Verantwortungsgefühl haben für jede kleinste gute
Regung, die unterdrückt wird.“
„Du verstehst trotzdem Hans Herrmann nicht,“ sagte Franziska
leise. „Er war nicht nur um seiner selbst willen aufgebracht über das
soziale Unrecht. Die kleinen guten Seelen, die untergingen — e r war
es, der von ihnen sprach, oh ja. Wenn wir einen Spaziergang nach
dem Osten der Stadt machten und die kleinen blassen Kinder in den
häßlichen, trüben, überfüllten Kasernen sahen, die er, wie er sagte,
am liebsten in Brand stecken würde.“
„Phrasen. Wenn er die Hausmiete zu bekommen hätte —.“
„Pfui, Gunnar,“ sagte Franziska heftig.
„Ja, ja, er wäre eben kein Sozialist gewesen, wenn er reich
geboren wäre. Aber ein ebenso unverfälschter Proletarier.“
„Bist du dessen so sicher, daß du Sozialdemokrat gewesen
wärst?“ sagte Franziska — „wenn du — nun als Graf zum Beispiel
geboren wärest?“
„Heggen i s t ein Graf,“ lachte Hjerrild, „über viele luftige
Schlösser.“
Heggen warf den Kopf nach hinten und schwieg einen
Augenblick.
„Ich habe jedenfalls niemals das Gefühl gekannt, arm geboren zu
sein,“ sagte er, mehr für sich.
„Nun ja,“ ließ sich Hjerrild vernehmen. „Um auf Herrmanns
Kinderliebe zurückzukommen — um seinen eigenen kleinen Jungen
kümmert er sich nicht viel. Und die Art und Weise, wie er sich gegen
sie benahm, war auch recht häßlich. Erst drohte und bettelte er, daß
sie sein wurde und als sie dann ein Kind bekommen sollte, mußte
sie sicher drohen und betteln, daß er sie heiratete.“
„Haben sie einen kleinen Jungen?“ flüsterte Franziska.
„Ja ja. Der kam, als sie sechs Wochen miteinander verheiratet
waren — gerade in den Tagen, als ich Berlin verließ. Herrmann war
nach Dresden gereist und hatte sie im Stich gelassen, nachdem sie
einen Monat zusammen gehaust hatten. Ich begreife nicht, warum er
sie nicht etwas früher heiraten konnte. Es war ja abgemacht, daß sie
wieder geschieden werden sollten und sogar ihr eigener Wille.“
 „Pfui!“ sagte Jenny. Sie hatte dem Gespräch eine ganze Zeit
gelauscht. „Daß man hingeht und sich verheiratet mit dem Vorsatz,
sich hinterher wieder scheiden zu lassen!“
„Herrgott.“ Hjerrild lachte ein wenig. „Wenn man einander außen
und innen kennt, und weiß, daß man nicht miteinander fertig wird.“
„Dann muß man das Heiraten lassen.“
„Gewiß. Der freie Zustand ist ja weit schöner. Aber Herrgott, sie
mußte ja. Sie will nächsten Herbst ein Konzert in Kristiania geben
und muß sehen, daß sie Gesangschüler bekommt. Das würde ihr
aber als unverheirateter Frau mit einem Kinde unmöglich sein.
Armes Ding!“
„Mag sein. — Aber ekelhaft ist es darum doch. Wenn Sie unter
freien Zuständen das verstehen, daß sich Leute miteinander
einlassen, obgleich sie genau wissen, sie werden einander
überdrüssig, so habe ich dafür kein Verständnis. Schon die
Auflösung einer so ganz alltäglichen, platonisch bürgerlichen
Verlobung .... ich finde, schon daran haftet immer ein Makel. Ist man
aber einmal so unglücklich gewesen, sich zu irren — dann um der
Leute willen noch diese abscheuliche Komödie spielen — eine
blasphemische Trauung, wo man steht und Dinge gelobt, die man im
voraus entschlossen ist, nicht zu halten! ...“

Die Gäste gingen erst beim Morgengrauen. Heggen blieb noch

einen Augenblick zurück, nachdem die anderen fort waren.
Jenny öffnete die Balkontür um den Tabakrauch herauszulassen.
Sie blieb stehen und sah hinaus. Der Himmel war schon fahlgrau mit
einem schwachen rötlichgelben Schein über den Häuserdächern. Es
war schneidend kalt. — Heggen trat an ihre Seite:
„Ich danke dir. So wäre also wieder einmal ein Weihnachtsabend
dahin. Worüber sinnst du nach?“
„Daß jetzt der Weihnachtsmorgen anbricht. ... Ich möchte wissen,
ob sie zu Hause meine Kiste rechtzeitig bekamen,“ sagte sie nach
einer Weile.
 „Sandtest du sie nicht am elften — dann ist sie wohl zur Zeit
angekommen.“
„Hoffentlich. — Es war immer eine große Freude für uns, am
Weihnachtsmorgen hineinzukommen und den Baum und die
Geschenke bei Tageslicht zu besehen. Als ich noch klein war.“ Sie
lachte leise. „Es ist viel Schnee gefallen dieses Jahr, schreiben sie.
Dann sind sie wohl oben auf den Bergen heute, die Kinder.“
„Ja,“ sagte Heggen. Er schaute wie sie ein Weilchen in die Weite.
„Aber, du erkältest dich, Jenny. Gute Nacht also — und für den
heutigen Abend vielen Dank.“
„Gute Nacht. Fröhliche Weihnachten, Gunnar!“
Sie reichten einander die Hände. Nachdem er gegangen, blieb
sie noch ein wenig stehen, ehe sie die Balkontür schloß und ins
Zimmer trat.
 VII.
Eines Tages — es war in der Weihnachtswoche — kam Gram in
eine Trattoria, wo auch Jenny und Heggen saßen. Sie sahen ihn
jedoch nicht, und während er seinen Mantel an den Nagel hängte,
hörte er Heggen sagen:
„Er ist weiß Gott ein gefährlicher Bursche.“
„Ja, abscheulich,“ seufzte Jenny.
„Und dann verträgt sie das nicht, Teufel auch! In diesem scirocco
— morgen ist sie natürlich wieder ganz entkräftet. Ans Arbeiten
denkt sie wohl auch nicht und treibt sich nur mit diesem Kerl herum.“
„Nein, arbeiten? Aber ich kann doch nichts dazu tun. Sie
marschiert gern von hier nach Viterbo mit ihm, in ihren kleinen,
dünnen Lackschuhen trotz scirocco und allem, nur weil der Mensch
ihr von Hans Herrmann erzählen kann.“
Gram grüßte im Vorübergehen. Jenny und Heggen machten eine
Bewegung, als erwarteten sie, daß er sich zu ihnen setzen sollte. Er
tat jedoch, als sähe er nichts und ließ sich weiter oben im Lokal an
einem Tisch nieder, den Rücken ihnen zugekehrt.
Er verstand, daß sie von Franziska sprachen.

Beinahe täglich ging er hinauf zur Via Vantaggio. Er konnte es

nicht unterlassen. Jetzt saß Jenny fast immer allein zu Hause und
nähte oder las. Es schien, als freute sie sich, wenn er kam. Im
übrigen fand er, daß sie sich in letzter Zeit ein wenig verändert hatte.
Sie war nicht mehr so keck und sicher in ihren Aeußerungen, nicht
mehr so aufgelegt zum Diskutieren und Dozieren. Sie schien traurig.
Eines Tages fragte er, ob sie sich nicht wohl fühle.
„Wohl — oh doch. Wieso?“
 „Ich weiß nicht recht — ich finde, Sie sind so still geworden,
Fräulein Winge.“
Sie hatte eben die Lampe angezündet, so daß er sehen konnte,
daß sie errötete.
„Ich werde vielleicht bald nach Hause reisen müssen. Meine
Schwester hat Lungenspitzenkatarrh bekommen, und Mama ist so
unglücklich.“ Sie schwieg einen Augenblick. „Und da bin ich freilich
etwas betrübt. Wo ich doch so gern hier bleiben wollte — jedenfalls
den Frühling hindurch.“
Sie nahm ihr Nähzeug zur Hand und begann zu arbeiten.
Helge grübelte darüber nach, ob Gunnar Heggen der Anlaß sei
— er war sich niemals darüber klar geworden, ob zwischen den
beiden etwas spielte. Zurzeit war Heggen, der, wie Helge gehört
hatte, ein ziemlich leicht entzündbares Herz haben sollte, für eine
junge dänische Krankenschwester entflammt, die sich als Pflegerin
einer alten Dame in Rom aufhielt. — Jennys Erröten fand er so
merkwürdig, es war ihm so neu an ihr.
An diesem Abend kam Franziska heim, ehe er ging. Er hatte sie
seit Weihnachten wenig zu Gesicht bekommen und er wußte nun,
daß er ihr vollkommen gleichgültig war. Von Launen oder kindischer
Ungezogenheit konnte keine Rede mehr sein. Es war, als s ä h e sie
andere Menschen nicht mehr — irgend etwas erfüllte sie vollständig.
Mitunter ging sie umher wie eine Nachtwandlerin.
Er fuhr dennoch fort, Jenny aufzusuchen, entweder in der
Trattoria, wo sie zu speisen pflegte, oder daheim auf ihrem Zimmer.
Er wußte selber kaum, warum er es tat. Es war ihm aber, als
verlange ihn danach, sie zu sehen.
An einem Nachmittag ging Jenny in Franziskas Zimmer, um nach
einer Terpentinflasche zu suchen. Da lag Franziska auf ihrem Bett
und erstickte ihr Schluchzen in den Kissen. Sie mußte sich
heraufgeschlichen haben, Jenny hatte sie nicht kommen hören.
„Aber liebes Kind — was ist geschehen? Bist du krank?“
 „Nein, geh nur, Jenny — liebe Jenny, geh. Nein, ich kann es dir
nicht sagen; du sagst ja doch nur, es sei meine eigene Schuld.“
Jenny sah ein, daß es ihr nichts nützte, mit ihr zu reden. — Doch
am Abend, als sie im Bett lag und las, schlüpfte Franziska plötzlich
herein — im Nachthemd. Ihr Gesicht war rotfleckig und geschwollen
vom Weinen.
„Darf ich heute Nacht bei dir schlafen, Jenny, ich kann nicht allein
sein.“
Jenny machte Platz. Sie schwärmte nicht für diese Sitte, aber
Franziska pflegte zu kommen und zu bitten, bei ihr schlafen zu
dürfen, wenn sie ganz unglücklich war.
„Nein, lies nur Jenny — ich werde dich nicht stören, ich liege
ganz still an der Wand.“
Jenny tat, als lese sie eine Weile. Franziska schluchzte ab und
zu trocken auf. Dann fragte Jenny:
„Kann ich das Licht löschen, oder willst du lieber, daß es brennt?“
„Lösch es nur!“
Im Dunkeln schlang sie die Arme um Jenny und erzählte
schluchzend.
Sie war mit Hjerrild wieder in der Campagna gewesen. Da hatte
er sie dann geküßt. Erst hatte sie nur ein wenig gescholten, da sie
geglaubt, es wäre ein Scherz. „Aber dann wurde er verletzend in
seiner Zudringlichkeit. Und schließlich wollte er, daß ich heute Nacht
mit in sein Hotel gehen sollte. Er sagte es so, als lade er mich in eine
Konditorei ein. Da wurde ich rasend, und auch er wurde zornig.
Darauf sagte er mir dann einige gemeine, ekelhafte Dinge ins
Gesicht.“ Sie lag einen Augenblick still da, im Fieber erschauernd.
„Er sagte dann — ja, du kannst dirs wohl denken — etwas von Hans.
Hans hatte von mir erzählt, als er Hjerrild mein Bild zeigte, so daß
Hjerrild glauben mußte ... Verstehst du es, Jenny,“ sie schmiegte
sich dicht an die andere, „ja, ich tue es nicht mehr — ich will mich
nicht länger an diesen Schuft hängen — Hans hatte natürlich nicht
meinen Namen genannt, weißt du,“ sagte sie nach einer Weile. „Und
er konnte selbstverständlich nicht ahnen, daß Hjerrild mir jemals
begegnen und mich nach der Photographie wiedererkennen würde,
die gemacht wurde, als ich achtzehn Jahre alt war.“

Am siebzehnten Januar hatte Jenny Geburtstag. Sie und

Franziska wollten eine Gesellschaft geben, ein Mittagessen draußen
in der Campagna, in einer kleinen Osteria an der Via Appianuova.
Sie hatten Ahlin, Heggen, Gram und Fräulein Palm, die dänische
Krankenschwester, eingeladen.
Sie gingen paarweise von der Straßenbahnhaltestelle die weiße
Landstraße hinauf, die im Sonnenschein gebadet dalag. Der
Frühling wob in der Luft und die fahle, braune Campagna war von
einem graugrünen Schimmer übergossen, all die Tausendschön, die
den ganzen Winter über ihr Blühen nicht eingestellt hatten,
begannen sich in silberschimmernden Teppichen auszubreiten. Auch
die Büschel ungeduldiger lichtgrüner Knospen auf den
Hollundersträuchern längs der Gitter waren größer geworden.
Lerchen schwebten zitternd hoch oben in dem blauweißen
Himmel. Die Wärme hüllte alles ein — drinnen über der Stadt und
über den häßlichen rotgelben Häuserblocks, die über die Ebene
verstreut waren, lag der Dunst. Die Felsen der Albaner Berge mit
den weißen Städtchen schimmerten hinter den gewaltigen
Bogenreihen der Aquaedukte durch den Nebel.
Jenny und Gram schritten voran, er trug ihren hellgrauen
Staubmantel. Sie war strahlend schön, in schwarze Seide gekleidet
— er hatte sie vorher nie anders gesehen als in dem grauen Kleid
oder in Kostüm und Bluse. Aber heute war es ihm, als ginge er mit
einer neuen fremden Frau dahin. Die Linie des schlanken Leibes war
weich und rund in dem blanken schwarzen Kleide, das oben in
einem schmalen tiefen Viereck bis auf die Brust ausgeschnitten war.
Die Haut und das Haar hoben sich leuchtend hell dagegen ab. Sie
trug auch einen großen schwarzen Hut, mit dem Helge sie früher
schon gesehen hatte, ohne jedoch weiter darauf zu achten. Sogar
ihr rosa Perlenhalsband sah anders aus zu diesem Gewand.
 Man speiste draußen im Sonnenschein unter den nackten
Weinranken, die ein feines, bläuliches Schattennetz auf das
Tischtuch zeichneten. Fräulein Palm und Heggen hatten den Tisch
mit Tausendschön geschmückt; die Makkaroni waren lange fertig,
und die anderen hatten warten müssen, bis die beiden mit der
Dekoration kamen. Doch das Essen war gut und der Wein
vorzüglich, die Früchte hatte Franziska selbst in der Stadt
ausgewählt und mit hinausgenommen, ebenso den Kaffee, den sie
selbst zubereiten wollte, darauf bestand sie, um sicher zu gehen,
daß er auch gut würde.
Nach dem Essen gingen Heggen und Fräulein Palm umher und
studierten die Marmorstümpfe — Ueberreste von Reliefs und
Inschriften, die auf dem Grundstück gefunden und in die Hauswand
eingemauert waren. Kurz darauf verschwanden sie um die Ecke.
Ahlin blieb am Tisch in der Sonne sitzen und rauchte mit
halbgeschlossenen Augen.
Die Osteria lag am Abhang eines Hügels. Gram und Jenny
klommen aufs Geratewohl die Böschung hinauf. Sie pflückte einige
von den kleinen wildwachsenden Ringelblumen, die aus dem
rotgelben Sand des Abhangs hervorlugten.
„Von diesen gibt es viele auf dem Monte Testaccio. Sind Sie dort
einmal gewesen, Gram?“
„Ja, öfter. Ich war vorgestern drüben, um den protestantischen
Kirchhof zu sehen. Die Kamelienbäume sind übersät mit Blüten. Und
auf dem alten Teile fand ich Anemonen im Gras.“
„Ja, die kommen jetzt hervor.“ Jenny seufzte ein wenig. „Draußen
vor der Ponte Molle, irgendwo an der Via Cassia, gibt es eine Menge
Anemonen. Ich bekam von Gunnar heute früh blühende
Mandelzweige — man hat sie schon an der Spanischen Treppe. Sie
sind aber sicher künstlich zum Blühen gebracht worden.“
Sie waren auf der Höhe angelangt und gingen über Feld. Jenny
sah zur Erde. Es sproß überall auf dem kurzen, struppigen
Grasboden. Rosetten von bunten Distelblättern und irgendwelchen
großen silberfarbenen Blättern standen und ließen sichs wohl sein in
der Sonne. Jenny und Gram schlenderten auf eine einsame
Mauermasse zu, die sich aus niedergestürztem Schutt mitten auf
dem Anger erhob, formlos und namenlos.
Fahl, graugrün dehnte sich die Campagna rund um sie her in
sanften Wellen unter dem hellen Lenzhimmel mit den trillernden
Lerchen. Ihre Grenzen verloren sich im Dunst des Sonnenglanzes.
Die Stadt dort hinter ihnen wurde zu einer hellen Luftspiegelung,
Felsen und Wolken liefen ineinander, und die gelben Bögen der
Aquädukte ragten aus dem Lichtnebel, um nach der Stadt zu wieder
zu verschwinden. Die zahllosen Ruinen waren nur noch kleine
schimmernde Mauerreste, im Grünen verstreut, während Pinien und
Eukalyptusbäume vor den rosenroten und ockergelben Häuschen
grenzenlos einsam und düster und verlassen in dem lichten
Vorfrühlingstage standen.
„Erinnern Sie sich des ersten Morgens, als ich hier unten war,
Fräulein Winge? Ich war enttäuscht und ich meinte, es käme von
meiner großen Sehnsucht und meinen heißen Träumen, deren Welt
so reich war, daß die Wirklichkeit fade und armselig erscheinen
müßte. — Haben Sie einmal an einem Sommertage mit
geschlossenen Augen in der Sonne gelegen? Schlägt man sie
wieder auf und blickt umher, so erscheinen alle Farben plötzlich grau
und erloschen. Die Augen sind geschwächt und daher außerstande,
die Mannigfaltigkeit der Farben aufzufangen, die sich ihrem ersten
Blick darbietet. Der erste Eindruck ist unvollkommen und kläglich.
Verstehen Sie, was ich meine?“
Jenny nickte vor sich hin.
„Aehnlich ging es mir hier im Anfang. Rom überwältigte mich. Da
sah ich Sie — groß, licht und fern kreuzten Sie meinen Weg.
Franziska beachtete ich nicht sogleich, erst in der Trattoria fiel sie
mir auf. Ich kam in Ihren Kreis, zu lauter mir unbekannten Menschen
— es war das erste Mal, daß ich mit Fremden zusammen war. Die
flüchtigen Begegnungen daheim auf dem Wege zwischen Schule
und Haus sind nicht zu rechnen. Mich verwirrte das Neue einen
Augenblick, ich glaubte, nie mit Menschen reden zu können. Und da
überfielen mich Gedanken an die Heimat. Fast sehnte ich mich nach
ihr und nach dem Rom, von dem ich gehört und Bilder gesehen
hatte. Sie wissen, mein Vater ...“ er lachte kurz auf. „Ich hatte
geglaubt, auf andere Art mich nicht zurechtfinden zu können. Bilder
betrachten, die andere gemalt, lesen, was andere geschrieben
hatten, die Arbeiten anderer enträtseln und ordnen und mit
erdichteten Menschen aus den Büchern leben — darin lag meine
Welt und mein Können. In Ihrem Kreis fühlte ich mich so grenzenlos
verlassen ... Da hörte ich Sie vom Alleinsein sprechen. Und jetzt
verstehe ich Sie. Sehen Sie den Turm da draußen? Dort war ich
gestern. Es ist der Ueberrest einer Befestigungsanlage aus dem
Mittelalter, der Ritterzeit. Eigentlich ist eine große Anzahl solcher
Türme in der Umgebung wie in der Stadt selbst erhalten. Man kann
eine in die Fassadenreihe der Straße eingebaute Hauswand fast
ohne Fenster finden — das ist so ein kümmerlicher Rest aus dem
Rom der Raubritter. Von dieser Zeit weiß man verhältnismäßig am
wenigsten. Ich beginne jetzt, mich gerade hierfür am meisten zu
interessieren. Ich finde Namen verstorbener Menschen in den
Archiven — man kennt von ihnen häufig nicht viel mehr als den
Namen. Mich verlangt, mehr über sie zu erfahren. Ich träume von
dem Rom des Mittelalters — als sie in den Straßen kämpften und
aus heißen, roten Kehlen bluteten, als die Stadt voller Raubburgen
war — auf denen sie eingesperrt waren, ihre Frauen, Töchter dieser
wilden Tiere, ihres Stammes und Blutes — und es geschah, daß
auch sie ausbrachen und ins Leben hinausstürzten, das um die
schwarzroten Mauern lockte. Herrgott, welch’ ein Strom von Leben
ist doch über dieses Land hinweggebraust! Die Wellen brachen sich
an jeder Felsenspitze, die Stadt und Burg trug. Und dennoch
erheben sich die Felsen über dem Ganzen nach wie vor nackt und
öde. Allein die endlosen Massen von Ruinen nur hier draußen in der
Campagna! Und die Berge von Büchern, die über Italiens
Geschichte geschrieben sind, ja über die ganze Weltgeschichte! Das
ganze Heer toter Menschen, das wir kennen. Wie bitter, bitterwenig
ist dennoch als Rest verblieben von all den Lebenswogen, die über
die Welt hinweggegangen sind, eine nach der anderen ... Ich finde
aber eben das so wunderbar! ... Nun habe ich so viel mit Ihnen
gesprochen, Jenny. Und Sie ebenso viel mit mir. Trotzdem aber
kenne ich Sie ganz und gar nicht. Wie Sie jetzt dort stehen — Sie
sollten sich selber sehen! Wie ihr Haar schimmert! So sind auch Sie
ein solcher unbekannter Turm für mich. Und das ist gerade das
Wundersame. Haben Sie jemals darüber nachgedacht, daß Sie
niemals Ihr eigenes Antlitz gesehen haben? Nur ein Spiegelbild.
Unser Gesicht, wenn es schläft, wenn es die Augen schließt — das
können wir niemals sehen. Ist das nicht seltsam? Damals war mein
Geburtstag. Heute ist es der Ihre. Sie werden achtundzwanzig.
Freuen Sie sich dessen? Sie finden ja, jedes Jahr, das man
durchlebt hat, ist kostbar.“
„Das sagte ich nicht. Ich meinte nur, meist hat man in den ersten
fünfundzwanzig Jahren vieles durchzukämpfen, so daß man froh
sein kann, wenn sie überstanden sind —.“
„Und jetzt?“
„Jetzt —“.
„Ja. Wissen Sie so sicher, was Sie im kommenden Jahre
erreichen werden? Wie Sie die Zeit am besten nützen? Das Leben
ist so ungeheuer reich an Möglichkeiten — nicht einmal Sie mit all
Ihrem Reichtum an Kraft können sich alles untertan machen.
Denken Sie daran nie — beunruhigt das niemals Ihr Herz, Jenny?“
Sie lächelte nur, sah nieder und zertrat ein Zigarettenstümpfchen,
das sie hingeworfen hatte. Ihre Knöchel schimmerten weiß durch
den schwarzen, durchsichtigen Strumpf. Sie folgte mit den Augen
einer grauweißen Schafherde, die die Hügelböschung gerade ihnen
gegenüber hinablief.
„Aber der Kaffee, Gram! Sie warten natürlich auf uns —“.
Sie gingen nach der Osteria zurück, ohne ein Wort zu sprechen.
Der Hügel lief in eine steile, sandige Böschung aus, die sich gerade
über dem Tisch, an dem sie gesessen hatten, erhob.
Ahlin lag mit dem Oberkörper auf dem Tisch, den Kopf auf den
verschränkten Armen. Das Tischtuch war bedeckt mit Käserinden
und Obstschalen zwischen Gläsern und Tellern.
Franziska, im laubgrünen Kleide, stand über ihn gebeugt — die
Arme um seinen weißen Hals geschlungen — sie versuchte, seinen
Kopf in die Höhe zu heben:
„Nicht weinen, Lennart! Ich will dir auch gut sein — ich will mich
gern mit dir verheiraten — hörst du, Lennart, aber du darfst nicht so
weinen. Ich glaube wohl, daß ich dich liebhaben kann, Lennart, —
wenn du nur nicht so verzweifelt sein wolltest.“
Ahlin schluchzte:
„Nein, nein — so nicht — so will ich nicht, Cesca —“.

Jenny wandte sich um und ging denselben Weg zurück. Gram

sah, daß sie bis auf den Hals hinab von glühender Röte übergossen
war. Der Fußpfad führte am Hügelabhang hin in den Gemüsegarten
der Osteria.
Rund um das kleine Wasserbassin jagte Heggen Fräulein Palm.
Sie bespritzten sich gegenseitig mit Wasser, daß die Tropfen in der
Sonne funkelten, während sie lachend aufschrie.
Wieder floß tiefe Röte über Jennys Hals und Nacken. Helge
folgte ihr durch die Gemüsebeete. Heggen und Fräulein Palm
schlossen drunten am Bassin Frieden miteinander.
„Der Reigen schließt sich,“ sagte Helge leise.
Jenny nickte schwach und versuchte zu lächeln.

Am Kaffeetisch herrschte keine rechte Stimmung. Franziska

versuchte zu plaudern, während sie am Likör nippten. Nur Fräulein
Palm war guter Laune. Sobald es irgend anging, schlug Franziska
einen Spaziergang vor.
So machten sich denn die drei Paare auf den Weg über die
Campagna. Der Abstand zwischen ihnen wurde größer und größer,
bis sie sich zwischen den Hügeln verloren. Jenny ging mit Gram.
„Wo wollen wir eigentlich hin?“ sagte sie.
„Wir können ja zum Beispiel zur Egeriagrotte gehen.“ Diese lag
gerade in entgegengesetzter Richtung des Weges, den die anderen
eingeschlagen hatten. Sie schlenderten aber doch über die
sonnenbeschienenen Hügel, auf den Bosco sacro zu; — über den
dunklen Kronen der uralten Korkeichen glühte die Sonne.
„Ich sollte wohl lieber den Hut aufsetzen.“ Jenny strich sich übers
Haar.
Im heiligen Haine war der Erdboden überdeckt mit
Papierabfällen, er strotzte von Unreinlichkeit. Auf einem Baumstumpf
am Rande saßen zwei Damen und häkelten, ein paar kleine Jungen
spielten Verstecken hinter den gewaltigen Stämmen. Jenny und
Gram verließen den Hain und wanderten den Hügel hinab der Ruine
zu.
„Eigentlich,“ sagte sie, „was wollen wir da unten,“ und setzte sich
auf den Abhang, ohne eine Antwort abzuwarten.
„Nein, warum auch —“, Helge streckte sich in dem trockenen
kurzen Gras zu ihren Füßen aus. Er nahm den Hut vom Kopf und,
sich auf die Ellenbogen stützend, sah er zu ihr hinauf, ohne zu
sprechen.
„Wie alt ist sie eigentlich? —“ fragte er plötzlich leise. „Ich meine
Cesca.“
„Sechsundzwanzig Jahre.“ Sie saß still da und sah in die Weite.
„Ich bin nicht traurig,“ sagte er wieder leise. „Sie verstehen mich,
— vor einem Monat wäre es etwas anderes gewesen —. Sie war
einmal so lieb, so warm und vertrauensvoll zu mir. — Nun ja,
Aufforderung zum Tanz. Aber jetzt —. Ich finde sie sehr lieb. Aber es
rührt mich nicht, daß sie mit einem anderen tanzt.“
Er betrachtete sie.
„Ich glaube, Sie sind es, die ich liebe, Jenny,“ sagte er plötzlich.
Sie wandte sich ihm halb zu, lächelte leise und schüttelte den
Kopf.
„Doch,“ sagte Helge bestimmt. „Ich glaube es. Genau weiß ich es
nicht. Ich habe ja niemals geliebt — das weiß ich jetzt. Trotzdem ich
verlobt gewesen bin“ — er lachte leise. „Ja, diese Dummheit beging
ich einmal in meiner frühesten Jugend —. Aber, mein Gott, Jenny —
es muß wohl wahr sein. S i e waren es, die ich an jenem Abend sah
— nicht die andere. Ich sah Sie schon am Nachmittag, Sie gingen
über den Corso. Ich stellte Betrachtungen an über das Leben, fand
es so neu und abenteuerlich, da gingen Sie an mir vorüber, licht und
rank und fremd. Später, nachdem ich in der Dunkelheit rund durch
die fremde Stadt geirrt war, traf ich Sie wieder. Oh ja, ich erblickte
jetzt auch Cesca, so daß es ja nicht weiter merkwürdig war, daß ich
verwirrt wurde. Aber zuerst sah ich doch Sie. — Und nun ist es so
gekommen, daß wir beide hier zusammensitzen —“.
Ihre Hand, auf die sie sich stützte, lag auf dem Erdboden dicht
neben ihm. Plötzlich strich er darüber. Da zog sie sie zurück.
„Sie sind doch nicht böse? Nein, denn warum auch. — Warum
sollte ich Ihnen nicht sagen dürfen, daß ich Sie liebe? Ich konnte
nicht anders, ich mußte Ihre Hand berühren, mußte fühlen, daß sie
wirklich da war. Wie seltsam, daß Sie hier sitzen. Ich kenne Sie ja
gar nicht. Trotz all dem, wovon wir gesprochen haben — ich weiß
freilich, daß Sie klug sind, klar und energisch, gut und
wahrheitsliebend, aber das wußte ich gleich, als ich Sie sah und Ihre
Stimme vernahm. Mehr weiß ich jetzt nicht — aber natürlich ist da
noch vieles andere. Darüber erfahre ich vielleicht niemals etwas.
Aber ich kann zum Beispiel sehen, daß Ihr seidenes Kleid glühend
heiß ist — wenn ich mein Gesicht an Ihre Brust legte, so würde ich
mich verbrennen —“.
Sie machte mit der Hand eine unwillkürliche Bewegung über
ihren Schoß.
„Ja, die Seide saugt die Sonne an sich. Es knistert in Ihrem Haar.
Drinnen in Ihren Augen funkeln die Lichtstrahlen auf. Ihr Mund ist
ganz durchsichtig — wie ein Kredenzbecher in der Sonne —.“
Sie lächelte, sah jedoch ein wenig gequält aus.
„Küssen Sie mich, Jenny —,“ bat er plötzlich.
Sie betrachtete ihn eine Sekunde.
„Aufforderung zum Tanz —?“ Sie lächelte weh.
 „Sie dürfen nicht böse werden, nur weil ich Sie um einen einzigen
Kuß bitte. An so einem Tage. Ich erzähle Ihnen doch nur, was ich
wünsche. Im Grunde ... weshalb könnten Sie es nicht tun?“
Sie rührte sich nicht.
„Ist da denn irgend ein Grund — Herrgott, ich will ja nicht
versuchen, Sie zu küssen, aber ich verstehe nicht, warum Sie sich
nicht eine Sekunde herabbeugen und mir einen ganz, ganz kleinen
Kuß geben können, so wie Sie dort sitzen, mit der Sonne auf den
Lippen — es ist ja nur, als klopften Sie einem Jungen auf die
Schulter und gäben ihm einen Soldo. Jenny — für Sie ist es nichts
weiter, und alles, was ich wünsche, gerade in diesem Augenblick
wünsche ich es so heiß —.“ Er lächelte, während er sprach.
Plötzlich beugte sie sich nieder ... Nur eine Sekunde spürte er ihr
Haar und ihren warmen Mund an seiner Wange. Jede Bewegung
ihres Körpers unter der schwarzen Seide konnte er sehen, als sie
sich niederbeugte und wieder aufrichtete. Er sah auch, daß ihr
Antlitz, das ruhig lächelte, als sie ihn küßte, hinterher ein wenig
verwirrt und erschrocken war.
Aber er rührte sich nicht — lag nur und lächelte in die Sonne
hinein. Da wurde auch sie wieder ruhig.
„Sehen Sie,“ sagte er schließlich und lachte. „Nun ist ihr Mund
genau wie früher. Die Sonne scheint auf die Lippen, bis hinein ins
Blut. Was bedeutete es Ihnen? Und ich bin so froh —. Sie begreifen
wohl, daß ich nicht erwarte, Sie sollen weiter an mich denken. Ich
möchte nur an Sie denken dürfen. — Setzen Sie sich nur still hin und
denken Sie an alle möglichen Dinge. Die anderen tanzen Reigen,
aber dies hier ist weit köstlicher — wenn ich Sie nur ansehen darf.“
Sie schwiegen beide. Jenny hatte das Gesicht abgewandt und
sah über die sonnige Campagna hinaus.
Während sie zur Osteria zurückgingen, plauderte er leicht und
munter von allen möglichen Dingen, erzählte Geschichten von den
deutschen Gelehrten, mit denen er bei seiner Arbeit
zusammengetroffen war. Jenny lugte ab und an verstohlen zu ihm
auf. Er war so anders als sonst, so frei und sicher. Er schaute im