Читать книгу The Song of Songs - Hermann Sudermann - Страница 13

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And the happiness endured.

It nestled in the dusty corners, it perched on the bookshelves, it span golden cobwebs from beam to beam, it rode on every ray of light reflected from the windows opposite on the leather backs of the books.

Wherever she went, Lilly was accompanied by a humming medley of quivering tones, half motifs and snatches of melodies, strains from an æolian harp, the chirping of a cricket-on-the-hearth, the singing of a boiling kettle, and the soft twittering of birds.

Awake or asleep, she always heard it.

Now and then a few measures of the Song of Songs joined in exultingly.

Outwardly everything went along in the old ruts. Mrs. Asmussen was sometimes sober, sometimes full of sweet drugs. Husband and daughters rose and sank, sank and rose, through the entire gamut of ethical appraisement, plunged one moment into the deepest pit of depravity, exalted the next to the shining heights of apotheosis. One day a volume of Gerstäcker was missing, another day a Balduin Möllhausen seemed to have been sucked into the swamps of the Orinoco.

Sometimes a puff of wind blowing through the window carried a little cloud of yellow powder to the edges of the shelves, from which it was wiped off like ordinary dust. Yet it conveyed a greeting from swaying boughs in bloom, which was all this spring brought to Lilly, except for a loads of lilacs carted past the library on their way to market.

The young hero from the other side of the house had not approached her again.

She trembled whenever she heard him go down the steps, and twice a day with beating heart she received his shy greeting—that was all.

And he was not to be seen on the porch again. The digging and cramming with the other young men lasted until late at night, and it was often two o'clock before she heard their departing tread.

Not until then would she throw herself in bed, where she lay staring into the dusk of the summer night, her spirit roving over the world to find the throne worthy to serve as her hero's goal. She saw him a general winning epoch-making battles in the open country, she saw him a poet walking up the steps of the capitol to receive the laurel wreath, she saw him an inventor soaring through the ether in the airship he himself had perfected, she saw him the founder of a new religion—but here she came to a terrified halt, for in her heart she had remained a good Catholic.

Under the oppression of bodily and spiritual castigation she had not dared seek refuge in religion. Quickly enough the courage had gone from her to ask Mrs. Asmussen for permission to visit St. Anne's early every morning, and soon she had completely forgotten that such a thing as a confession or a mass ever took place.

Now, however, in the exuberance of her feelings, feelings such as she had never before suspected, her longing for spiritual disburdenment grew so strong that she decided to acknowledge her Catholicism to Mrs. Asmussen and beg for the privilege to pray in that quiet corner where St. Joseph, who had always been good to her, stood behind six gold-encircled candles and smilingly shook his finger.

In Lilly's avowal Mrs. Asmussen found an explanation of all her vices; her sneakiness, her hypocrisy, her laziness, her lack of a sense of order. Mrs. Asmussen, therefore, concluded her daily prayer with the wish for immediate and complete conversion.

Nevertheless she did not refuse Lilly two excursions a week to early mass, which was all Lilly had dared hope for.

The meeting between Lilly and St. Joseph was touching.

Really, going back to him was like going back home. The cherubs that fluttered in the gay glass case behind him greeted her with a knowing, confidential look, like brothers and sisters who have been let into the secret that the punishment after all is not going to be so very severe. The golden-yellow carpet extended a hospitable invitation to kneel, and the flowers on the Holy Virgin's altar close by perfumed the air.

The saint at first seemed a little hurt because she had not visited him for so long. But after she had made her moan—telling of her loneliness, the daily mush and the blows—he softened and forgave her.

Since her last visit he had received three new silver hearts, which shot out rays of light the length of a finger. She felt like dedicating one to him, too, but on what grounds she did not know, since the miracle to be worked in her was yet to be accomplished.

"Perhaps it's only jealousy in me, or a desire to show off," she thought, for it was painful to her that others should stand in closer relations to her saint than she. "After all," she comforted herself, "how can I expect anything else when I neglected him so long?"

After confessing everything—except, of course, her love story—he had become too much of a stranger for that—she hastened away. The clocks were striking quarter of seven, and if she did not meet her hero on his way to school, her morning meditations would have had neither purpose nor significance.

She met him and his companions at the corner of Wassertor street.

He raised his cap and passed by. But she, fetching a deep breath, remained for a time on the same spot, like one who has just escaped a great danger.

From now on there were two such encounters a week.

Her secret wish that some morning, when he was alone, he would stop and enter into a neighbourly conversation, was never fulfilled. Not the faintest glimmer of joy appeared in his face at her approach, and the tense concern depicted on his features did not relax even when—blushing a bit—he raised his cap to her.

Lilly had long given up all hope of his ever addressing her again, when one rainy July Sunday in the evening, when the door of the circulating library was closed to customers, she heard a faint tinkling of the bell. She opened the door—there he stood.

"Mercy!" she cried, almost shutting the door in her confusion.

Did she happen to have Rückert's poems in her library?

Lilly knew for certain she did not have them, but if she admitted forthwith her inability to furnish the book he would find no pretext for entering into a conversation, so she said she would go see, and wouldn't he step in and wait? He hesitated a moment, then seated himself on the customers' chair placed close to the door.

Lilly spent some time searching, because she was afraid the inevitable "no" would send him off with a curt "thank you," and she ran up and down the aisles between the shelves aimlessly, reiterating:

"I'm sure I saw the poems just a little while ago."

Then, in order to think the matter over more quietly, she seated herself opposite him with the counter between. But he encouraged her to renew the search.

"If you saw them only a short time ago, then they are bound to be here."

When finally convinced that Rückert's poems were not in the library, he fetched a deep sigh and murmured something like, "What shall I do?" and disappeared.

Lilly, completely dazed, stared at the doorway, which a moment before had framed his figure.

She wanted to cry out and plead, "Stay here! Come back!" But she heard the door on the other side of the hall fall shut, and everything was over.

She crouched at the window-sill indulging in speculations of what might have taken place if he had happened to remain.

Her heart throbbed violently.

About quarter of an hour later the bell rang again.

She jumped up. Supposing it was he?

It was he.

He begged pardon; he had forgotten his umbrella.

"This time you don't slip away!" something within her cried.

He caught up his soaking umbrella, which she had failed to notice despite the shining puddle which was crawling along the crack between two floor boards, and was about to escape again, when Lilly essayed:

"For what do you need Rückert's poems?"

He began to complain:

"Life is made so hard for us, you have no idea how hard."

He went on to tell about the speeches they had to deliver offhand on a subject sprung on them without warning, regardless of whether or not the students had prepared the theme. But this time they had gotten wind of the surprise in store—the next day in literature class they would be required to give a comprehensive view of Rückert. That was why he would have to glance over the poems once again to find out exactly who had been buried in the three graves at Ottensen.

Lilly thrilled with joy.

She could help him—she, the low-flying sparrow, could help him, the soaring heaven-dweller.

She timorously related the story of the poor, defeated count of Brunswick and Klopstock, the pious bard of "The Messiah." The only thing she had forgotten was who the twelve hundred exiles were who lay in the first of the graves.

He seemed unwilling to believe in this unexpected good fortune. Was she sure of what she said? That about Klopstock was correct; he knew it from the tables of his history of literature. But the rest of it? Oppressed by grave doubts he shook his triumphant mane.

Lilly eagerly allayed his fears. To be sure, it was more than a year since she had heard of those lovely things, but she had a good memory, and would certainly not misinform him lightly.

At last he seemed relieved. He drew a deep breath, and observed, with his mind bent more upon general matters:

"Yes, it's very hard, very, very hard."

Once embarked on the current of open talk, he went on to offer his views concerning the other difficulties of human life. Mathematics was all right; in fact, he had done very well in analytic geometry. But history and the languages, and above all, German composition! A fellow was sometimes driven to despair by the wretched state of things in this world.

In this Lilly fully concurred. She, too, had little cause to be satisfied with the course of mundane events, and she gave eloquent and passionate expression to her sentiments.

"As for you," she concluded, "what tortures your spirit must undergo when it feels itself hampered in its flight by the humiliating demands of the schoolroom!"

He looked at her in some wonderment and remarked:

"Yes, indeed, it's hard, very hard."

"I in your place," Lilly went on, "would not care a fig inside myself for all that vapid stuff. I would just do what is necessary in an offhand way, and then in complete spiritual freedom climb to the height where the great poets and philosophers dwell."

"Yes, but the examinations!" he exclaimed, utterly horrified.

"Oh, those stupid examinations!" she rejoined. "What difference does it make whether or not you pass?"

Here he became eager.

"You don't understand at all, not at all. Examinations are in a sense the avenue leading to every good position in life, no matter whether you enter the university or study architecture, or merely try for a good place in the postal service. But that, of course, I wouldn't do."

"A man like you!" she interrupted.

He smiled faintly, feeling stroked the right way.

"I don't want to storm the heavens exactly," he said, "but I have my ambitions. What would a fellow be if he had no ambitions?"

"That is so, isn't it?" Lilly cried, looking up to him with a grateful gleam in her eyes. The feeling that she had never experienced such an hour of joy took complete hold of her.

When he arose to go—it had grown quite dark—she felt actual physical pain, as if a piece of her body were being torn from her.

He had almost closed the door when he turned and said as one who wishes to be sure where he treads:

"If it's not troubling you too much, do hunt for the poems once more. Perhaps you will find them."

Turning back a second time:

"You might lay the book under the door-mat if you find it."

Lilly hastily lighted the lamp and obediently started on the search. After a time the futility of doing so occurred to her.

He spent the summer vacation in the country with a companion in misery, with whom he crammed for the examinations. The written tests were to be given immediately after the opening of school, and the oral tests about the middle of September.

The young hero looked pale and exhausted, and reddish-brown stubble lay in the hollows of his cheeks like blotches of blood.

Lilly was unable to witness such wretchedness in silence, and one morning, when, returning from mass, she met him alone in the deserted street, she ventured to stop and speak to him.

"You must spare yourself, Mr. Redlich," she broke out anxiously. "You must keep well for the sake of your parents and those who love you."

He seemed more embarrassed than pleased, and before finding a reply, he cast rapid sidelong glances in all directions.

"Thank you," he stammered. "But later, if you please, later."

He dashed past, scarcely daring to raise his cap.

Lilly realised she had committed an indiscretion. The houses began to dance before her eyes, she chewed her handkerchief, and feared the passersby might laugh and jeer at her. When ensconced in her corner behind the entry book, she no longer doubted that she had lost him forever.

She had!

He came and went without greeting her—he came at suppertime and left—she heard his steps all the way down the street.

Over and done for! Over and done for!

But lo and behold! At dusk a knock was heard on the door. No, not exactly a knock, rather a scratching at the door, the way a dog with a guilty conscience scratches when he wants to be let in.

There he stood. Not with the embarrassed yet business-like manner with which he had entered that Sunday evening when the graves of Ottensen had justified his coming. No, this time his heart throbbed anxiously. He was like a thief who lacks skill in the art of thieving.

"Is Mrs. Asmussen here?" he whispered.

"Mrs. Asmussen doesn't come in here at this time," she whispered back, with a deep sigh of joy.

"Then may—I come in—for a moment?"

She stepped aside, and let him enter, thinking:

"How can a person endure so much joy without dying of it?"

He stammered something about "begging her pardon" and "not answering her."

She responded with something about "having reproached herself" and "having meant it well."

Then they sat down opposite each other with the counter between, and did not know what to say next.

He was the first to discover the way into the region of the permissible.

"A fellow sometimes likes to exchange thoughts with a congenial young lady," he said with an emphatic air of importance. "But he seldom finds the time—or the opportunity."

"Oh, as for the opportunity," thought Lilly.

Since she had manifested such kindly interest in him, and since an exchange of views would certainly be edifying to him, especially because of the growing emancipation of women—which—

He had steered into a tight place, but his sense of dignity did not forsake him. He looked at Lilly somewhat challengingly, as if to say, "You see how able I am to cope with this difficult situation."

Lilly had not caught the drift of his talk. From the moment she recovered her power of thinking, she was dominated by one feeling: help him, save him, so that he doesn't work himself to death.

"Once we girls had a teacher," she began, "who delivered glorious never-to-be-forgotten lectures in class. He worked too hard, like you, and by this time he must certainly have died of consumption. The same will happen to you, if you don't take care and go more slowly."

He nodded dejectedly.

"Yes, life's hard, very hard."

"You must get enough sleep, and go walking. Walking a great deal is the very best."

"Do you go walking?"

Lilly taken aback considered a moment. Since she had been in that hole among the books, she had not seen a field of snow or a green tree.

"Oh, I!" she threw out, shrugging her shoulders. "What have I got to do with it?" Then, inwardly rejoicing at her own boldness, she added: "How would it be if we were to take a walk together?"

Now it was his turn to be taken aback.

"There are such a lot of obstacles," he observed, thoughtfully shaking his mane. "The thing would be misinterpreted. There are considerations, especially so far as you are concerned—certainly, especially for you."

Lilly had read of young cavaliers whose solicitude for their lady's good name exceeded their very passion for her, and she looked up at him in gratitude and admiration.

"Don't bother about me! I'll manage. I'll just shirk early mass."

Though she felt a tiny prick at her heart because of her blasphemous words, she knew that for the sake of such a walk she would betray God, betray St. Joseph himself, without the least hesitation.

"But I've got to get through with the examinations first," he explained.

The matter was settled and the plan sealed with mutual promises. Accompanied by Lilly's good wishes and warnings, he took leave, but not before carefully scanning street, porch, and hall.

From now on Lilly's life was one glow of hope and dreamy anticipation. She would lie awake half the night, picturing to herself how she would wander over the golden meadows with him in the light of dawn, her hand pressed against her throbbing heart, her arm now and then slightly grazing his elbow. Each time she thought of this she felt a little shock, which quivered down to the very tips of her toes.

She read nothing but hot, passionate books, in which there was much of "intoxication," "transport," and the "giddiness of endless kisses." But she did not dream of kisses in connection with herself. Whenever she found herself drifting in that direction, she checked herself in dismay—so exalted was he above every earthly desire.

Now she knew what reasons justified her in promising St. Joseph a silver heart.

One Sunday morning she told St. Joseph the whole story—about Fritz Redlich's examinations, his high ideals, and her solicitude for him. The only thing she refrained from mentioning was the walk they had planned; which she had to omit on account of the shirked mass.

She had saved about sixty marks, which she carried in a leather pocket next to her body. The silver heart would cost twelve marks at the very most. Plenty of money remained for buying a gift for her friend. She wavered long between a gold-embroidered college portfolio and gold-embroidered slippers, and finally decided on a revolver in a case, naturally assuming that in the wild struggle for existence he would be exposed to many dangers, from which only reckless daring and instant decision could rescue him. A revolver and case cost twenty-five marks, gold thread for embroidering the monogram, five marks. Thus everything was arranged in the best possible manner.

When she saw him step on the porch the morning of examination day, white as the glove with which he waved farewell to his parents—he seemed to have forgotten her—she felt as if she should have to run after him and press the weapon of deliverance into his hand without further delay. But she reflected that in all likelihood the examiners would not show themselves susceptible to that sort of eloquence.

At the last moment, as he stepped from the porch to the pavement, a timid glance of his fell upon her, and she was happy.

At one o'clock there was some stir on the street.

They were bringing him home. He looked weary and completely crushed, but the others whooped and huzzaed.

The old sergeant out of service ran to meet him in torn slippers, and violently wiped his green-grey bristly beard on his son's face. From the kitchen came the spicy smell of cooking sausages.

Lilly ran rejoicing up and down the aisles of the library, and thought with a sort of superior satisfaction:

"St. Joseph's fine! Isn't he fine!"

The very next morning she ordered the silver heart, and blushingly asked to have a monogram of L. C. and F. R. engraved on it.

When she returned she found an envelope addressed to her among the order slips in the letter-box. Inside was a soiled menu card from a restaurant, on which was written: "Sunday 5 a.m. on the porch."

The first grey of dawn entered the library through the lunettes in the shutters.

Lilly sprang out of bed and threw the windows open.

The street resembled a great bowl of milk, so heavily the white mist of early autumn weighed upon the ground. The cold damp drizzle did her hot limbs good. She spread her arms and washed herself in the icy air as in a bath.

Her light summer dress, which she herself had washed and ironed the evening before, hung like a bluish drift on the white wall. She smartened herself as never before. This festal day should find her worthily adorned.

With the paltry remnants of her savings she had bought a large yellow shepherdess hat tying under the chin, so doing away with the need for a collar. And openwork silk gloves suddenly came to light, having been discovered at the bottom of the trunk, where they had long lain forgotten.

She would carry the heavy revolver in her work-bag. Before slipping it in, she kissed it several times, and said:

"Watch over him faithfully, destroy his enemies, and lead him on to victory."

It was a genuine consecration of arms.

At five o'clock sharp the door opposite creaked on its hinges. She glided into the hall. On the porch they shook hands.

His eyes were bleared, yet he looked rather enterprising. There was even something of the beau in his get-up. He wore his hat tilted a bit to one side, and in his left hand swung a light bamboo cane tipped by the head of a sea gull in silver.

Lilly stammered congratulations.

He thanked somewhat condescendingly, as if so insignificant a matter were not worth all that to-do.

"We loaf about dreadfully now," he went on. "I can't say I get a great deal of sport out of it, but a fellow has to know something of the follies of human life, too."

When they passed St. Anne's, a thought suddenly flashed into Lilly's mind, which filled her with bliss. If they were to go into the church for a moment, the sin of silence would be removed from her soul, and St. Joseph could even bestow his blessing on the day.

Timidly she gave voice to her wish—and found herself in a pretty mess.

"I am a free-thinker," he said, "I would never go counter to my convictions. Nevertheless, it is an enlightened man's duty to be tolerant, and if you want to go in, I will wait outside."

No, she no longer wanted to, and she was terribly ashamed. Of course, he could not know what close connection existed between St. Joseph and his good fortune. Otherwise he would not have been so ungrateful.

They walked in silence through the deserted streets of the suburbs. The fog lifted a little. Lilly chilled through and through shivered at each step. Perhaps excitement was the cause. On the whole, however, she felt much calmer than she had expected to. Everything was so altogether, altogether different. A little disenchantment had occurred, she did not know how.

She cast a yearning gaze down the street, at the end of which dark trees showed their heads.

"When once we are out there!" she thought, and clenched her teeth to keep them from chattering.

The silence began to paralyse her thoughts. She would gladly have started a conversation, had she been able to think of a suitable beginning.

A baker's boy was walking ahead of them whistling.

"When we worked all night," said Fritz Redlich suddenly, "we always bought warm rolls. We might get some now."

Lilly became joyous again.

To be sure, had he said "we might steal some," she would have liked it better.

The baker's boy was not permitted to sell his rolls—just the right number for delivery had been doled out to him—but on the opposite side was an open shop.

When Lilly saw her hero reappear with a large bag in his hand, she had a pleasant sensation, as if they were beginning housekeeping together.

They now walked along gardens under a veritable shower of dew falling from the trees. Lilly shrugged her shoulders, and did not know what to do she felt so cold.

At last they were out in the open country.

Mats of silver-grey cobwebs, each weighted down with a burden of dew, were spread over the fields of high stubble. Yellow ridges of hills bounded the semicircle of the landscape, and in the distance rose the walls of the woods.

Lilly stretched her arms like a swimmer, and drew in through her open mouth five or six deep breaths.

"Aren't you feeling well?"

Lilly laughed.

"I must make up for all I've lost," she said. "I haven't breathed for a whole year."

Feeling frozen still she began to run. He tried to keep pace, but soon fell behind, and panted after her, hopping rather than running.

When they reached the top of the first hill, the sun began to rise over the plain. The brushwood seemed to be on fire, and the cobwebs shone like silver. Each dew-drop became a glittering spark, a flame ran along each thread.

Lilly, warmed and excited from running, pressed her hands to her heaving breast, and stared into the sea of red with drunken eyes.

"Oh, look, look," she stammered, giving his face a questioning, searching glance.

She half expected him to recite odes, sing hymns, and play the harp.

He stood there trying to get his breath, to all appearances occupied exclusively with himself.

"Do recite something, Mr. Redlich," she begged. "A poem by Klopstock, or something else." She had not gotten up to Goethe in school.

He gave a short laugh, and replied:

"Catch me! Now that examinations are over German literature may go to the dogs for all I care."

Lilly felt ashamed and said nothing more, fearing the expression of such crude desires must make her culture appear half baked. When she looked up again, the glow was gone. The fields still sent up yellowish-red vapours to meet the climbing sun, whose effulgence hung coldly, almost indifferently, over the earth begging for light.

They walked on toward the woods.

He swung the paper bag. From either side of the road she gathered blackberries, which depended like bunches of glistening black beads from bushes overlaid with a film of cobwebs.

Some distance on, at the edge of the woods, they came upon a bench. Without discussing it, they simply made for the seat. It was the place they needed.

Lilly felt a little oppression at her heart. Here she was finally to receive the revelations for which her soul languished; here she was to look into the heaven-gazing eyes of the young genius.

He opened the bag, and she laid her handkerchief filled with the blackberries alongside.

The work-bag containing the heavy revolver was deposited for the time being between the rounds of the bench. Lilly hollowed out the rolls, and filled them with blackberries, and the two breakfasted together very cosily.

The golden shimmer of early autumn poured its enchantment over them. Lilly's brain grew heavy with longing and happiness. She could have sunk to the ground, and laid her forehead against his knees merely for support, because approaching fulfillment was more than she could bear.

He had removed his cap. A curly lock fell over his forehead down to his eyebrows, giving his face a sombre expression, as if he were challenging the whole world. This "genius lock" was the fashion among the boys of the last year high school and was especially cherished by those who did not aspire to the stylishness of belonging to a students' corps.

His gaze rested on the church towers of the old city, which resembled awkward, faithful, sleepy watchmen looking down on the wide-spreading clusters of house tops.

"Will you tell me what you are thinking about?" asked Lilly, bashfully admiring. The great moment—at last it had come.

He gave a short and somewhat mocking laugh.

"I am calculating how many ministers get their living in a nest like that, and how comfortable it is for a fellow if he just studies theology."

"Why don't you? Learning flows in on one from all sides."

"You don't understand," he reproved her gently. "Learning is not the chief thing. Conviction is. One must do everything for the sake of one's conviction, suffer want, suffer all sorts of privations. The city has six scholarships to bestow upon theological students, but I would rather chop my hand off than accept one. A man must take up the fight for his convictions, and that's what I'm going to do—day after to-morrow."

His small, short-sighted eyes sparkled. He stroked the genius lock from his forehead with a trembling hand.

Now she had him where she wanted him. Perhaps this was the very instant in which to hand him the revolver. But out of respect for the greatness of his mood, she deferred the matter for a while.

Taking a firmer hold of the bag in which the revolver was lying, she went into raptures as once before on the porch.

"Oh, Mr. Redlich, what is finer than such a fight? To dive into the waves of life! To spite the dark powers who control our destiny, and wrest our fortune from them, to come out of the struggle each time with greater strength, a more iron will. Can you conceive of anything more up-lifting?"

But this time, too, her adjuration failed to awaken an echo.

"Good heavens," he said, "on close inspection what after all is this much-vaunted fight? Everybody walks over you, in winter you lie in a cold bed, and all year round you have nothing to eat. Of course, I'm going to go into it, of course I am, but it's hard, yes, indeed, it's hard! If I had a scholarship I should feel much better."

"So that's all the joy you have in facing the world?"

"My dear young lady," he rejoined, "a fellow who starts out with nothing but a satchel of darned wash and a hundred-mark bill—where's he to get much joy from?"

"He's the very one!" Lilly exclaimed, eager to cast a ray of her own confidence into his heart. "When somebody is like you, with the mark of greatness on his face, then the world lies at his feet."

She described a semicircle with her right hand, taking in the entire plain, its green bushes and silvery streams and the city with its wreath of swelling gardens lying embedded in the fields like a lark's nest in a meadow. Lilly felt as if she were showing him a small copy of his future realm.

He nodded several times in the dejected consciousness of knowing better than she what the world is like.

"Dear me, it's hard," he observed, "very, very hard."

She wanted whether or no to convince him of his own ability to conquer, and growing warmer and warmer continued with her peroration.

"If only I could express what I know and feel. If only I could give you some of my own assurance. Look at me, poor thing that I am. I have no father or mother, and no friends. If at least I could have stayed at school and graduated. But here I am, without a vocation, without money, without clothes for the winter—not even a decent pair of shoes." She stuck out the worn tips of her old boots, which until now she had kept carefully hidden. "I don't get as much to eat as I need either; and if I come home too late to-day, I shall be whipped. Yet I know that happiness is lying in wait for me. It is here already—in every breeze that blows my way, in every sunbeam that smiles at me—the whole world is happiness—the whole world is music—everything's a Song of Songs—everything's a Song of Songs!"

She turned from him with an impetuous movement, to keep him from seeing how she was quivering all over.

Down in the city the chimes began to ring. St. Mary, once the cathedral, now the chief Protestant church, came first with its three resounding clangs. St. George uttered a clear third E-G—on high festivals it added a paternal, rumbling C. More bells followed. St. Anne's thin tinkling joined in—modest, yet to be distinguished the instant it began. There was a secret whispering and calling in it: "We know each other, we love each other, and St. Joseph says 'Good morning.'"

Lilly's friend seemed to have used the period of her silence in order to win back his spiritual balance. With the little air of didactic dignity that he liked to assume when he felt he had the advantage in a situation, he began:

"I am almost inclined to think we don't quite understand each other. I was at great pains to make a careful study of the problems of life, and so I see somewhat deeper into things than you. I'm up to snuff about the so-called illusions of youth. I know what men are worth, and I should advise you to be a little more cautious about what you do."

"What do you mean?" she asked, astounded.

He gave her a sidewise smile with an air of mingled superiority and uncertainty.

"Well, beauty carries certain dangers in its train."

"Nonsense, beauty!" Lilly cried, glowing all over. "Who thinks of such silliness?"

"The person upon whom nature has bestowed such a gift," he went on, "has many reasons for being on her guard. For instance, it's a piece of good luck for you that you chanced upon so strict and correct a young man as I am. Another man with a more frivolous nature than mine would have made an entirely different use of an excursion like this. You may be sure of that."

Lilly stared at him. She was carried away by a whirl of obscure and disagreeable thoughts. What did he want of her? Was he reproaching her? Did he scorn her because of her most sacred feelings?

"Oh, dear," she said, utterly discomposed. "I wish we were at home."

"Understand me," he began again. "I am by no means a Pharisee. I have a thorough comprehension of the weaknesses of human nature. I am only offering you a bit of advice in all modesty, and some day you will thank me for it. It is not for nothing that a fellow has his principles. Should we ever meet again later in life, you will, I hope, not have to be ashamed of the friend of your youth."

"If it's a question of shame," something within Lilly cried, "then I ought to feel ashamed now, and of myself."

Forward, undignified, ill-bred—that was what she held herself to be for having begged him to take this morning walk.

Yet there had been nothing evil in the thing! Where had the evil suddenly come from?

The chimes were still making music, the sun was still weaving its net of gold about her. She saw nothing, she heard nothing, so very ashamed she was. She wanted to run away, but did not dare even to stir.

As for him he no longer looked as if he needed comforting. His manner expressed the quiet satisfaction a man feels with a piece of work just completed.

A blackberry had remained sticking in a crevice in the seat of the bench.

"One mustn't get spots on one's clothes," he admonished, and stuck the berry in his mouth, slowly crunching the seeds between his teeth.

Lilly pulled herself together, and caught up her work-bag.

"What are you carrying there?" he asked. "It looks so heavy."

Lilly in terror clutched the bag tight.

"Only the house key," she stammered.

Then they went home.

"If only I could change his mind," she thought, "so that he would have a favorable opinion of me again."

Nothing better occurred to her than to stoop at the wayside and pluck the finest field flowers she could reach to offer to him as a farewell gift instead of that other gift, the mere thought of which made her feel like a goose.

She handed him the bouquet keeping her eyes turned aside. He thanked her with a pretty bow, and twirled the bamboo cane with the silver handle—an heirloom of which he had just come into possession. He swung it boldly about his head, the way future corps students do before making a high carte.

Lilly in her dejection and humiliation was unable to say a word.

"Doesn't an inner voice," he asked, "tell you we shall meet some time again?"

She turned her face away. She had all to do to force back the tears welling up in her eyes.

"Then I hope you will receive proof of what unremitting effort and unshakable fidelity to one's convictions can accomplish even with small means."

His voice now sounded full and vibrant with self-satisfied energy. While making her small and timorous he seemed to have sucked up some of her joyous mood.

When they drew near the Altmarkt, however, he became greatly disquieted again, and kept spying about on all sides. Finally he remarked that the streets were getting pretty lively, and it would be better perhaps if they were to part company and go back by different ways.

A few days later he left home, and the house was perfumed with the garlic of the sausage that Mrs. Redlich sliced into his soup as a farewell offering.

Lilly stood behind the window curtain with burning eyes, and thought in her sorrow:

"Oh, I wish I had never seen him!"