The Inner Life of the Second-Class Cab-Driver
“A writer who would describe things that he has not seen with his own eyes is a feeble rhapsodist; his characters are unreal, and his productions will never touch the hearts of his readers!” Amen! My friend Otto put his glass down on the table with such vehemence that the red wine in it spattered on the table-cloth. I am very shy by nature; people who talk loud and set down their glass energetically, looking at me at the same time, as much as to say, “Any objections?” always awe me. That is the reason my friend Otto awed me. We sat opposite at the table in the Italian wine-room; while he was speaking he looked firmly at me; there was no doubt of it, he counted me in with these blameworthy authors. Our other friends who sat at table with us gazed at me in silence; it was evident that I was expected to say a weighty word in self-defence. I myself felt it incumbent upon me,—but unfortunately nothing appropriate occurred to me. After a lengthy pause I mildly remarked, “Quite true, one should dip down into the fulness of human life.” My friend Otto laughed scornfully into his glass, our friends gave me a look of pity—I had undoubtedly made a fool of myself.
At the same time, the words of my friend Otto would never have made such an impression upon me if my conscience had not troubled me. A plan was ripening within me for a great social novel, delineating the life of the lower classes in Berlin. Realism—that was my programme. In spirit I saw my likeness in all the illustrated papers; behind my name I read, “The German Zola,” in a parenthesis. I had not yet fully decided upon the contents of the novel; but so much was sure, the hero should be a second-class cab-driver,—if that didn’t take, I didn’t know what would.
As I was walking home, I was tortured with tormenting doubts called forth by the words of my friend. “So you would delineate a second-class cab-driver?” I said to myself. “What do you know about a second-class cab-driver? That in summer he wears a coat trimmed with galloons, and a cocked hat, and in winter a mantle, high boots lined with straw, and a fur cap—everybody knows that. But have you ever listened to the conversation with which at the stopping-places he makes time pass for himself and his colleagues? Have you ever followed him into the gin-shops where he refreshes himself with a glass of half-and-half and a sandwich? Do you know aught about his likes and dislikes? Or of the mutual relation between him and his horse? In a word, have you any knowledge of the inner life of a second-class cab-driver? Be honest with yourself, you have none; and here you are going to write a social novel about him! Well I never!” The last word I said half-audibly to myself while I was opening the street-door in a very ill humour.
I did not sleep well that night. I was perpetually pondering over the inner life of the second-class cab-driver.
When I arose, sighing, the next morning, I perceived that I should accomplish nothing by going on in this way, and I resolved to devote myself to practical studies. Armed with my note-book, I stepped out into the street.
It was a glorious spring morning, but I was indifferent to the fact; my eyes were riveted upon second-class cabs and their charioteers. At the next corner there was a stopping-place for six such; my heart beat faster as I beheld them. Heretofore these fellows had appeared to me in the light of ordinary mortals; now it struck me that there was a sly smile upon their faces, as if they were conscious of the fact of possessing something which they would take care not to divulge—the inner life of the second-class cab-driver.
I jumped into the foremost cab; it was open, and sported cushions of red plush. The driver sat nodding upon the box, and for the present his inner life was hidden by the sound of a tremendous snoring.
“Thou shalt be my hero!” spoke a voice within me. After some fruitless efforts, I at last succeeded in waking him. I named some street at random, where he was to take me, and resolved to enter into conversation with him.
“Been on many trips to-day?” I asked in a winning voice, while he was putting his horse in motion. He did not seem to hear me, at least he paid no attention to my remark.
“Been on many trips to-day?” I repeated, still more pleasantly.
He turned his head about. “You’re right there,” he said. “It’s a double trip.”
I was taken back by this unexpected result of my speech. “Double trip?” I asked.
“Well, don’t you believe it?” he asked indignantly. I was vexed that I had unwisely entered upon a double trip, and subsided.
“Pronounced faculty for justice,” I put down in my note-book, “which occasionally amounts to unbending doggedness.” As the note seemed too scant, I added, “Brusque and uncommunicative.”
We had reached a part of the town which offered no possible attractions to me; so there was nothing for it but to drive back again. I jumped into the first cab I saw, and as I was just about to open conversation with the driver I perceived that it was a first-class cab. What was a first-class cab-driver to me? Besides, it cost me a shilling. I was terribly vexed with myself.
I now resolved to be more cautious in my choice of cabs. Long I strolled about the streets, keeping an eye on all the stopping-places I passed, until at last I beheld a young second-class cab-driver, who, as soon as he saw my gaze fixed upon him, leaped with jerky haste upon his box.
“At last,” I said to myself while getting in, “this is a genuine wide-awake Berlin cab-driver, such as I want.”
I tested his conversational powers with two or three casual remarks—my efforts were crowned with success. I told him to drive to the Thiergarten, as the most favourable place to listen undisturbed to his communications.
As we Were jolting along the streets I silently gazed at my charioteer, who was enthroned with more audacity than grace side-wise upon his box, so that I could see his profile; I noticed certain dark shadows in his face, which looked as if he had inadvertently come into close contact with a boot-brush.
As soon as we had reached the shady precincts of the Thiergarten the sluices of his eloquence were opened, and indeed this worthy youth repaid me for all that I had heretofore missed.
“How is business going on?” I asked.
“Well, it’s only just going so-so,” he replied, “but up to last week it was going fine; we’ve had the whole town to sweep.”
“Sweep?” I asked, somewhat puzzled.
“Well yes, you see,” he said, “that’s because all winter folks had to sit at home and have a fire, and now, you see, it’s warm again——”
“Aha,—I understand,” I interrupted; a rare point this for my note-book: “The second-class cab-driver manifests a surprising aptitude for simile; when the awaking spring-time entices men to leave their dark houses and entrust themselves to his vehicle, he expresses this by saying that he has swept the whole town.”
In the joy of my heart I offered him a cigar; he did not decline, at the same time remarking that he preferred snuff to tobacco, which, as he said, was better adapted to his calling.
Again I opened my note-book: “The second-class cab-driver does not disdain tobacco, preferring however to indulge in snuff.”
“You see,” I said, after having secured this important fact in writing for all future times, “how it is always well to open one’s eyes to learn new things; up to this day I have never seen a cab-driver use snuff.”
“Oh, as for them fellows——,” he replied, shrugging his shoulders, “why should they snuff? I was talking about our business.”
“How so?” I stammered, with a puzzled look. He leaned down to me. “I’m only taking this cab out to-day, because my father don’t feel just right; the old hurdle belongs to him.”
The trees in the Thiergarten began to dance before my very eyes.
“What is your calling?” I shrieked in mortal agony. With a smile he looked down upon me: “I’m a chimney-sweep,” he said.
“Stop!” I called out to him in a voice of thunder; “I want to get out here!”
That afternoon I returned to my rooms with a bowed head; I had the feeling that everybody must know I had been out riding with a chimney-sweep.
As I entered the house I noticed that there was a gateway beside the street-door bearing the inscription: “Cabs and carriages by the hour.” I had only lived in that particular house for a few days, and so had paid no attention to this before. Now, as my eyes were resting thoughtfully upon this sign, I made the observation that it is in hours of deep contrition that the soul of man ripens to grand purposes; for a thought arose within me, the boldness of which almost made me grow dizzy.
In my unhappy experience with the chimney-sweep I had seen that one can be a cab-driver on time,—how would it be if for twenty-four hours I myself were to fill such a post?
I seized my hat, so that the sacred fire of my first decision should not be cooled off by pedantic considerations, entered the yard below, and the office of the cab-owner.
At first he was little inclined to favour my plan; then gradually it dawned upon him that I should certainly be a very cheap cab-driver, who would cost him nothing, and moreover put thirty shillings into his pocket, a sum which I then and there counted upon the table. He began to treat me with a certain air of gentle indulgence, such as one bestows upon a person who is not fully in his right mind, and whom it is best not to irritate. One favourable circumstance was that he had just had a new coat and a new pair of trousers made for one of his drivers; provided these garments fitted me, I should put them on to-morrow. As far as the hat was concerned, he would let me take the one belonging to Gustav, the driver whose place I was to take.
“So then,—to-morrow morning at five o’clock,” he said, “right here in the yard!”
“I shall be here to-morrow morning at five o’clock,” I replied with an easy air, as if it were a daily habit of mine to get up at five. I was turning to go, when he called after me, “But you must leave your eye-glasses at home!” and he pointed to my nose; “that will never do for a cab-driver!”
“You are right,” I rejoined; “I shall get me a pair of steel spectacles.”
With that I left him, and partook myself to a masquerade-shop, where I procured a large beard to cover the lower part of my face, and a wig; beside my original object of disguising myself as far as possible, the thought of Gustav’s cocked hat made a special head-gear seem desirable. Beard and wig were sprinkled with grey, and must needs give me an air of homely dignity. In the shop of an optician I completed my outfit, looking through his entire stock of clumsy, old-fashioned spectacles. I could not find the desired steel spectacles, but there was a pair of horn ones with enormous circular glasses, by means of which my face gained an owl-like expression. That was what I wanted. Putting my treasures in my pocket, I stepped out upon the street, very well satisfied with myself. The energetic way in which I had seized upon this great enterprise pleased me; all my arrangements struck me as being exceedingly practical; I had a happy presentiment as to the success of my undertaking; this success I involuntarily carried into my thoughts of the novel that was to be, and I began to conjecture what remuneration I should demand. “I can’t let you have it cheap, gentlemen,” I said half-audibly with a triumphant smile, as I opened the door of the wine-room where I expected to meet my friends.
To evade every possibility of being recognised by them, I meant to tell them that I should be going out of town to-morrow.
This part of my programme also ran off smoothly. My friend Otto and all my other friends were present, and while my heart was leaping within me for proud joy over my new-discovered talent for adventure, I unfolded my fictitious plan of travel as coolly as possible.
The only person who seemed to be interested was my friend Otto.
“Going out of town?” he said. “Is it certain?”
“Quite certain,” I replied; “I shall be leaving to-morrow morning.”
“Where to?”
“Humph—a short trip to the country—to visit some relatives.”
“For how long?” he queried further.
“That depends; two or three days at the most.” It was really strange that he should be so inquisitive—and withal there was a peculiar look in his eyes. “He can’t know?” I asked myself involuntarily, but I did not complete my sentence. “That is all nonsense,” I said to myself; “he doesn’t even know anything about the novel—how could he guess anything?” Indeed, he seemed quite satisfied at last, and when I had left them all I walked home with the consciousness that things were going finely.
“Are you the gentleman?” asked a deep, grumbling voice, when in the grey dawn of morning I entered the yard next morning.
Without breakfast, for I had not wished to betray myself to my landlady, with a false beard on my face and a wig on my head, and an enormous pair of horn spectacles on my nose—my feelings can readily be imagined. And with all that I felt it incumbent upon me to feign a cheerful manner to keep Gustav—for I judged him to be the possessor of the bass voice—in good spirits.
“The weather will be gorgeous to-day,” I said, apparently in the best of humour, while my teeth were chattering with cold. Gustav grunted like a bear disturbed in his winter’s sleep.
“Can I put on the things?” I asked.
Gustav pointed to the office. “In there,” he said; “I’ll be hitching up while you’re about it.”
Soon after I came forth attired as a cab-driver.
In the middle of the yard stood the cab with a horse before it, which in the light of early dawn looked like some antediluvian animal. Gustav was occupied with the harness, and seemed disinclined to take notice of me.
“Here we are,” I said in a tone of assumed gaiety, which was not at all in keeping with my inmost mood. I seemed unspeakably ridiculous to myself.
Gustav looked at me askance, and made some inarticulate ejaculation. His conduct was not particularly encouraging. Upon the box I saw some sort of a receptacle with an open top.
“Aha,” I said, stepping up to it, “I presume this is the fodder-chest?”
Gustav looked at the receptacle and then at me. “That there?” he said; “sure, that’s my hat.”
“Ah, so——” I stammered in embarrassment; “your hat? Permit me.”
It was with strange feelings that I took the hat from the box and held it in my hand.
“Number twelve thirty-two,” said Gustav laconically.
“Twelve thirty-two,” I repeated. It was the first time in my life that I felt I had a number.
“At noon you have to feed him the first time,” Gustav informed me.
“Feed whom?” I asked involuntarily; my thoughts were occupied with the hat, and I thought that was what he was referring to.
Gustav seemed to consider it beneath him to answer my insipid question.
“Between four and five,” he continued, “he gets his fodder again; do you know how to go to work to feed a horse?”
He held the nose-bag in his hands and looked at me as if he had strong doubts as to my efficiency.
“I have sometimes seen it done at the stopping-places,” I replied dejectedly, “but we might as well make a trial.”
“Well, then, go ahead,” he said, handing the receptacle to me.
It was with some difficulty that I got the strap which held the bag adjusted around the horse’s neck; Gustav stood behind me with a critical air.
“That ain’t right,” he said; “take the bit out first.”
He now showed me how to take the bit out of the horse’s mouth, and then made me do it.
The horse put his nose in the bag, and when he observed that there was nothing in it, he shook his ears, as much as to say, “I don’t think much of such practical jokes!” The horse seemed to share his master’s opinion of me, for Gustav was anything but satisfied, as his grunting tones proved.
“Well now, go ahead!” he said at last, scanning me once more from head to foot. From under the seat he produced a dark bundle, which upon being unfolded proved to be his mantle; he thereupon proceeded to put it around my shoulders.
“Bless us! This is heavy,” I said, groaning under the burden.
As I seized the lines Gustav imparted his final instructions. “Here is the check,” he said, putting a piece of metal with the number of my cab into my hand; “now drive to the Schlesische Bahnhof and wait there; maybe you’ll get a job when the early train comes in. Give the check to the policeman; do you understand?”
“Yes, yes,” I said; “I have often arrived by that station myself.”
“And then when you’re ready to start give him a good whack with your whip,” he continued.
“Whom?” I was about to ask once more, for I thought he was still talking of the policeman, but fortunately I suppressed my dulness.
“For when he has been standing awhile,” explained Gustav, “the nag gets awfully lazy and his bones get stiff; but when he’s going he does very well, and then all you have to do is to let him jog along.”
“Very well,” I said, seizing the whip, which he handed to me; “I’ll do precisely as you say.”
Gustav opened the gateway preparatory to setting out. I jerked the reins and called out—“Go along!”
The steed in my cab, however, did not pay the least attention to my manipulations; so far as I could see, he had fallen asleep again.
I now began to belabour his back with the whip; even that was but half successful; he gave a little shrug of disdain, and stood still as if fastened to the ground.
“You must hit around further to the front!” cried Gustav from the gate; “he don’t feel anything on his back any more!”
So I whipped him on the neck, but, lo and behold, he did not seem to approve of such treatment. He threw his head back, shook his ears as much as to say, “Have the goodness to desist from such foolishness!” And when I paid no attention to his objections, he suddenly lifted his hinder part and “thump” went his hoofs against the cab, making me shake and tremble upon my box.
Now Gustav came walking up to me slowly.
“Give it to me,” he said, taking the whip out of my hand; “I’ll have a talk with him.”
The way Gustav “talked to him” seemed to make a decided impression upon the steed, for before I knew it he started in a canter, so that I was obliged to seize the reins convulsively in both hands.
“My hat,” I shrieked, for I felt that the cocked hat was parting company with my head in a graceful curve. It was not until I was out on the street that I succeeded in quieting the excited nag.
“Dear me, this—is—a—malicious beast!” I called out breathless to Gustav, who was running after us with the hat and whip.
“He’s only a bit ticklish,” he replied consolingly.
I replaced the cocked hat upon the spot assigned to it. Gustav turned to go.
I passed along the quiet streets with my vehicle on the way to the Schlesische Bahnhof. I now had time to examine my steed more closely. He was white, with a tinge of yellow, corresponding to the colour a white beard assumes if its owner frequently moistens it with beer.
So we reached the Schlesische Bahnhof, where I joined the row of waiting cabs.
I had now reached my first station, and I sat upon my box with attentive ears, so that no word of the conversation of my new colleagues should escape me.
For the present there was little hope of accomplishing my purpose, for the only thing I heard was a grand snoring-chorus—the assembled drivers were making up for their interrupted morning’s sleep.
I tried to reason myself into the belief that the situation was very original and interesting, but the thought of my orphaned bed at home, and its discarded warmth and softness, would not be banished, and all at once the consciousness that I was cold and hungry and bored beyond endurance was borne in upon me with unrelenting sternness.
A vender of small sausages appeared upon the scene, and, although under ordinary circumstances the possibility of horse-meat would have caused me to abstain, I hastily came down from my box and purchased a pair of his charges.
“Can you give me some paper,” I said, “to wrap them up in?”
The sausage-man looked at me in surprise. “Bless my buttons,” he said,—“paper?”
I perceived that I was betraying myself. So I turned quickly away, and seeing the policeman at that moment, I handed him my check. Then I scrambled up on the box once more, and devoured the sausages. I thereupon moved into a corner of the box, wrapped myself up close in my mantle, and fell asleep. A tremendous uproar awoke me. The train had arrived; the cabs from the right and left were set in rattling motion; in the portico stood a man bellowing, “One thousand two hundred and thirty-two,” at the top of his voice. He seemed to have been occupied in this way for some time, for his face was purple with the exertion.
“Very good,” I said, smiling to myself; “there is a passenger who can’t find his cab; probably it will come to an altercation between him and the driver, and some of the most characteristic of Berlin phrases and expressions will come to light. Novelist, prick up your ears; don’t let anything escape you.”
“One thousand two hundred and thirty-two!” called out the man once more. I looked at him closely; he seemed to be a travelling merchant; a medley of trunks, bandboxes, and travelling-bags were lying about him on the ground.
I looked about me smiling. “One thousand two hundred and thirty-two seems to be sleeping as sweetly as need be,” I said to myself.
At that moment a voice struck my ear: “Twelve thirty-two—what’s the matter, old noodle-head? Are you sitting on your ears?”
Quick as a flash I turned around. One of the small boys that hang around stations to help passengers find their cabs had pulled open the door of my cab.
My stars! It occurred to me then that I myself was number one thousand two hundred and thirty-two.
Before I had time to reprove the impudent lad, the passenger, who was quite blue in the face, began to fly at me.
“Look ye here,” he cried in a loud voice, “it’s likely you left your ears at home! Here I’ve been standing an hour injuring my lungs by yelling out your confounded number!”
I was trembling with rage. “Sir,” I said, inclining my head to him from my box, “I must politely request you to address me in a more befitting manner!”
“I don’t want any of your impudence,” bellowed the azure-hued merchant. “It’s your business to prick up your ears, that’s all; and if you don’t do it, I’ll ask you to accompany me to the police-station!”
My blood was boiling with indignation, and, what was worse, I dared not reply, for fear my language would betray me.
“Boys, fetch my things!” the merchant called out to the lads who were clustering about, and all the trunks, handbags, and bandboxes were set in motion.
Meanwhile my colleagues—as many of them as had not driven away—gathered about us, and I now heard my fill of the peculiarities of the Berlin vernacular that I had previously longed for.
“Better put your spectacles on your ears, so you’ll hear better,” cried one.
I tried to keep silent—but could I let such a brutal speech pass unchallenged? “It is very bad taste,” I replied with dignity, “to reproach a person for physical infirmities; if my near-sightedness enjoins the necessity of wearing spectacles——”
“Don’t lose your breath, cabby,” cried a second, and a general laugh interrupted my speech.
“Cabby sees with his ears and hears with his eyes,” shrieked one of the wretched boys. There was a laugh again; I was perspiring with indignation.
“Take that up on the box,” cried my passenger in an insolent tone, thumping a heavy brass-nailed trunk down on my feet.
I was about to recommend greater caution when he handed me a couple of curtain-poles wrapped in paper and tied together with a cord.
“Take that too,” he commanded, “and see that it doesn’t slip down.”
So it was a provincial upholsterer who was treating me thus! In spite of that, there was nothing for it but to obey his orders. I set the curtain-poles up on end and put my left arm around them.
Now there was an uproar among the boys once more. “Cabby, hold the crow-bars tight!” cried one. “Cabby with the crow-bars!” yelled the boys, shrieking, bellowing, and whistling in a diabolical chorus.
“To the tavern ‘Green Tree’ in the Klosterstrasse!” cried the overbearing voice of the upholsterer. He got into the cab, and shut the door with a bang.
I seized the reins, the nag stood still, as if it were none of his concern.
“Go along with ye, you wretched beast! Hello there! Skip along!” I muttered between my teeth; the abominable quadruped persisted in stubborn indifference. I brought the whip down upon him “toward the front,” as Gustav had advised me, and, sure enough, suddenly the cab quivered, struck with the hoofs of the balking steed.
An infernal concert of wild jubilations arose about me. I sat upon my box in a state of wretched helplessness, and, to make matters worse, the travelling merchant put his head out of the cab.
“How long is it going to take you to get started?” he called out, following up his words with a perfect volley of oaths. “Did anybody ever see the like of this?”
One of my colleagues of the box was moved with brotherly pity, seized the malicious steed by the head, and put him in motion.
The other drivers sat on their boxes taking a nap, and there was no opportunity of entering into conversation with them. I was very much depressed, took off my mantle, for it was growing warm, climbed up into my seat, and drove away to try my luck elsewhere.
As we were jolting slowly across the Schlossplatz, there came straight across the square from the red Schloss a figure, the sight of which made my blood run cold—it was my friend Otto.
Supposing he should recognise me,—I dared not think the thought, I felt myself blush and then turn pale under my beard. I turned my head to the other side, toward the Schloss, but as I involuntarily looked at him askance, it seemed to me that he was standing still. In fact so he was,—he stood there beckoning to me! I was seized with horror! “Beckon away as hard as you please,” I said to myself, driving on. Now I heard his voice: “Hello there, cabman!” I pretended not to hear, and still drove on.
Then he came rushing with tremendous strides across the square.
“Confound you!” he cried. “Don’t you hear me?”
There was no further possibility of escape; I must needs pull up.
Like a criminal over whom sentence of death has just been passed, I hung my head; with the corner of my left eye I saw that my friend Otto had on his best suit, and was carrying his summer overcoat over his arm.
“Kanonierstrasse No.——,” he said, jumping airily into the cab. I started involuntarily. What did he want to go to the Kanonierstrasse for? I knew that he did not live there—none of our boon companions lived there, I knew that also,—but some one dwelt within that house whom I knew very well, and that was Emma, my friend of the ballet, my Emma! That Emma was true, true as gold, I knew, thank Heaven! At the same time a vague unrest took possession of me, and in flying haste did I urge my steed in the direction of the Kanonierstrasse.
I riveted my eyes upon the house long before we reached it. Did my suspicion deceive me? Up there between the hyacinths did I not see some one look out? The wheels of my cab came rattling up before the door, no further mistake was possible; out of Emma’s window inclined a head with raven curls—it was hers! At the same moment my friend Otto impetuously pulled open the door of the cab, jumped out, and threw kisses to her. Then he put his hand to his mouth and called out: “I’ll wait for you down here with the cab. Come down, and we will have a drive in the Thiergarten.”
I fell back into the corner of my seat. This was too much! The wretch! My own faithless beloved I was to take on a drive in the Thiergarten!
Through my horn spectacles I cast one annihilating glance above; it fell upon no one, for Emma had left the window.
For a moment I considered—should I tear the wig, spectacles, and beard from off my face, and so drop my disguise before the traitors? But the ridicule, the eternal ridicule! It seemed to me the whole Kanonierstrasse would stand on its head in appreciation of the joke.
“Turn the top down,” commanded my friend Otto. “It is stifling in here.”
Worse and worse! But what could I do? I scrambled down and began to do as I was bid. Meanwhile the street-door opened and Emma floated across the threshold. A sombre oath escaped me.
“Now drive to the Thiergarten,” said my friend Otto.
“Very well,” I replied, with terrible irony in my savage voice.
The wretched couple behind my back seemed to be in the best of spirits, and as the cab was now open I could understand every word they spoke.
“Did you receive my post-card?” asked the villain.
“Of course I did,” replied the faithless one. “I did not know he was going out of town. Are you quite sure he’s gone? I’m in mortal terror.”
“Never fear, my love,” he replied; “I was in his rooms this morning. He must have left very early.”
I was furious. So this was the meaning of his interested questions the night before!
Full of wrath I brought down my whip upon my horse.
“Don’t beat that horse so!” cried my friend Otto from the cab; “we are in no particular hurry.”
I burst into a roar of hysterical laughter. The villain! he was pitiful toward the horse, more than toward his friend. Again the nag was called upon to bear the brunt of my indignation at my friend Otto.
“The fellow must be mad,” said my friend Otto.
“Don’t talk so loud,” begged Emma.
“Nonsense,” he replied. “I told you that he is as deaf as a poker; moreover, look at him. I believe he has false hair!”
My wig had evidently become dislocated. I heard them giggle. For a moment I considered the propriety of turning my whip to good purpose behind me—but that of course would have betrayed me.
The noise of passing carriages on Leipzigerstrasse made it impossible for me to hear what was passing between the couple; it was not until we had reached more quiet streets that I again caught some bits of their conversation. I perceived that I was again the subject thereof.
“How do you get along with him?” asked my friend Otto.
“Oh well,” responded Emma, “he’s a good enough fellow.”
Whack,—the nag caught it again then, for the tone in which she said it roused my ire.
“That’s so,” continued my friend Otto; “but he is a bore, an intolerable bore.”
The knave! With bated breath I listened to hear what she would reply to this calumny.
Emma giggled; that was as much as to say, “You are right.”
I was in a fever of wrath.
“Does he ever read any of his things to you?” asked my friend Otto.
“Does he write?” she queried in surprise. The uneducated goose! The superficial hussy! Did she not know that I had already published two volumes of lyrical poetry? And she asks if I write!
“I should think so,” replied my friend Otto, with an infamous roar of laughter. “Every little while he hatches a new poem a yard or two long, and reads it to his friends.”
Emma shook with laughter.
“So far he has spared me,” she observed.
“Never fear, my love, never fear,” I muttered into my false beard; “you shan’t have any more opportunity to be bored by me!”
In my mind I was composing the crushing farewell-note I intended to write to the faithless one on the morrow.
After a time which seemed endless to me we reached the garden restaurant called “Charlottenhof.”
“Hold on, driver!” bellowed my friend Otto, who, taking me to be deaf, considered it necessary to address me in his loudest tones. Then he turned to Emma.
“Come, sweetheart,” he said, “we will have a glass of beer.” He helped her get down. “Wait till we come back,” he said to me. At the gate stood a waiter: “Fetch a glass of beer for the driver,” he added, and before I had time to enter protest he had stepped into the garden, arm-in-arm with his lady-love.
Fully an hour and a half did my friend Otto see best to keep me waiting at the door, while he was amusing himself in the garden with his adored.
I occupied myself with writing my obituary in spirit, and tears of emotion over my sad fate trickled down my beard. “By the fickleness of a heartless woman”—thus read the last page of my obituary—“and the depravity of a man whom he took to be his friend, was this poet’s heart broken, and this glorious possibility of immeasurable promise for Germany was nipped in the bud.”
Ernst von Wildenbruch.