The Harvard Classics Shelf of Fiction - German Part 57

"We buried her three weeks ago, Herr Baron. Just three weeks ago to-day."

"Buried her?" repeated Botho. "And where?"

"Over behind the Rollkrug, in the new Jacob's churchyard.... She was a good old woman. And how she did love Lena! Yes, Herr Baron, Mother Nimptsch is dead. But Frau Dorr is still living (and he laughed), and she will live a long time yet. And if she comes--it is a long way--I will give her your greeting. And I can see already how pleased she will be. You know her, Herr Baron. Oh yes, Frau Dorr ..."

And Gideon Franke took off his hat once more and the door closed.

CHAPTER XXI

When Rienacker was alone again, he was as if benumbed by this meeting and by all that he had heard toward the close of the interview.

Whenever, since his marriage, he had recalled the little house in the garden and its inmates, he had as a matter of course pictured everything in his mind just as it had been formerly, and now everything was changed and he must find his way in a completely new world: there were strangers living in the little house, if indeed it was occupied at all; there was no fire burning in the fireplace any more, at least not day in and day out, and Frau Nimptsch, who had kept up the fire, was dead and buried in the new Jacob's churchyard. All this whirled round and round in his head, and suddenly he also recalled the day when, half seriously, half in jest, he had promised the good old woman to lay a wreath of immortelles on her grave. In the restlessness that had come over him, he was very glad that he had remembered the promise and decided to fulfil it at once. "To the Rollkrug at noon and the sun reflected from the ground--a regular journey to central Africa. But the good old woman shall have her wreath."

And he took his cap and sword at once and left the house.

At the corner there was a cab stand, a small one, indeed, and so it happened that in spite of the sign: "Standing room for three cabs"

there was usually nothing there but standing room or, very seldom, one cab. It was so to-day also, which in consideration of the noon hour (when all cabs are in the habit of disappearing as if the earth had swallowed them) was not particularly surprising at this cab stand which was one merely in name. Therefore Botho went further along, until, near the Von der Heydt Bridge, he met a somewhat rickety vehicle, painted light green, with a red plush seat and drawn by a white horse. The horse seemed barely able to trot and Rienacker could not keep from smiling rather pitifully when he thought of the "tour" that was in store for the poor beast. But as far as his eye could see, nothing better was in sight, and so he stepped up to the driver and said: "To the Rollkrug. Jacob's churchyard."

"Very good, Herr Baron."

"But we must stop somewhere on the way. I shall want to buy a wreath."

"Very good, Herr Baron."

Botho was somewhat surprised at the prompt and repeated use of his t.i.tle and so he said: "Do you know me?"

"Yes, Herr Baron. Baron Rienacker of Landgrafenstra.s.se. Close by the cab stand. I have often driven you before."

During this conversation Botho had got in, meaning to make himself as comfortable as possible in the corner of the plush cus.h.i.+oned seat, but he soon gave up that idea, for the corner was as hot as an oven.

Rienacker had, in common with all Brandenburg n.o.blemen, the pleasing and good-hearted trait that he preferred to talk with plain people rather than with more "cultivated" folk, and so he began at once, while they were in the half shade of the young trees along the ca.n.a.l: "How hot it is! Your horse cannot have been much pleased when he heard me say Rollkrug."

"Oh, Rollkrug is well enough; Rollkrug is well enough because of the woods. When he gets there and smells the pines, he is always pleased.

You see, he is from the country.... Or perhaps it is the music too. At any rate, he always p.r.i.c.ks up his ears."

"Indeed," said Botho. "He doesn't look to me much like dancing.... But where can we get the wreath then? I do not want to get to the churchyard without a wreath."

"Oh, there is plenty of time for that, Herr Baron. As soon as we get into the neighborhood of the churchyard, from the Halle Gate on and the whole length of the Pioneerstra.s.se."

"Yes, yes, you are quite right. I was forgetting...."

"And after that, until you are close to the churchyard, there are plenty more places."

Botho smiled. "You are perhaps a Silesian?"

"Yes," said the driver. "Most of us are. But I have been here a long time now, and so I am half a true Berliner."

"And are you doing pretty well?"

"There is no use talking about 'pretty well.' Everything costs too much and one has to have always the best quality. And hay is dear. But I should do well enough, if only nothing would happen. But something is always sure to happen--to-day an axle breaks and to-morrow a horse falls down. I have another horse at home, a light bay, that used to be with the Furstenwald Uhlans; a good horse, only he has no wind and he will not last much longer. And all of a sudden he will be gone.... And then the traffic police; never satisfied, you mustn't go here and you mustn't go there. And one is always having to repaint. And red plush is not to be had for nothing."

While they were chatting together, they had driven along by the ca.n.a.l, as far as the Halle Gate. And now a battalion of infantry with the band playing spiritedly was coming straight toward them from the Kreuzberg, and Botho, who did not wish to meet acquaintances, urged the coachman to drive faster. And they pa.s.sed rapidly over the Belle-Alliance Bridge, but on the further side, Botho asked the driver to stop, because he had seen a sign on one of the first houses that read: "Artistic and Practical Florist." Three or four steps led into a shop, in the show window of which were all kinds of wreaths.

Rienacker stepped out and went up the steps. As he entered the door, bell rang sharply. "May I ask you to be so kind as to show me a pretty wreath?"

"A funeral wreath?"

"Yes."

The young woman in black, who, perhaps because she sold mostly funeral wreaths, looked ridiculously like one of the Fates (even the shears were not lacking), came back quickly with an evergreen wreath with white roses among the green. She apologised at once for having only white roses. White camellias were far more expensive. Botho, for his part, was satisfied, declined to have more flowers shown him and only asked whether he could not have a wreath of immortelles in addition to the wreath of fresh flowers.

The young woman seemed rather surprised at the old-fas.h.i.+oned notions that this question seemed to imply, but a.s.sented and immediately brought a box containing five or six wreaths of yellow, red and white immortelles.

"Which color would you advise me to take?"

The young woman smiled: "Immortelle wreaths are quite out of fas.h.i.+on.

Possibly in winter.... And then only in case ..."

"I think I had better decide on this one at once." And Botho took the yellow wreath that lay nearest him, hung it on his arm, put the wreath of white roses with it and got quickly into his cab. Both wreaths were rather large and took up so much room on the red plush seat that Botho thought of handing them over to the driver. But he soon decided against this change, saying to himself: "If one wants to carry a wreath to old Frau Nimptsch, one must be willing to own up to the wreath. And if one is ashamed of it, he should not have promised it."

So he let the wreaths lie where they were, and almost forgot them, as the carriage immediately turned into a part of the road whose varied and here and there grotesque scenes led him aside from his former thoughts. On the right, at a distance of about five hundred paces, was a board fence, above which could be seen all sorts of booths, pavilions, and doorways decorated with lamps, and all covered with a wealth of inscriptions. Most of these were of rather recent, or even extremely recent, date, but a few of the biggest and brightest dated further back, and, although in a weather-beaten state, they had lasted over from the previous year. Among these pleasure resorts, and alternating with them, various artisans had set up their workshops, especially sculptors and stone cutters, who mostly exhibited crosses, pillars, and obelisks hereabouts, because of the numerous cemeteries.

All this could not fail to strike whoever pa.s.sed this way, and Rienacker too was strangely impressed, as he read from the cab, with growing curiosity, the endless and strongly contrasted announcements and looked at the accompanying pictures. "Fraulein Rosella, the living wonder maiden"; "Crosses and Gravestones at the Lowest Prices"; "Quick Photography, American Style"; "Russian Ball throwing, six shots for tern pfennig"; "Swedish Punch with Waffles"; "Figaro's Finest Opportunity, or the First Hairdressing Parlor in the World"; "Crosses and Gravestones at the Lowest Prices"; "Swiss Shooting Gallery":

"Shoot right quick and shoot right well, Shoot and hit like William Tell."

And beneath this Tell himself with his son, his cross bow and the apple.

Finally the cab reached the end of the long board fence and at this point the road made a sharp turn toward the wood and now, breaking the stillness of noon, the rattle of guns could be heard from the shooting stands. Otherwise everything was much the same on this continuation of the street: Blondin, clad only in his tights and his medals, was balancing on the tightrope, with fireworks flas.h.i.+ng around him, while near him various small placards announced balloon ascensions as well as the pleasures of the dance. One read: "A Sicilian Night. At two o'clock Vienna Bonbon Waltzes."

Botho, who had not seen this place for a long time, read all these placards with real interest, until after he had pa.s.sed through the "wood," where he found the shade very refres.h.i.+ng for a few minutes, and beyond which he turned into the princ.i.p.al street of a populous suburb that extended as far as Rixdorf. Wagons, two and even three abreast, were pa.s.sing before him, until suddenly everything came to a standstill and the traffic was blocked. "What are we stopping for?" he asked, but before the coachman could answer, Botho heard cursing and swearing from in front, and saw that the wagons had become wedged. He leaned forward and looked about with interest, true to his fondness for plain people, and apparently the incident would have amused rather than annoyed him, if both the load and the inscription on a wagon that had stopped in front of him had not impressed him painfully. "Broken gla.s.s bought and sold, Max Zippel, Rixdorf" was painted in big letters on the high tailboard and a perfect mountain of pieces of gla.s.s was piled up in the body of the wagon. "Luck goes with gla.s.s" ... And he looked at the load with distaste and felt as if the fragments were cutting all his finger tips.

But at last the wagons moved on again and the horse did his best to make up for lost time, and before long the driver stopped before a corner house, with a high roof and a projecting gable and ground floor windows so low that they were almost on a level with the street. An iron bracket projected from the gable, supporting a gilded key placed upright.

"What is that?" asked Botho.

"The Rollkrug."

"Very well. Then we are nearly there. We only have to turn up hill here. I am sorry for the horse, but there is no help for it."

The driver gave the horse a cut with the whip and they began to go up a rather steep, hilly street, on one side of which lay the old Jacob's cemetery, which was half closed up because of being over full, while across the street from the cemetery fence rose some high tenement houses.

In front of the last house stood some wandering musicians, apparently man and wife, with a horn and a harp. The woman was singing too, but the wind, which was rather strong here, blew the sound away up hill and only when Botho had gone more than ten steps beyond the poor old couple, was he able to distinguish the words and melody. It was the same song that they had sung so happily long ago on the walk to Wilmersdorf, and he sat up and looked out as if the music had called him back to the musicians. They, however, were facing another way and did not see him, but a pretty maid, who was was.h.i.+ng windows on the gable side of the house, and who might have thought that the young officer was looking back at her, waved her chamois skin gayly at him and joined vigorously in the chorus: