When I was not going for a long expedition, I took my dinner every day about one o'clock at the "Erbgericht," on a beautiful terrace by the river, shaded by glorious maples; the lower parts of these trees were clipped straight, forming a pretty green shelter, which gave a pleasant light and allowed the sun spots to play on the table-cloth, and sparkle on the lids of the glasses.
One day, when I arrived a little later than usual, every place seemed to be occupied. I was looking around inquiringly, when, to my surprise, I heard some one calling me by name. An old couple, who had a table to themselves, were beckoning to me. They were two of my Dresden acquaintances, and, in addition to that, favourite ones. I was very pleased to have escaped from my difficulty in such an agreeable manner, and was soon seated with, so far, only a glass of beer in front of me, beside the homely pair.
At first glance one saw that the old man was a Jew. The shape of the very hooked nose was unmistakable, and the sparse, rather bristly moustache and beard did not hide the thick lips, the lower one of which was underhung, and, when he was talking, gave the impression that he was sucking something in. It seemed also to affect his speech, which was slow and lisping. The eyes were overshadowed by strongly marked grey brows, and under them hung big wrinkled bags. Their expression was lively, clear, and quite unusually good-natured. His wife was a stately old lady, of a more Southern than Jewish type; her fresh face, which was constantly smiling—with the smile that one sees in paintings of the Empire period—was decked on both sides by a bunch of grey curls, in the old-fashioned style, and so tight were they that they looked as if they were made of wire.
I had been introduced to this venerable pair by their son, to whom I had become attached at the Polytechnic, though he was my senior by several years. He now had an appointment in a factory at Leipzig. I had at once won the favour of the old man by my unfeigned interest in his hobby. He was a bibliophile, but his greatest passion was for the autographs of famous men, of which he had a large collection, from Luther to our time—I should think that if Hermann the Cherusk had left any writings he would surely have got hold of them. The documents were arranged in portfolios, each of which was numbered, and to each portfolio was added a protocol of hand-made paper, (written with goose-quill and specially prepared ink for the sake of eternity), containing proofs of authenticity, as well as reference to biographical works and letter collections, and to these were added his own notes. This precise man was not content to collect only, but when he had got hold of a little manuscript he had no peace until he had found out to what period it belonged; and in cases in which this problem had already been solved, there were still commentaries to be written regarding the persons named, the circumstances referred to in the manuscript, and finally all the conclusions which he had drawn from his research had to be tabulated.
In this way his passion flowed back and contributed, as it were, to the source from which it had sprung, namely, the history of literature. To gratify this passion, it was necessary to acquire a great fund of knowledge, but this fund, having been acquired, paid an excellent rate of interest. With him it was far from being an unprofitable hobby—as hobbies so often are—it was rather a living expression of his inner self, satisfying at the same time his highest spiritual aims and his orderly business instincts.
Old Hertz had retired from business some ten years or more, and at this time was living in Dresden, in the "Rentier Corner," as it was, not without reason, called. He had been a merchant in Königsberg, where he was born, and had belonged, so to speak, to the merchant nobility. This home had left a lasting impression on his nature and development.
Königsberg is a commercial town which has obtained its peculiar character from the master-mind of one great man—a fortunate circumstance which sometimes happens in small towns that do not produce many celebrities; for people whose interests might be given to some less worthy object can cling with pride to the memory of the man who made their town famous. What Erasmus is for Rotterdam, this, and still more, is Kant for Königsberg; partly because he is a greater personality, and partly because, being of later date, the present older generation in Königsberg are the children of those whom he used to visit.
This was the case with Hertz. The great philosopher had willingly associated with members of the large commercial firms of his native town. These formed a powerful stock which guarded as a precious legacy the spiritual and literary interests he had grafted upon it. As a class they possessed the breadth of mind and versatility characteristic of business men, and they afforded him welcome shelter from the dripping sky which masked the darker days of pietism. It followed naturally that Kant, more than any one else, was the old man's hero. How deeply he had penetrated the philosophy of Kant, of course, I could not judge; but an almost touching tone of profound reverence was noticeable whenever he uttered the name of his great fellow-citizen.
He had chosen Dresden as the spot in which to spend his old age, partly on account of his relations and acquaintances, partly for the sake of the well-known Polytechnic, where his son studied, and lastly, I suppose, because it is the most beautiful town in Germany. But its spiritual atmosphere did not please him. Both from a commercial and literary point of view he looked down on this unscientific and unenterprising residential city, where an unimportant aristocracy ruled. He often remarked that Schiller had already called Dresden a spiritual desert, and in those days Körner resided there—but now? Therefore the old Königsberger lived in great isolation, and associated mostly with the already infirm Gustav Kühne, a veteran from "the young Germany" of which Hertz had known almost all the Coryphæuses. This was nearly all I knew of this quaint old man, who now saluted me as with the kindness of a friend. It was a nice trait in this couple that they were very fond of young people. I also noticed that the youth of both sexes almost involuntarily showed them more respect than the younger generation of our day are in the habit of showing to elderly people. Perhaps they gained this respect by their own very modest manners, which even had the appearance of a certain fear lest they might be a trouble or an inconvenience to others.
They were not at Rathen upon a trip, as I imagined, but had taken a small house by the Elbe for six weeks, where they had already spent three days.
It so happened that I had been out on excursions, or taken my meal at a different hour, so had not met them before; but now I had to promise to look them up and take coffee with them on that same day.
"And you shall not feel the hour hang heavily upon you with no other society than that of two old people."
"No, you shall not feel the time long at all."
"But you must not speak like that."
"Indeed, we should not like to encroach on your time, especially when there is so much for your young legs to do. But a young lady is coming, and it would please us very much to give her more youthful companionship than we ourselves can offer."
"You will not regret making her acquaintance—at least I hope not." These last words the old lady added with an arch glance.
"From this place?" escaped my lips.
Mrs. Hertz misunderstood my question, and laughed.
"No, you need not be afraid of a too rustic naïveté. She is not a Rathener."
"Nor is she a Königsberger."
"Perhaps she knows but little of Kant? Tell me, Mr. Hertz, do you really think that all ladies from Königsberg have read The Critique of Pure Reason?
"Unfortunately, my young friend, they have not even read The Critique of Judgment, which they need so much. As we are on the subject, I have in my day given lectures for women.…"
I had put my rather satirical question in order to affect a great indifference to the present topic, and also to gain time; as in a way I feared to be robbed too quickly of the hope which I had suddenly begun to cherish. But the old lady had read my thoughts.
"Be honest, Mr. Fenger, and admit that you are burning with curiosity, and would much prefer to know something about the young lady, than about my husband's lecture."
The old gentleman laughed.
"Look at him; see how he is blushing! Yes, my wife knows something of human nature; she is quite a Lavater."
To hide my confusion I drained my glass of beer.
"Well; is she pretty?" I asked.
"Pretty? My dear fellow, she is quite a beauty! Yes, but not exactly what one ordinarily means by a beauty. Don't misunderstand me, she is a Thekla from the bourgeoisie, a Lotte, a Fredericka Brion, though perhaps not quite that; she is not a clergyman's daughter from the country either, however idyllic that may be. She is a Kätchen, more than anything a Kätchen!"
"But, dear husband, do you need the whole range of German poetry to aid you? In this way you will raise too great expectations."
"On the contrary! Not even German poetry is sufficient! There is only one thing that is better than German poetry"
"Kant's Critique, I suppose you mean? "
"No, I mean German women—when they are charming. But, joking apart, she is an excellent girl."
"Well, you will see for yourself. She is a relation of mine, rather a distant one. I think I told you that I am from Dresden."
These last words made me lose all my interest. Then, after all, it was not Miss Jagemann of whom they had been speaking. In the first place, she did not look like a Jewess; and secondly, from what the schoolmaster had told me, I was convinced that she was not one. I listened with a polite smile, but without attention to Mrs. Hertz's recital of the family pedigree.
Suddenly, as if in a dream, I heard her say, "But I quite forgot that you may have already seen her, for after what you have told me, she must be your neighbour. She is at present a governess"
A cold shudder ran down my back. Strangely enough, at that moment I was not so much conscious of joy as of a certain conviction. Then, after all, it must be the finger of Fate! In my confusion I answered that I did not think I had seen her, supposing this to be the best diplomacy. But hardly had the words escaped my lips, when I realised that this untruth was sure to be found out, and would put me in a ridiculous and rather doubtful position. I wished to take back my words, but could not make up my mind to do so, which made me so distrait that I quite misunderstood a question of Mr. Hertz's.
Luckily, the waiter just then brought me the bill, and in my bewilderment I gave him twenty-five pfennig as a tip, which gained for me a polite bow from the man, and a fatherly reproach from Mr. Hertz, who advised me to be more economical in my dealings with such people.