THE FUR COAT
A Humorous Story by one of Germany's Leading Contemporary Dramatists
By Ludwig Fulda
Illustrated by H. BerlinTranslated by Thomas Seltzer
PROFESSOR MAX WIEGAND to Dr. Gustav Strauch
Dear Gustav:—
I must tell you something that will astonish you tremendously. I have separated from my wife. Or, to be more precise, we have separated from each other. We agreed to separate peacefully. My wife went to her parents in Freiburg and will probably stay there altogether. For the present, I remain in our old home. In the spring I may look for another, smaller house, or I may not. I doubt whether it would be easy for me to find so quiet a room to work in as this, and I dread the idea of moving, especially when I think of my large library.
You want to know, of course, what happened. Nothing, believe me. The world will seek all possible and impossible reasons to explain why two persons who married out of love and who for eleven years lived a so-called happy marital life, should suddenly decide, to put an end to their life in common. The world, which thinks itself so very wise, though, as a fact, its understanding is most limited, will suppose, no doubt, that something has been concealed from it. It will put this case into one of the two or three pigeonholes which it keeps ready-made for every event, because it does not understand that life with its inexhaustible manifold variety never repeats itself and that even one and the same situation can assume infinitely diverse aspects according to the character of the dramatis personæ. You, dear Gustav, I need not tell all this. You will comprehend that two finely organized souls do not want to bind themselves to each other by external ties when after a thousand vain attempts they have reached the conclusion that on all large questions no understanding is possible between them.
We are too opposite in our natures, my wife and I. Between her conception of life and mine there is an unbridgeable gap. In the first years of our marriage I still hoped that I could guide her, direct her, and gradually harmonize her with myself. She seemed so flexible and pliable, took so warm an interest in my work and plans, and submitted so nicely to my teachings. It was not until after our boy's death that a change took place in her. The grief over his loss, from which neither of us will ever quite recover, matured her, and made her independent. Then a tendency to brood and ponder, from which she had been entirely free, got the upper hand, and confirmed her in her partly native, partly acquired ideas and prejudices, which my influence had thrust into the background, though it had never entirely rooted them out. More and more she wrapped herself up in a veil of mystic, ideas and sentimental, phantastic illusions. Stubbornly, doggedly, she demanded recognition for her point of view, insisting it had as much claim to consideration as mine. She bitterly repelled my scientific objections. She lost all interest in my specialty and regarded it with unexpressed but quite eviden aversion. To her my work was the enemy's camp, shielding hostile troops.
Finally there came to be scarcely a single subject in the whole wide sphere of nature, and human life on which we had the same opinion. It is true, there never was an open quarrel between us, but the more sparing we tried to be of each other, the worse became our ill humor. We felt more and more distinctly that we only walked together, but did not belong to each other. This feeling grew in us. It disquieted us, it tormented us. Finally, it pushed all other feelings into the background. If we had not loved each other so much before, if we had not continued to respect each other so much, we might perhaps have endured such a condition for several years more. But we both had too high a conception of marriage, too lively a sense of human dignity to be content with an imperfect makeshift. And so, finally, about a week ago we had it all out. It came about naturally, as over-ripe fruit falls from the tree. I can scarcely say which of us spoke first. A conviction we had both harbored for a long time liberated itself from our minds at the same instant. The fact that after so many years we could for the first time again discuss an important subject in perfect harmony, toned down and softened the harsh theme, and gave us the serene calm which we had not had for so long, and without which it was so painful to be.
Our parting yesterday was as dignified as possible. No word of reproach, no jarring. We both felt the necessity as well as the significance of our resolve. When we recalled our engagement, the long span of life we had travelled together, we could scarcely restrain an access of tenderness. And I confess never had my wife inspired me with greater respect than at that moment, when all pettiness seemed to drop away from her and the essential grandeur of her nature stood out in all its clearness. By her bearing, by what she said, and by what she left unsaid the whole scene was bared of its common, every-day aspect, and elevated to a higher plane of solemnity. Deeply moved we had difficulty in restraining tears, and shook hands on parting. And so we shall be able to look back to the end of our married life at least with unmitigated satisfaction.
With her consent I put all business arrangements into the hands of a lawyer, so that there should be no correspondence between us. It would only open up old wounds, and reveal new disagreements, and paralyse our energy, which we shall need for establishing our future separate existences.
We must begin life anew—she and I. For this we must free ourselves from the past, not only externally, but also inwardly.
I am breathing more easily already. The Rubicon is crossed. I think you may congratulate me.
***
Professor .Max Wiegand to Dr. Gustav Strauch
Dear Gustav:—
Thank you for your prompt reply to my last letter. It shows such fine appreciation and friendly sympathy.
Excuse my delay in answering, but it was impossible for me to write to you before, and even now I still find it very difficult. You give your unqualified approval to the step I took, because you think it will be of extreme value to my well-being and further development. But you forget what it means to be separated from a person whom you have always had at your side day and night for eleven years. I myself have only gradually come to realize it in the course of the few weeks that I have lived alone. Habit is a mighty force, especially with men who—like you and myself—live in an intellectual world and require a solid foundation for it. For how can we survey the world from the height of the tower, unless the foundation of the tower is sure? Of course, these considerations are of no consequence when balanced against the weighty reasons that led me and my wife to separate. It goes without saying that I am still firmly convinced that our resolution was for our mutual benefit. But in this strange life there is no calculation that ever comes out exactly even.
A state of transition is in its very nature disagreeable and confusing. In my case it is downright torture. From early morning until late at night I must bother about trifles to which I have not given a thought since my bachelor days—things which I do not even want to mention to you. They are so absurd and insignificant. And yet they rob me of my time, rest, and temper out of all proportion to their importance. And I don't know what arrangements I could make to rid myself of those thousand and one trivialities, which my wife shielded me from. Those servants! Now that the cat is away, they carry on as they please. You have no idea of the stupid obstacles I stumble over continually, the miserable details that have to be attended to at every step. Here is one example out of many. It has been bitterly cold these past few days. I have been looking for my fur coat nigh and low, but can't find it. With the help of the maid I turned the whole house upside down, until finally it occurred to her that in the spring my wife put my coat in storage at the furrier's. But what furrier? I can't find out. I have inquired in vain at a dozen furriers.
If only I had not arranged with my wife that we should not write to each other. Then I could simply ask her. Yet it is better so. I want our separation to be free from banal commonplaces. No farce should follow upon a drama in the grand style. She may even think that I regret the step we took, that I miss her more than she misses me, that I have simply snatched at the first pretext to enter into communication with her again. Never!
To-day the thermometer registers five below zero.
***
Professor Max Wiegand to Mrs. Emma Wiegand
Dear Emma:—
You will be greatly surprised to receive a letter from me contrary to our mutual agreement. Do not think I want to begin a correspondence. We terminated relations in too dignified a way and we will, not try to force open the door that separates us. I merely have a question to ask about a very slight matter, which you alone can answer. Who is the furrier to whom you gave my coat last spring? Lina cannot remember the address.
Thanking you in advance for your early reply,
Yours,
***
Mrs. Emma Wiegand to Professor Max Wiegand
Dear Max:—
The furrier's name is Palaschke, and his place is in the Zimmerstrasse. I cannot understand how Lina could have forgotten it. She took the fur coat to him herself. Emma.
***
Professor Max Wiegand to Mrs. Emma Wiegand
Dear Emma:—
I must trouble you again—this will be the last time. Mr. Palaschke says he cannot let me have
