Little Louise

There are marriages the origin of which not even the most practised literary imagination could possibly conceive. One must accept them as one accepts adventurous combinations of contrary qualities in the theatre⁠—such as old and stupid with beautiful and vivacious⁠—which are given as assumptions and serve as the basis for the mathematical composition of a farce.

As to the wife of Herr Jacoby, counsellor-at-law, she was young and beautiful, a woman of unusual charms. Some, let us say, thirty years ago she had been christened with the names Anna, Marguerite, Rose, Amalie, but she had always been called Amra, a name composed of the initial letters of all these names, a name which with its exotic ring fitted her personality like no other. For though the darkness of her thick, soft hair, which was parted on the side and drawn back along both sides of her narrow forehead, was only the darkness of the chestnut kernel, her skin revealed a perfect southern smooth and shadowy olive, and this skin covered contours which also seemed to have ripened in a southern sun, and which reminded one of the vegetative and lazy voluptuousness of a sultana. This impression, which was provoked by all of her indolent, sensual movements, also coincided with the likelihood that her reason was subordinated to her heart. One look from her ingenuous, brown eyes, as she drew up her pretty eyebrows towards her almost pathetically low forehead in her original way, was enough to convince one of that. But she, too, knew this⁠—she was not too simple for that⁠—she simply avoided exposing herself, by speaking little and seldom; and there is nothing to be said against a woman who is pretty and silent. Oh, that word “simple” was surely least expressive of her. Her look was not only foolish, but also of a certain avid slyness, and one could see plainly that this woman was not too limited in intellect to be inclined to make trouble.⁠—As for the rest, her nose seen in profile may have been a bit too large and fleshy; but her broad, full mouth was quite perfect, even though without any expression save that of sensuality.

This perilous woman was the wife of Counsellor-at-law Jacoby, who was about forty years of age⁠—and whoever saw him was astounded. He was stout, was the counsellor-at-law, he was more than stout; he was a veritable colossus of a man! His legs, which were always clad in ash-grey trousers, reminded one by their columnar formlessness of those of an elephant; his back, rounded by bolsters of fat, was like that of a bear; and the queer grey-green knitted jacket which he was accustomed to wear was fastened so painfully across the monstrous curve of his stomach, by a single button, that it sprang back on both sides as far as his shoulders as soon as the button was undone. Upon this tremendous torso, almost without the intermediation of a neck, there was perched a relatively small head with tiny and watery eyes, a short, stubby nose, and jowls pendulous with flesh, between which a minute mouth with sadly drooping corners was almost lost. The round skull as well as the upper lip was covered with sparse and wiry, light-blond bristles, which permitted the naked skin to shine through everywhere, as with an overfed dog.⁠—Ah, yes, it must have been clear to all the world that the corpulence of the counsellor-at-law was not of a healthy nature. His huge body, as long as it was broad, was over-fat, without being muscular, and one could frequently observe how a sudden access of blood would rush into his congested face and give way just as suddenly to a yellow pallor, while his mouth was distorted in a sourish way.

The practice of the counsellor-at-law was very limited; but as he had a considerable fortune, in part from his wife, the couple⁠—who were, moreover, childless⁠—occupied a very comfortable flat in the Kaiserstrasse and kept up a good deal of social intercourse; chiefly, to be sure, to gratify Frau Amra’s wishes, for it is impossible that the counsellor-at-law, who seemed to participate only with a kind of tortured enthusiasm, took any pleasure in these affairs. The character of this fat man was most peculiar. No man living could have been more polite, more obliging, more yielding towards everybody, than he; but though one did not speak of it, perhaps, one felt that his over-friendly and flattering attitude was for one reason or another forced, that it was based upon timidity and lack of inner poise, and this affected one disagreeably. No spectacle is more unlovely than that of a man who despises himself, but who nevertheless out of cowardice and vanity would like to be amiable and to please; and, in my opinion, it was not otherwise with the counsellor-at-law, who went too far in his almost grovelling self-deprecation, so that he was utterly unable to keep the necessary amount of personal dignity. He was capable of saying to a lady whom he wished to escort to the table: “Dear madam, I am a disgusting person, but won’t you do me the honour?” And, having no gift for self-mockery, he would say this in a bittersweet, tortured, repulsive manner.

The practice of the counsellor-at-law was very limited; but as he had a considerable fortune, in part from his wife, the couple⁠—who were, moreover, childless⁠—occupied a very comfortable flat in the Kaiserstrasse and kept up a good deal of social intercourse; chiefly, to be sure, to gratify Frau Amra’s wishes, for it is impossible that the counsellor-at-law, who seemed to participate only with a kind of tortured enthusiasm, took any pleasure in these affairs. The character of this fat man was most peculiar. No man living could have been more polite, more obliging, more yielding towards everybody, than he; but though one did not speak of it, perhaps, one felt that his over-friendly and flattering attitude was for one reason or another forced, that it was based upon timidity and lack of inner poise, and this affected one disagreeably. No spectacle is more unlovely than that of a man who despises himself, but who nevertheless out of cowardice and vanity would like to be amiable and to please; and, in my opinion, it was not otherwise with the counsellor-at-law, who went too far in his almost grovelling self-deprecation, so that he was utterly unable to keep the necessary amount of personal dignity. He was capable of saying to a lady whom he wished to escort to the table: “Dear madam, I am a disgusting person, but won’t you do me the honour?” And, having no gift for self-mockery, he would say this in a bittersweet, tortured, repulsive manner.

The following anecdote is also based on fact: One day as the counsellor-at-law was out walking, a rough porter with a handcart came along and drove one wheel violently over his foot. The man stopped the cart too late and turned round⁠—whereupon the counsellor-at-law, losing all control of himself, pale and with trembling cheeks, took off his hat with a profound bow and stammered: “I beg your pardon!”⁠—Things of that sort evoke indignation. Yet this singular colossus seemed to be eternally plagued by an evil conscience. When he appeared with his wife on the Lerchenberg, the main promenade of the town, he greeted all and sundry⁠—while now and then he cast a shy glance at Amra, striding with such wonderful elasticity at his side⁠—as over-earnestly, timidly, and zealously as though he felt the need of bowing humbly to every lieutenant and begging forgiveness that he, precisely he, should be in possession of this beautiful woman; and the pathetically friendly expression of his mouth seemed to beg one not to make fun of him.

It has already been indicated that it is a question why precisely Amra should have married Counsellor-at-law Jacoby. He, on his part, loved her, and that with a love so passionate as is surely seldom found in people of his physique, and yet this love was humble and timid in accordance with the rest of his nature. Often, late at night, when Amra had already gone to rest in the big bedroom, the high windows of which were draped by flowered curtains that fell in plentiful folds, the counsellor-at-law would steal to the side of her heavy bed, so softly that one could not hear his footsteps, but merely felt the slow trembling of the floor and the furniture, kneel down, and with infinite care seize her hand. At such times Amra would draw up her eyebrows and regard her husband, who lay before her in the weak light of the night-lamp, silently and with an expression of sensual malice. But he, while he carefully drew back the chemise from her shoulder with his plump and trembling hands and buried his fat, sorrowful face in the soft hollow of her full and olive-coloured arm, there where small, blue veins stood relieved against the dark skin⁠—he would begin to speak in a suppressed and trembling voice, to speak as a sensible person is really never accustomed to speak in everyday life.

“Amra,” he would whisper, “my dear Amra! I am not disturbing you? You were not sleeping yet? Great God, I have thought the whole day long how beautiful you are and how I love you!⁠—Listen to what I want to tell you; it is so difficult to express it⁠—I love you so much that my heart sometimes contracts with pain and I don’t know where to go; I love you beyond my powers! No doubt you don’t understand this, but you must believe me, and you must tell me just once that you will be a bit thankful to me for that; for, you see, such a love as mine for you is something worth while in this life⁠—and that you will never betray or deceive me, even though you can’t love me, but out of gratitude, out of sheer gratitude⁠—I come to you to beg this of you with all my heart and soul.”

And such confessions would usually end by the counsellor-at-law’s beginning to weep softly and bitterly, without altering his position. In this instance, however, Amra was moved, passed her hand across the bristles of her husband’s hand, and said several times in that long-drawn, comforting, and mocking tone in which one speaks to a dog that comes to lick one’s feet: “There! There! Good old fellow!”

This behaviour of Amra’s was certainly not that of a moral woman. And it is now high time that I should release the truth that I have kept back up to the present; the fact, namely, that she was, after all, false to her husband; that she deceived him, I say, with a gentleman named Alfred Läutner. This was a young and gifted musician, who had already at twenty-seven years of age achieved a pretty reputation by means of amusing little compositions; a slender fellow with an impertinent face, a mop of blond hair, and in his eyes a sunny smile, which was very self-conscious. He belonged to that class of small artists of today who do not demand too much of themselves, who wish in the first instance to be happy and charming persons, who make use of their agreeable little talents to augment their personal popularity, and who love to play the naive genius in society. Consciously childish, immoral, unscrupulous, merry, self-satisfied as they are, and healthy enough to find themselves interesting even in their illnesses, their vanity becomes, in fact, charming so long as it has never been wounded. But woe to these petty mimes and happy ones when they are overtaken by a serious misfortune, a sorrow which does not permit itself to be coquetted with, in which they can no longer be amused! They will not understand how to be unhappy in a respectable manner, they will not know what to “set about” with their sorrow, they will go to ruin⁠—but that is a story by itself.⁠—Herr Läutner composed pretty things: waltzes and mazurkas mostly, the gaiety of which was a bit too popular (so far as I understand these things) for them to be accounted as real music, had it not been that each of these compositions contained some small original bit, a modulation, an interlude, a harmonious turn, some tiny effect that operated upon the nerves, that betrayed cleverness and invention. They appeared to be composed for this end, and this also made them interesting for serious connoisseurs. Often these two solitary measures had something wonderfully pathetic and melancholy about them, something that suddenly rang forth and quickly ebbed away in the dance-hall gaiety of these little compositions.

It was for this young man that Amra Jacoby burned with an illicit passion, and he on his part had not possessed enough moral strength to resist her lures. They met here, they met there, and an unchaste relationship had bound the two together for over a year, a relationship known to the whole town and about which the entire town gossiped behind the back of the counsellor-at-law. And as for himself? Amra was too stupid to suffer from an evil conscience and to betray herself through this. It must be accepted as a matter of fact that the counsellor-at-law, however much his heart may always have been oppressed by care and fear, could not cherish any definite suspicion of his wife.

Spring had come to rejoice every heart, and Amra had had a most agreeable idea.

“Christian,” said she⁠—the counsellor-at-law was named Christian⁠—“let us give a party, a big party, in honour of the newly-brewed spring beer⁠—of course, a very simple affair, just cold roast veal, but with a lot of people.”

“Certainly,” answered the counsellor-at-law. “But couldn’t we perhaps postpone it for a bit?”

Amra did not reply to this, but at once went into details. “There will be so many people, you know, that our rooms here will be too small. We must rent some establishment or garden or hall outside the city, so as to have sufficient room and fresh air. You will realize that. I am thinking, first of all, of that large hall of Herr Wendelin’s, at the foot of the Lerchenberg. This hall stands free and is connected only by a passage with the actual restaurant and the brewery. It could be decorated in a festal way; long tables could be set up there and spring beer drunk. One could dance there and make music, perhaps also do some light theatricals, for I know there is a small stage there⁠—I am particularly keen on that.⁠—Well, in one word, it must be a most original party, and we shall have a wonderful good time.”

The face of the counsellor-at-law had grown a pale yellow during this recital, and the corners of his mouth were drawn downwards. He said: “I’m heartily glad to hear it, my dear Amra. I know that I can leave it all to your cleverness. Please make your arrangements.”

And Amra made her arrangements. She consulted with various ladies and gentlemen, she personally rented Herr Wendelin’s large hall, she formed a kind of committee of people who had been asked or had volunteered to take part in the merry proceedings which were to embellish the party. This committee was composed wholly of gentlemen, with the exception of the wife of Herr Hildebrandt, an actor at the Theatre Royal; she was a singer. There were, in addition, Herr Hildebrandt himself, a certain barrister Witznagel, a young painter, and Herr Alfred Läutner, not to forget a number of students who had been introduced by the barrister and were to execute nigger dances.

A week after Amra had made up her mind, this committee had assembled for purposes of deliberation in the Kaiserstrasse⁠—to be quite exact, in Amra’s drawing-room, a small, warm, and well-fitted room⁠—which was furnished with a thick carpet, a sofa with many cushions, a fan-palm, English armchairs of leather, and a mahogany table with curved legs, on which lay a plush tablecloth and several deluxe books. There was also a fireplace, in which a small fire still glowed; on the black marble mantelpiece stood several plates with dainty little sandwiches, glasses, and two carafes of sherry.

Amra, with one foot lightly poised upon the other, leaned back on the cushions of the sofa, which was overshadowed by the fan-palm, and was as fair as a night in June. She wore a blouse of light and very thin silk, but her skirt was of a heavy, dark material, embroidered with large flowers. Now and then she brushed back a curl of chestnut hair from her narrow forehead.⁠—Frau Hildebrandt, the singer, also sat upon the sofa beside her; she had red hair and was in riding-costume. Opposite the two ladies the gentlemen had seated themselves in a crowded half-circle⁠—in the midst of them the counsellor-at-law, who had found only a very low leather armchair and seemed unutterably unhappy; now and then he drew a deep breath and swallowed, as though he were fighting against an encroaching nausea.⁠—Herr Alfred Läutner, in tennis rig, had resigned all claims to a chair and stood leaning elegantly and good-humouredly against the mantelpiece, for he had declared that he could not sit quietly so long.

Herr Hildebrandt spoke with an agreeable voice about English songs. He was an extremely respectable and worthy man, dressed in black, with a massive Caesarean head and a certain aplomb in his carriage⁠—a court actor of culture, solid knowledge, and refined taste. He was fond of condemning Ibsen, Zola, and Tolstoy in earnest conversations, for he held that all of them were bent upon the same sinister purpose; today, however, he was engaged condescendingly in the trifling matter under discussion.

“May I ask whether the ladies and gentlemen know that delightful song, ‘That’s Maria’?” he asked. “It is a bit piquant, but of most uncommon effectiveness. And then there is that famous⁠—” and he proposed a few additional songs, upon which they finally agreed, and which Frau Hildebrandt consented to sing.⁠—The young painter, a gentleman with extremely sloping shoulders and a blond Vandyke beard, was to parody a magician, while Herr Hildebrandt intended to portray famous men⁠—in short, everything evolved in the most favourable manner, and the program seemed to be already complete, when Barrister Witznagel, who owned most courteous movements and many duelling-scars, suddenly opened the discussion again.

“All very fine, ladies and gentlemen, everything promises to be really entertaining. However, I feel I must touch upon one point. It seems to me that something is still lacking, and indeed the chief feature, the star turn, the clou, the climax⁠—something most special, something startling, a comic turn which will cap the fun⁠—in short, I make the suggestion, I have no definite idea; but according to my feelings⁠—”

“That is really so!” Herr Läutner let his tenor voice be heard from the direction of the fireplace. “Witznagel is right. A main turn, a closing feature, would be most desirable. Let’s consider!” And while he adjusted his red belt with a swift twist or two, he looked inquiringly about him. The expression of his face was really most affable.

“Of course,” said Herr Hildebrandt, “if one does not care to let the famous men be the climax⁠—”

All agreed with the young barrister. It would be most desirable to have a specially comic leading turn. Even the counsellor-at-law nodded and said softly: “Quite right⁠—something predominantly gay⁠—” All began to ponder over the problem.

And it was at the close of this pause in the conversation, which lasted about a minute and which was interrupted only by short exclamations attendant upon deliberation, that the remarkable thing occurred. Amra sat leaning back among the cushions of the sofa, and was gnawing nimbly and eagerly as a mouse at the pointed nail of her little finger, while her face betrayed a most extraordinary expression. A smile played about her lips, an absent and almost delirious smile, which revealed a painful as well as cruel lust, and her eyes, which were wide open and shining, wandered slowly towards the mantelpiece, where they remained for a moment fixed upon those of the young musician. Then with a sudden flounce she flung the upper part of her body to one side, towards her husband, the counsellor-at-law, and, both hands in her lap, stared him in the face with a look that seemed to clutch and draw him, while her face grew visibly paler. She spoke in a full, slow voice: “Christian, I propose that at the close you appear as a chanteuse in a baby-dress of red silk and dance something for us.”

The effect of these few words was enormous. Only the young painter strove to laugh good-humouredly. Herr Hildebrandt, with a face as cold as stone, picked invisible fluff from his sleeve; the students coughed and used their handkerchiefs with unseemly loudness. Frau Hildebrandt blushed violently, which did not often occur, and Herr Witznagel, the barrister, simply ran off, to get a sandwich. The counsellor-at-law squatted in a torturous position upon his low armchair and looked about him with a yellow face and an anxious smile, while he stammered: “But, my God⁠—I⁠—am really not capable⁠—not as though⁠—you must forgive me⁠—”

Alfred Läutner’s face was without a care no longer. It looked as though he was a little flushed, and with his head thrust forward he peered into Amra’s eyes, disturbed, uncomprehending, searching.

But she, Amra, without altering her aggressive position, continued to speak, with the same weighty emphasis: “And you must sing a song, Christian, which Herr Läutner has composed, and which he will accompany on the piano; that will prove the best and most effective climax of our party.”

A pause ensued, an oppressive pause. But then, quite suddenly and strangely, Herr Läutner, similarly infected, carried away and excited, made a step forward, and, trembling with a kind of swift enthusiasm, began to speak rapidly: “By God, Herr Jacoby, I am ready, I am really ready to compose something for you. You must sing it, you must dance it. It is the only thinkable climax of the party. You’ll see, you’ll see⁠—it will be the best thing I’ve done or ever can do. In a baby-dress of red silk! Ah, your wife is an artist, an artist, I tell you, or she could never have hit upon this idea! Do say yes, I beg you, say you’ll agree! I’ll accomplish something, I’ll do something, you’ll see!”

This relieved the tension and everybody joined in. Either out of malice or out of politeness, all began to besiege the counsellor-at-law, and Frau Hildebrandt went so far as to say aloud, in her best Brünhilde voice: “Herr Jacoby, you are usually such a merry and entertaining man!” But the counsellor-at-law himself now found his tongue, and, still a trifle yellow, but with a great show of decisiveness, he declared: “Listen to me, ladies and gentlemen!⁠—what shall I say to you? I’m not suited for it, believe me! I have almost no comic aptitude, and quite apart from that⁠—in short, no, it is really impossible.”

He stubbornly persisted in this refusal, and as Amra took no more part in the conversation, and sat leaning back with a rather absent expression on her face, and as Herr Läutner did not speak another word, but fixedly contemplated an arabesque in the carpet, Herr Hildebrandt succeeded in giving another turn to the talk, and soon afterwards the company broke up, without having reached any decision on the last question.

On the evening of the same day, however, after Amra had gone to bed and lay there with open eyes, her husband came in with heavy tread, drew up a chair beside her bed, sat down, and said softly and hesitatingly: “Listen, Amra, to be quite open, I am worried by doubts. If I happened to be in any way disobliging to those ladies and gentlemen today, if I offended them⁠—God knows it was not my intention! Or do you seriously believe⁠—I beg you⁠—”

Amra was silent for a moment, while her eyebrows slowly rose towards her forehead. She then shrugged her shoulders and said: “I don’t know what I should say, my dear man. You behaved as I should never have expected of you. You refused in discourteous terms to support the entertainment by your cooperation, which everybody considered necessary. That can be only flattering to you. To put it mildly, you disappointed everybody very much, and you have upset the whole party by your being so rude and disobliging, whereas it was your duty as host⁠—”

The counsellor-at-law hung his head, and, breathing heavily, he said: “No, Amra. I really did not wish to be disobliging, believe me. I don’t want to offend anyone or displease anyone, and if I have acted unkindly, I am ready to make amends. It is only a lark, a bit of mummery, a harmless joke⁠—why not? I don’t want to upset the party, I am ready⁠—”

The following afternoon Amra drove out once again, to attend to some “shopping.” She stopped the carriage at No. 78 in the Holzstrasse and went up to the second story, where someone was waiting for her. And as she lay there, abandoned to love, and pressed his head to her breast, she whispered passionately: “Compose it for four hands, do you hear? We will accompany him together while he sings and dances. I, I will attend to the costume⁠—”

And a strange thrill, a suppressed and convulsive laughter, shot through the bodies of both.

To all those who wish to give a party, an alfresco entertainment on a large scale, it is strongly recommended to look up the establishment of Herr Wendelin on the Lerchenberg. You leave the pretty suburban street and pass through a high gateway into a parklike garden, belonging to the establishment. The spacious festal hall stands in the centre of this park. This hall, which is connected by a narrow passage with the restaurant, the kitchen, and the brewery, is built of wood, gaily painted in a droll mixture of Chinese and Renaissance styles. There are two wide swing-doors, which can be left open in fair weather, so as to admit the breath of the trees. The hall is capable of holding a great many people.

Tonight the carriages, as they came rolling on, were greeted even from afar by a glow of coloured light, for the entire enclosure, the trees of the garden, and the hall itself were decorated with coloured lanterns in close rows. And as to the inside of the hall itself, this offered a really delightful spectacle. Thick garlands were festooned across the ceiling, and to these in turn still more paper lanterns were fastened, though a great number of electric bulbs gleamed forth between the decorations of the walls, which consisted of flags, greenery, and artificial flowers, and these lighted up the hall most brilliantly. The stage was situated at one end, with potted plants standing on both sides of it, and a genius, painted by some artist, floated on the expanse of the red curtain. The long tables, decorated with flowers, extended from the other end of the hall almost to the stage, and here the guests of Herr Jacoby, counsellor-at-law, regaled themselves with spring beer and roast veal⁠—lawyers, officers, merchants, artists, upper officials, as well as their wives and daughters⁠—surely more than a hundred and fifty persons. They were dressed quite informally, in dark suits and spring dresses not too light in colour, for merry unconstraint was the rule of the evening. The gentlemen went personally with mugs to the big barrels, which stood along one of the side walls; and the bright, spacious, and gaily coloured hall, which was permeated by the sweetish and sultry festal odour of pine-branches, flowers, human beings, beer, and food, hummed and buzzed with the clatter, the loud and simple talk, the clear, lively, polite, and carefree laughter of all these people. The counsellor-at-law sat, an uncouth, helpless mass at the end of a table, near the stage. He drank little, and now and then he laboriously addressed a few words to his neighbour, Frau Havermann, wife of a government councillor. He breathed with difficulty, the corners of his mouth were drawn down, and his protruding, turbid, watery eyes looked immovably and with a kind of melancholy amazement on this merry to-do, as though there was something unutterably sad and incomprehensible in this atmosphere of festivity, this noisy merriment.

Large, rich cakes were now served, and the guests began to drink sweet wines and to make speeches. Herr Hildebrandt, the court actor, did honour to the spring beer in a speech which consisted entirely of classical quotations, yes, even from the Greek, and Herr Witznagel, the barrister, using his most agreeable gestures and his most exquisite language, toasted the ladies present. He seized a handful of flowers from the nearest vase and from the tablecloth, and compared each with a lady. Amra Jacoby, who sat opposite him in an evening dress of thin, yellow silk, was called “the lovelier sister of the tea-rose.”

Immediately after this she passed her hand over the parting of her soft hair and earnestly nodded towards her husband⁠—whereupon the ponderous man stood up and almost spoiled the spirits of everybody by the painful manner and hideous smile with which he stammered a few paltry words. Only a few artificial bravos were heard, and an oppressive silence reigned for a moment. At once, however, merriment again held sway, and the guests, smoking and rather enlivened by drink, began to rise and, with considerable noise, to move the tables from the hall themselves, for they wanted to dance.

It was past eleven o’clock, and the last trace of formality had vanished. A part of the company had poured forth into the gaily lighted garden to enjoy the fresh air, while the others remained in the hall, standing about in groups, smoking, chatting, filling their beer-glasses, and drinking as they stood. Then a loud trumpet-blast sounded from the stage, calling everybody into the hall. Musicians⁠—a string and brass band⁠—had arrived and had disposed themselves in front of the curtain. Rows of chairs, each with a red program lying on it, had been placed, and the ladies seated themselves, while the gentlemen stood behind them or along both sides of the hall. An expectant silence reigned.

The small orchestra played a rushing overture, the curtain parted⁠—and, behold, there stood a number of hideous Negroes, in screaming costumes and with bloodred lips, who gnashed their teeth and raised a barbaric howl.⁠—These performances were, in fact, the climax of Amra’s party. Enthusiastic applause burst forth, and the cleverly arranged program proceeded, number by number. Frau Hildebrandt appeared in a powdered wig, prodded the floor with a long cane, and sang in an overloud voice: “That’s Maria!” A magician appeared in a dress-suit covered with orders and did most astonishing things. Herr Hildebrandt represented Goethe, Bismarck, and Napoleon in a startlingly realistic maner, and Doctor Wiesensprung, editor of a paper, undertook at the last moment to deliver a humorous lecture on the theme: “Spring beer and its social significance.” Towards the close, however, the tension attained its maximum, for now the final number was due, that mysterious number which was surrounded by a laurel wreath on the program and described as “Little Louise. Song and Dance. Music by Alfred Läutner.”

A stir went through the hall, and eyes met eyes as the musicians put aside their instruments, and Herr Läutner, who up to this moment had been silently leaning against a door with a cigarette between his carelessly pursed-up lips, took his place with Amra Jacoby at the piano, which stood in the centre of the stage before the curtain. His face was flushed, and he turned the pages of written notes nervously, while Amra, who, on the contrary, was a little pale, looked at the audience with a lowering look, one arm supported on the back of the chair. Then, as all necks were being craned, the shrill tinkle of the bell was heard. Herr Läutner and Amra played a few bars of an indifferent introduction, the curtain rolled upward, Little Louise appeared⁠—

As this sorry and horribly dressed-up mass came on with laborious steps, like those of a dancing bear, a shock of astonishment and cold horror went through the crowd of onlookers. It was the counsellor-at-law. A wide dress of bloodred silk, without folds, which reached to his feet, invested his shapeless body, and this dress was décolleté, so that his throat, touched with powder, was exposed unpleasantly. The sleeves were very short and puffed at the shoulders, and long, light yellow gloves covered the thick and muscular arms. A high, flaxen wig with ringlets, in which a green feather nodded to and fro, was perched on his head. From beneath this wig a yellow, distorted, unhappy, and desperately merry face peered forth, the cheeks continually bobbing up and down in a way that moved one to pity. The small, red-rimmed eyes stared fixedly at the floor, without seeing anything, while the fat man threw his weight ponderously, first on one foot, then on the other, either holding his dress with both hands or raising his two forefingers with feeble arms⁠—he knew no other gesture⁠—and in a strained and panting voice sang a silly song to the sound of the piano.

Did not, more than ever, a cold breath of suffering emanate from this pathetic figure, a breath which killed all easygoing joyousness and oppressed the entire company as with an inevitable burden of painful atmosphere? The same horror lay in the depths of all the countless eyes which were fixed as by a spell direct upon this picture, on this pair at the piano and on this husband up there. This quiet, incredible scandal lasted at least five long minutes.

But then came the moment which no one that experienced it will forget as long as he lives.⁠—Let us make clear to ourselves what really happened in this short, terrible, and complicated space of time.

Everybody knows the ridiculous song that is entitled “Little Louise,” and everybody remembers, no doubt, the lines which run:

“To polka and to waltz I rally,
And dance them as none other can;
Little Louise from down our alley,
Who charms the heart of every man”

—unlovely and frivolous verses which form the refrain to three rather long stanzas. Well, in composing these words anew, Alfred Läutner had accomplished his masterpiece, by making the most of his habit of startling one by introducing an artistic piece of lofty music in the very midst of vulgar and comic claptrap. The melody, which had been pitched in C-sharp major, had been rather pretty and utterly banal during the first stanzas. At the beginning of the refrain quoted, the time grew livelier, and discords cropped up which led one to expect a modulation to F-sharp major through the increasingly vivacious sounding forth of a B. These disharmonies grew complicated up to the words “other can,” and after the “Little,” which completed the complication and the suspension, there should have followed a resolution in F-sharp major. Instead of this something most surprising occurred. By means of a sudden turn, due to a most ingenious idea, the key suddenly altered to F major, and this interpolation, which followed on the second syllable of the word “Louise,” long drawn out by means of both pedals, was of an indescribable, absolutely unheard-of effect! It was a sudden attack, a perfectly amazing onslaught, upon the nerves, which sent thrills down the spine; it was a marvel, an exposure, an unveiling almost cruel in its suddenness, a curtain that was rent.

At this F-major chord the counsellor-at-law Jacoby stopped dancing. He stood still, stood in the centre of the stage as though rooted there, both forefingers still raised⁠—one a little lower than the other⁠—the i of “Louise” broke from his lips, and he grew silent. The piano accompaniment broke off sharply at the same time, while this daring and horribly ridiculous apparition up there stared straight in front of him, with head thrust forth in an animal-like way and with inflamed eyes. He stared into this decorated, bright, and crowded festal hall, in which, like an emanation of all these people, scandal lay packed like some dense atmosphere. He stared into all these raised, distorted, and sharply lighted faces, into these hundreds of eyes, which were all fixed on himself and on the couple below and before him with the same knowing expression. While a terrible silence, unbroken by a single sound, lay over all, he let his eyes, growing ever wider, wander slowly and eerily from the couple to the audience and from the audience to the couple. A sudden insight seemed to pass over his face, and it was suddenly suffused with a rush of blood, which caused it to grow congested and as red as the silk dress, and left it as yellow as wax immediately after⁠—and the stout man collapsed, making the boards rattle.

The silence continued for a moment; then cries were heard, a tumult arose, a few bold men, among them a young physician, sprang from the orchestra to the stage, the curtain was dropped.

Amra Jacoby and Alfred Läutner still sat at the piano, turned away from each other. He, with lowered head, still seemed to be listening to his modulation to F major; she, incapable of apprehending so rapidly with her birdlike brain what had happened, stared about her with a perfectly vacant face.

The young doctor reappeared immediately in the hall⁠—a small Jewish gentleman with serious face and black, pointed beard. To a number of gentlemen who crowded round him at the door he answered, with a shrug of his shoulders: “All over.”