“I never play games of chance, and there is no play in Baden now.”
“Principle or taste, Professor?”
“I suppose I must allow that it is principle. I used to play a little when I was a student; but I do not believe in leaving anything to fortune. I would not do it in anything else.”
“Well, I suppose you are right; but you miss a great deal of healthy excitement. You have never known the joys of being short of a thousand N.P. or Wabash on a rising market.”
“I fear I do not understand the illustration, Mr. Barker.”
“No? Well, it is not to be wondered at. Perhaps if you ever come to New York you will take an interest in the stock market.”
“Ah — you were referring to stocks? Yes, I have read a little about your methods of business, but that kind of study is not much in my line. Why do you say Baden, though, instead of some quiet place?”
“I suppose I like a crowd. Besides, there are some people I know there. But I want you to go with me, and if you would rather not go to Baden-Baden, we can go somewhere else. I really think we ought to become better acquainted, and I may prevail on you to go with me to New York.”
Claudius was silent, and he blew a great cloud of smoke. What sort of a travelling companion would Mr. Barker be for him? Could there be a greater contrast to his own nature? And yet he felt that he would like to observe Mr. Barker. He felt drawn to him without knowing why, and he had a presentiment that the American would drag him out of his quiet life into a very different existence. Mr. Barker, on the other hand, possessed the showman’s instinct. He had found a creature who, he was sure, had the elements of a tremendous lion about town; and having found him, he meant to capture him and exhibit him in society, and take to himself ever after the credit of having unearthed the handsome, rich, and talented Dr. Claudius from a garret in Heidelberg. What a story that would be to tell next year, when Claudius, clothed and clipped, should be marrying the girl of the season, or tooling his coach down the Newport avenue, or doing any of the other fashionable and merry things that Americans love to do in spring and summer!
So Mr. Barker insisted on driving Claudius back to his lodging, though it was only five minutes’ walk, and exacted a promise that the Doctor should take him on the morrow to a real German breakfast at the Fauler Pelz, and that they would “start off somewhere” in the afternoon.
Claudius said he had enjoyed a very pleasant evening, and went up to his room, where he read an elaborate article on the vortex theory by Professor Helmholtz, with which, having dipped into transcendental geometry, he was inclined to find fault; and then he went calmly to bed.
CHAPTER III.
CLAUDIUS TOLD HIS old landlord — his philister, as he would have called him — that he was going away on his customary foot tour for a month or so. He packed a book and a few things in his knapsack and joined Mr. Barker. To Claudius in his simplicity there was nothing incongruous in his travelling as a plain student in the company of the exquisitely-arrayed New Yorker, and the latter was far too much a man of the world to care what his companion wore. He intended that the Doctor should be introduced to the affectionate skill of a London tailor before he was much older, and he registered a vow that the long yellow hair should be cut. But these details were the result of his showman’s intuition; personally, he would as readily have travelled with Claudius had he affected the costume of a shoeblack. He knew that the man was very rich, and he respected his eccentricity for the present. To accomplish the transformation of exterior which he contemplated, from the professional and semi-cynic garb to the splendour of a swell of the period, Mr. Barker counted on some more potent influence than his own. The only point on which his mind was made up was that Claudius must accompany him to America and create a great sensation.
“I wonder if we shall meet her,” remarked Mr. Barker reflectively, when they were seated in the train.
“Whom?” asked Claudius, who did not intend to understand his companion’s chaff.
But Mr. Barker had shot his arrow, and started cleverly as he answered —
“Did I say anything? I must have been talking to myself.”
Claudius was not so sure. However, the hint had produced its effect, falling, as it did, into the vague current of his thoughts and giving them direction. He began to wonder whether there was any likelihood of his meeting the woman of whom he had thought so much, and before long he found himself constructing a conversation, supposed to take place on their first encounter, overleaping such trifles as probability, the question of an introduction, and other formalities with the ready agility of a mind accustomed to speculation.
“The scenery is fine, is it not?” remarked Claudius tritely as they neared Baden.
“Oh yes, for Europe. We manage our landscapes better in America.”
“How so?”
“Swivels. You can turn the rocks around and see the other side.”
Claudius laughed a little, but Barker did not smile. He was apparently occupied in inventing a patent transformation landscape on wheels. In reality, he was thinking out a menu for dinner whereby he might feed his friend without starving himself. For Mr. Barker was particular about his meals, and accustomed to fare sumptuously every day, whereas he had observed that the Doctor was fond of sausages and decayed cabbage. But he knew such depraved tastes could not long withstand the blandishments and caressing hypersensualism of Delmonico, if he ever got the Doctor so far.
Having successfully accomplished the business of dining, Mr. Barker promised to return in an hour, and sallied out to find the British aristocracy, whom he knew. The British aristocracy was taking his coffee in solitude at the principal café, and hailed Mr. Barker’s advent with considerable interest, for they had tastes in common.
“How are you, Duke?”
“Pretty fit, thanks. Where have you been?”
“Oh, all over. I was just looking for you.”
“Yes?” said the aristocracy interrogatively.
“Yes. I want you to introduce me to somebody you know.”
“Pleasure. Who?”
“She has black eyes and dark hair, very dark complexion, middling height, fine figure; carries an ivory-handled parasol with a big M and a crown.” Mr. Barker paused for a look of intelligence on the Englishman’s face.
“Sure she’s here?” inquired the latter.
“I won’t swear. She was seen in Heidelberg, admiring views and dropping her parasol about, something like three weeks ago.”
“Oh! ah, yes. Come on.” And the British aristocracy settled the rose in his button-hole and led the way. He moved strongly with long steps, but Mr. Barker walked delicately like Agag.
“By the by, Barker, she is a countrywoman of yours. She married a Russian, and her name is Margaret.”
“Was it a happy marriage?” asked the American, taking his cigar from his mouth.
“Exceedingly. Husband killed at Plevna. Left her lots of tin.”
They reached their destination. The Countess was at home. The Countess was enchanted to make the acquaintance of Monsieur, and on learning that he was an American and a compatriot, was delighted to see him. They conversed pleasantly. In the course of twenty minutes the aristocracy discovered he had an engagement and departed, but Mr. Barker remained. It was rather stretching his advantage, but he did not lack confidence.
“So you, too, Countess, have been in Heidelberg this summer?”
“About three weeks ago. I am very fond of the old place.”
“Lovely, indeed,” said Barker. “The castle, the old tower half blown away in that slovenly war—”
“Oh, such a funny thing happened to me there,” exclaimed the Countess Margaret, innocently falling into the trap. “I was standing just at the edge with Miss Skeat — she is my companion, you know — and I dropped my parasol, and it fell rattling to the bottom, and suddenly there started, apparently out of space—”
“A German professor, seven or eight feet high, who bounded after the sunshade, an
d bounded back and bowed and left you to your astonishment. Is not that what you were going to say, Countess?”
“I believe you are a medium,” said the Countess, looking at Barker in astonishment. “But perhaps you only guessed it. Can you tell me what he was like, this German professor?”
“Certainly. He had long yellow hair, and a beard like Rip van Winkle’s, and large white hands; and he was altogether one of the most striking individuals you ever saw.”
“It is evident that you know him, Mr. Barker, and that he has told you the story. Though how you should have known it was I—”
“Guess-work and my friend’s description.”
“But how do you come to be intimate with German professors, Mr. Barker? Are you learned, and that sort of thing?”
“He was a German professor once. He is now an eccentricity without a purpose. Worth millions, and living in a Heidelberg garret, wishing he were poor again.”
“What an interesting creature! Tell me more, please.”
Barker told as much of Claudius’s history as he knew.
“Too delightful!” ejaculated the Countess Margaret, looking out of the window rather pensively.
“Countess,” said the American, “if I had enjoyed the advantage of your acquaintance even twenty-four hours I would venture to ask leave to present my friend to you. As it is—” Mr. Barker paused.
“As it is I will grant you the permission unasked,” said the Countess quietly, still looking out of the window. “I am enough of an American still to know that your name is a guarantee for any one you introduce.”
“You are very kind,” said Mr. Barker modestly. Indeed the name of Barker had long been honourably known in connection with New York enterprise. The Barkers were not Dutch, it is true, but they had the next highest title to consideration in that their progenitor had dwelt in Salem, Massachusetts.
“Bring him in the morning,” said the Countess, after a moment’s thought.
“About two?”
“Oh no! At eleven or so. I am a very early person. I get up at the screech of dawn.”
“Permit me to thank you on behalf of my friend as well as for myself,” said Mr. Barker, bending low over the dark lady’s hand as he took his departure.
“So glad to have seen you. It is pleasant to meet a civilised countryman in these days.”
“It can be nothing to the pleasure of meeting a charming countrywoman,” replied Mr. Barker, and he glided from the room.
The dark lady stood for a moment looking at the door through which her visitor had departed. It was almost nine o’clock by this time, and she rang for lights, subsiding into a low chair while the servant brought them. The candles flickered in the light breeze that fanned fitfully through the room, and, finding it difficult to read, the Countess sent for Miss Skeat.
“What a tiny little world it is!” said Margaret, by way of opening the conversation.
Miss Skeat sat down by the table. She was thin and yellow, and her bones were on the outside. She wore gold-rimmed eyeglasses, and was well dressed, in plain black, with a single white ruffle about her long and sinewy neck. She was hideous, but she had a certain touch of dignified elegance, and her face looked trustworthy and not unkind.
“Apropos of anything especial?” asked she, seeing that the Countess expected her to say something.
“Do you remember when I dropped my parasol at Heidelberg?”
“Perfectly,” replied Miss Skeat.
“And the man who picked it up, and who looked like Niemann in Lohengrin?”
“Yes, and who must have been a professor. I remember very well.”
“A friend of mine brought a friend of his to see me this afternoon, and the man himself is coming to-morrow.”
“What is his name?” asked the lady-companion.
“I am sure I don’t know, but Mr. Barker says he is very eccentric. He is very rich, and yet he lives in a garret in Heidelberg and wishes he were poor.”
“Are you quite sure he is in his right mind, dear Countess?”
Margaret looked kindly at Miss Skeat. Poor lady! she had been rich once, and had not lived in a garret. Money to her meant freedom and independence. Not that she was unhappy with Margaret, who was always thoughtful and considerate, and valued her companion as a friend; but she would rather have lived with Margaret feeling it was a matter of choice and not of necessity, for she came of good Scottish blood, and was very proud.
“Oh yes!” answered the younger lady; “he is very learned and philosophical, and I am sure you will like him. If he is at all civilised we will have him to dinner.”
“By all means,” said Miss Skeat with alacrity. She liked intelligent society, and the Countess had of late indulged in a rather prolonged fit of solitude. Miss Skeat took the last novel — one of Tourguéneff’s — from the table and, armed with a paper-cutter, began to read to her ladyship.
It was late when Mr. Barker found Claudius scribbling equations on a sheet of the hotel letter-paper. The Doctor looked up pleasantly at his friend. He could almost fancy he had missed his society a little; but the sensation was too novel a one to be believed genuine.
“Did you find your friends?” he inquired.
“Yes, by some good luck. It is apt to be the other people one finds, as a rule.”
“Cynicism is not appropriate to your character, Mr. Barker.”
“No. I hate cynical men. It is generally affectation, and it is always nonsense. But I think the wrong people have a way of turning up at the wrong moment.” After a pause, during which Mr. Barker lighted a cigar and extended his thin legs and trim little feet on a chair in front of him, he continued:
“Professor, have you a very strong and rooted dislike to the society of women?”
Assailed by this point-blank question, the Doctor put his bit of paper inside his book, and drumming on the table with his pencil, considered a moment. Mr. Barker puffed at his cigar with great regularity.
“No,” said Claudius at last, “certainly not. To woman man owes his life, and to woman he ought to owe his happiness. Without woman civilisation would be impossible, and society would fall to pieces.”
“Oh!” ejaculated Mr. Barker.
“I worship woman in the abstract and in the concrete. I reverence her mission, and I honour the gifts of Heaven which fit her to fulfil it.”
“Ah!” exclaimed Mr. Barker.
“I think there is nothing made in creation that can be compared with woman, not even man. I am enthusiastic, of course, you will say, but I believe that homage and devotion to woman is the first duty of man, after homage and devotion to the Supreme Being whom all different races unite in describing as God.”
“That will do, thank you,” said Mr. Barker, “I am quite satisfied of your adoration, and I will not ask her name.”
“She has no name, and she has all names,” continued Claudius seriously. “She is an ideal.”
“Yes, my feeble intelligence grasps that she cannot be anything else. But I did not want a confession of faith. I only asked if you disliked ladies’ society, because I was going to propose to introduce you to some friends of mine here.”
“Oh!” said Claudius, and he leaned back in his chair and stared at the lamp. Barker was silent.
The Doctor was puzzled. He thought it would be very rude of him to refuse Mr. Barker’s offer. On the other hand, in spite of his protestations of devotion to the sex, he knew that the exalted opinion he held of woman in general had gained upon him of late years, since he had associated less with them. It was with him a beautiful theory, the outcome of a knightly nature thrown back on itself, but as yet not fixed or clearly defined by any intimate knowledge of woman’s character, still less by any profound personal experience of love. Courtesy was uppermost as he answered.
“Really,” he said at last, “if you are very desirous of presenting me to your friends, of course I—”
“Oh, only if it is agreeable to you, of course. If it is in any way the reverse—” pro
tested the polite Mr. Barker.
“Not that — not exactly disagreeable. Only it is some time since I have enjoyed the advantage of an hour’s conversation with ladies; and besides, since it comes to that, I am here as a pedestrian, and I do not present a very civilised appearance.”
“Don’t let that disturb you. Since you consent,” went on Mr. Barker, briskly taking everything for granted, “I may tell you that the lady in question has expressed a wish to have you presented, and that I could not do less than promise to bring you if possible. As for your personal appearance, it is not of the least consequence. Perhaps, if you don’t mind a great deal, you might have your hair cut. Don’t be offended, Professor, but nothing produces an appearance of being dressed so infallibly as a neatly-trimmed head.”
“Oh, certainly, if you think it best, I will have my hair cut. It will soon grow again.”
Mr. Barker smiled under the lambrikin of his moustache. “Yes,” thought he, “but it sha’n’t.”
“Then,” he said aloud, “we will go about eleven.”
Claudius sat wondering who the lady could be who wanted to have him presented. But he was afraid to ask; Barker would immediately suppose he imagined it to be the dark lady. However, his thoughts took it as a certainty that it must be she, and went on building castles in the air and conversations in the clouds. Barker watched him and probably guessed what he was thinking of; but he did not want to spoil the surprise he had arranged, and fearing lest Claudius might ask some awkward question, he went to bed, leaving the Doctor to his cogitations.
In the morning he lay in wait for his friend, who had gone off for an early walk in the woods. He expected that a renewal of the attack would be necessary before the sacrifice of the yellow locks could be accomplished, and he stood on the steps of the hotel, clad in the most exquisite of grays, tapering down to the most brilliant of boots. He had a white rose in his buttonhole, and his great black dog was lying at his feet, having for a wonder found his master, for the beast was given to roaming, or to the plebeian society of Barker’s servant. The American’s careful attire contrasted rather oddly with his sallow face, and with the bony hand that rested against the column. He was a young man, but he looked any age that morning. Before long his eye twinkled and he changed his position expectantly, for he saw the tall figure of Claudius striding up the street, a head and shoulders above the strolling crowd; and, wonderful to relate, the hair was gone, the long beard was carefully clipped and trimmed, and the Doctor wore a new gray hat!
Complete Works of F Marion Crawford Page 28