In Paradise: A Novel. Vol. I.

by Paul Heyse

CHAPTER III.

It was close upon midnight when Rosenbusch, with a heavy sigh, shut the little sketch-book in which he had been scribbling verses on the empty leaves between portraits of horses' heads and studies of costumes and armor, and proceeded to drink off the last drops of his red Würtemberg wine. For more than three hours he had been sitting in the same place in the corner of a quiet little beer-house, where few of the regular guests were to be found to-day on account of the beautiful weather outside, and where those who were present were fully occupied with their customary drink. It would not be very hard to divine what had led our friend hither. First of all, the certainty of not meeting any one whom he knew. Then, probably, an unconscious attraction in the name. The landlord of this little wine-room bore the name of the first man, and it is probable that one who had just been driven from Paradise felt a strong inclination to go and console himself with another Adam over the common fate of the race. In this object he seemed to have been wonderfully successful, partly because of the innocent power of the red Würtemberger, of which this desperate man had managed to empty four Schoppen; partly because of the soothing influence of the muses.

What Rosenbusch had written in his sketch-book had been a melancholy strain; a sad lament over the misappreciation of the world, its hardhearted realism, its effect upon his own fate, and, finally, over his own desperate love affair.

Any one who knew how to read poems might easily have derived from this one the consolation that the author's life was in no immediate danger from the stunning blows which had fallen upon it. The truth is he belonged to those delicately-strung, romantic souls, who consider it almost a moral duty to suffer continually from some gentle inflammation of the heart or fantasy. But the more chronic their state becomes, the less dangerous it is, as a general rule. Unfortunately, in the case of our lyric poet, there was another circumstance which tended greatly to increase the unpleasantness of his situation. Though, by temperament, he was little inclined to passionate catastrophes, he felt, on the other hand, a certain abstract craving for action, which made it impossible for him to be content with looking on at life from a distance. A certain lack of physical courage--for he was of a slender, nervous build--made him feel it incumbent on him to exercise so much the more moral boldness, and to carry a fancy, which another would have quickly put aside--for it had not really taken a very strong hold on him--to some romantic end, or to illustrate it by some adventurous enterprise. This love of dénouements had generally turned out so badly for him that he might well have been discouraged; his friends told the most comical stories of what he had suffered in this way. But in spite of all this, he had just taken the most audacious step of his life, with the deliberate intention of doing something at the same time chivalrous and practical. He, who barely lived from hand to mouth, had seriously appeared as a suitor in the house of a worthy citizen of the good old Munich type, entirely incapable of taking a joke in such a matter. Why matters had been pushed to such an extreme in this particular case, he himself would have found it hard to say. For a long time the affair had run the usual course; first, stolen glances were interchanged from window to window, across the narrow alley; then came the first tributes of homage in the shape of little notes in verse, surreptitiously delivered, and flowery contributions to the Munich daily paper, the Latest News. These effusions were accompanied by much lurking about the streets, which eventually resulted in the formation of the desired acquaintance, and ended in a bold confession of love under the "dark arches" of the Marienplatz. With all her blushing and laughing, and nods and glances, the dear child had managed to draw the line so skillfully that she appeared to refuse his attentions as little as she appeared to encourage them. She treated the whole matter as a joke, as something to be laughed over, but never for one moment to be regarded in a serious light. That the good-looking, dashing, gallant painter found favor in the eyes of his pretty neighbor could not be exactly denied. She even went so far once as to entreat him to keep up his flute practice diligently. She never fell asleep so comfortably as when he was sending forth some really heartrending melody. For the rest she knew very well what to expect of artists, and she had no doubt but what he had copied the beautiful poems he had addressed to her from some book or other.

Rosenbusch felt himself rather flattered than hurt by these doubts; but still this did not advance matters at all, and his dramatic instinct for fresh excitement and change of action was almost in danger of lagging a little, when it received an unexpected impulse from another quarter. He discovered a secret that heretofore had been guarded more carefully than his own; this was the hopeless love that his next-door neighbor, Elfinger, entertained for the sister of his sweetheart.

He felt at once that it was incumbent upon his honor for him to do something which should release them both from this state of unmanly submission to their fate, and of base yearning toward the house of a Philistine, and at the same time push the fortunes of his friend. If he himself could once obtain free access to the house in the character of fiancé to the worldly daughter, Elfinger would have no difficulty in becoming more intimate with her spiritually-inclined elder sister, and would undoubtedly be able to overcome those scruples that had heretofore prevented this singular girl from accepting any of his letters, or even from consenting to strike up an acquaintance with him in the open street.

Confident in this belief, he determined upon the desperate step; and, if he could not muster up sufficient courage, after the miserable termination of his undertaking, to return to his friend with the bad news, let us not think any the worse of his good heart.

Yet we must confess that, as far as he himself was concerned, he regarded this crushing conclusion to the novel as beneficial rather than lamentable. He had done his best, had displayed uncommon courage, and had shown the beautiful being how serious he was in his intentions; but now he felt that he had a right to rejoice in peace over an honorable defeat that permitted him to go on setting his heart on everything that was lovable and unattainable. When at last he stepped out of the wine-room into the square, where the moonlight shone full upon the five bronze statues standing rigidly in their regular rank and file, a feeling of infinite satisfaction stole over him; a malicious joy that he could wander here in flesh and blood beneath the changing moon and have as many love affairs as he liked, while these celebrated dignitaries stood on their pedestals unable to move a muscle. He even caught himself beginning to sing in a loud voice; but a moment after he came to a sudden stop. He felt that it was not at all the proper thing for him to go about bawling merry songs, considering the mournful mood he ought by good rights to be in.

So he composed his feelings, and wended his way home in a much more subdued manner. But when he reached his street, and saw the lights in Elfinger's windows blinking down at him, his heart quickly sunk into his boots again. He could not bring himself to go up at this dead hour of the night and confess to his friend how badly the affair had turned out. So he turned swiftly upon his heel, and, taking a roundabout way, finally reached his studio, where he knew he could find tolerable sleeping quarters.

The janitor opened his eyes wide when he was knocked up to open the back-door for Herr Rosenbusch. The white mice, too, quickly sprang up from their pleasant dreams of biscuit and Swiss cheese, and rubbed their snouts against the wire-netting in nervous excitement; for they recognized their master. There he stood in the moonlight, paying no attention to them, firmly planted before the battle of Lützen. He gazed at it for a while in silence; then he felt for the place where his beard was usually to be found.

"You are no fool, after all!" he muttered to himself. "If you had never painted anything but that black charger there, rearing because he has received a bullet in his neck--Basta! Anch' io sono pittore!"

Then he took his flute out of its case, and marched up and down for a while blowing an adagio, in order to dissipate the fumes of the red Würtemberger. At length, when he felt tired enough, he rigged up a bed on the floor out of a Swedish saddle, that he took for a pillow, a saddle-blanket, said to have been used by Count Piccolomini, and a tiger-skin which the moths had eaten until it looked like a variegated geographical chart, but which was popularly supposed to have belonged to Froben, the Master of the Horse. However this might be, it served to make a softer bed for the tired body of the last of the romantic battle-painters; and he stretched himself upon it with a sigh, looked out once more on the moonlight night, and then fell into a deep and dreamless sleep, such as is rarely granted to a disappointed lover.