Crammon nodded dreamily. “So she too is gone,” he sighed, “dear woman! And all that was twenty years ago! It was a glorious time, countess. Youth, youth—ah, all the meaning in that word! Don’t remind me, dear countess, don’t remind me!
“‘Even the beautiful dies, though it conquer men and immortals,
Zeus of the iron breast feels no compassion within.’”
“Spare me your poetical quotations,” the countess replied angrily. “You shan’t get the better of me as you did once upon a time. In those days the mask of discretion was the most convenient and comfortable for you to assume; and I don’t deny that you assumed it with the utmost skill. But let me add this at once: One may be as discreet as a mummy, yet there are situations in life in which one is forced to follow the call of one’s heart, that is, if one is provided with such a thing. A momentary hoarseness, a quiver of the lips, a moisture of the eye—that would have sufficed. I observed nothing of the kind in you. Instead you stood by quite calmly, while that poor girl, your daughter, your own flesh and blood, was sold to a filthy maniac, a tiger in human form.”
Crammon’s answer was temperate and dignified. “Perhaps you will have the kindness, dear countess, to recall my sincere and insistent warning. I came to you late at night, tormented by conscience, and made the most weighty and solemn representations to you.”
“Warning! Fudge! You told me wild stories. You cheated me right and left.”
“Those are strong expressions, countess.”
“I mean them to be!”
“Too bad! Ah, well! The dewy moisture of the eye, countess, is the sort of thing you mustn’t expect of me; I haven’t the required gift. I found the little girl sympathetic, very sympathetic, but merely as a human being. You mustn’t expect paternal emotions of me. Frankly and honestly, countess, I consider those emotions vastly overestimated by sentimental people. A mother—ah, there the voice of nature speaks. But a father is a more or less unlucky accident. Suppose you had planned to overwhelm me with an effective scene. Let us picture it. Yonder door opens, and there appears a young gentleman or a young lady armed with all necessary documents or proofs. Such proper documents and proofs could be gathered against any normal man of forty-three like the sands of the sea. And so this young man or young lady approaches me with the claims of a son or a daughter. Well, do you really believe that I would be deeply moved, and that the feelings of a father would gush from my heart like waters from a fountain? On the contrary, I would say: ‘My dear young man, or my dear young lady, I am charmed to make your acquaintance,’ but that exhausts the entire present possibilities of the situation. And wouldn’t it, by the way, be most damnably uncomfortable, if one had to live in the constant expectation of meeting one’s unpaid bills of twenty years ago in human form? Where would that lead to? The offspring in question, whether male or female, if possessed of any tact, would thoroughly consider such a step, and pause before using an ill-timed intrusion to burden a man who is busy stirring the dregs in the cup of life for some palatable remnants. The conception of our charming Letitia, my dear lady, was woven into so peculiar a mesh of circumstance, and so evidently due to the interposition of higher powers, that my own service in the matter shrinks into insignificance. When I met the dear girl, I had the feeling of a wanderer who once thoughtlessly buried a cherry kernel by the roadside. Years later he passes the same spot, and is surprised by a cherry tree. Delightful but quite natural. But do you expect the man to raise a cry of triumph? Is he to haunt the neighbourhood, and say: ‘Look at my cherry-tree! Am I not a remarkable fellow?’ Or would you expect him to go to the owner of the land and demand the tree and uproot it, or even steal it by night in order to transplant it he knows not where? Such a man would be a fool, countess, or a maniac.”
“I didn’t suspect you of having much spirituality, Herr von Crammon,” the countess replied bitterly, “but I thought a little might be found. I confess that I’m dumbfounded. Pray tell me this: Do all men share your views, or are you unique in this respect? It would console me to believe the latter, for otherwise humanity would seem to cut too sorry a figure.”