“Let me ask you something,” I replied. “Do you know any one here in Mayen by the name of Dreiser?”
“Dreiser—Dreiser? It seems to me there was some one here. He failed for a lot of money. You could find out at the Mayener Zeitung. Mr. Schroeder ought to know.”
I decided that I would appeal to Mr. Schroeder and his paper in the morning; and pretending to be very tired, in order to escape my host, who by now was a little tipsy. I went to the room assigned me, carrying a candle. That night I slept soundly, under an immense, stuffy feather-bed.
The next morning at dawn I arose and was rewarded with the only truly satisfying medieval prospect I have ever seen in my life. It was strange, remote, Teutonic, Burgundian. The “grafs” and “burghers” of an older world might well have been enacting their life under my very eyes. Below me in a valley was Mayen,—its quaint towers and housetops spread out in the faint morning light. It was beautiful. Under my window tumbled the little stream that had served as a moat in earlier days—a good and natural defense. Opposite me was the massive Brückentor. Further on was a heavy circular sweep of wall and a handsome watch-tower. Over the wall, rising up a slope, could be seen the peak-roofed, gabled houses, of solid brick and stone with slate and tile roofs. Never before in my life had I looked on a truly medieval city of the castellated, Teutonic order. Nothing that I had seen in either France, England, or Italy had the peculiar quality of this remote spot. I escaped the opportunities of my talkative host by a ruse, putting the two marks charged for the room in an envelope and leaving it on the dresser. I went out and followed the stream in the pleasant morning light. I mailed post-cards at the local post-office to all and sundry of my relatives, stating the local condition of the Dreisers, as so far learned, and then sought out the office of the Mayener Zeitung, where I encountered one Herr Schroeder, but he could tell me nothing of any Dreisers save of that unfortunate one who had failed in the furniture business. He advised me to seek the curator of the local museum, a man who had the history of Mayen at his finger-tips. He was a cabinet-maker by trade. I could not find him at home and finally, after looking in the small local directory published by Mr. Schroeder and finding no Dreisers listed, I decided to give up and go back to Frankfort; but not without one last look at the private yard attached to the priest’s house and the cherry-tree which had been the cause of the trouncing, and lastly the local museum.
It is curious how the most innocent and idle of sentiments will lead a person on in this way. In the little Brückentor Museum, before leaving, I studied with the greatest interest—because it was my father’s town—the ancient Celtic, Teutonic, Roman and Merovingian antiquities. It was here that I saw for the first time the much-talked-of wheat discovered in a Celtic funeral urn, which, although thousands of years have elapsed since it was harvested, is still—thanks to dryness, so the local savant assured me—fertile, and if planted would grow! Talk of suspended animation!
Below the town I lingered in the little valley of the Moselle, now laid out as a park, and reëxamined the gate through which my father had been wont to ride. I think I sentimentalized a little over the long distance that had separated my father from his old home and how he must have longed to see it at times, and then finally, after walking about the church and school where he had been forced to go, I left Mayen with a sorrowful backward glance. For in spite of the fact that there was now no one there to whom I could count myself related, still it was from here that my ancestors had come. I had found at least the church that my father had attended, the priest’s house and garden where possibly the identical cherry-tree was still standing—there were several. I had seen the gate through which my father had ridden as a boy with the soldiers and from which he had walked finally, never to return any more. That was enough. I shall always be glad I went to Mayen.
CHAPTER XLVI
THE ARTISTIC TEMPERAMENT
Before leaving Frankfort I hurried to Cook’s office to look after my mail. I found awaiting me a special delivery letter from a friend of Barfleur’s, a certain famous pianist, Madame A., whom I had met in London. She had told me then that she was giving a recital at Munich and Leipzig and that she was coming to Frankfort about this very time. She was scheduled to play on Wednesday, and this was Monday. She was anxious to see me. There was a long account of the town outside Berlin where she resided, her house, its management by a capable housekeeper, etc. Would I go there? I could have her room. If I did, would I wait until she could come back at the latter end of the month? It was a most hospitable letter, and, coming from such a busy woman, a most flattering one and evidently instigated by Barfleur. I debated whether to accept this charming invitation as I strolled about Frankfort.
At one corner of the shopping district I came upon a music store in the window of which were displayed a number of photographs of musical celebrities. A little to my surprise I noticed that the central place was occupied by a large photograph of Madame A. in her most attractive pose. A near-by bill-board contained full announcement of her coming. I meditated somewhat more mellowly after this and finally returned to Cook’s to leave a telegram. I would wait, I said, here at Frankfort until Wednesday.