Helen and Annchen looked at their protector with some misgivings, in the uneasy expectation of seeing him beside himself with ire; but, lo and behold, he was quite the contrary! Herr Schwarz, who had been steadily regarding the injured map, strangely enough looked very well pleased, and taking a deep breath he said, “This is a good thing, now—if the lad hasn’t punched a hole in the spot I have always had such a deal of trouble to find. This really simplifies matters greatly.”
Hans Arnold.
THE INNER LIFE OF THE SECOND-CLASS CAB-DRIVER.
“A WRITER who would describe things that he has not seen with his own eyes is a feeble rhapsodist; his characters are unreal, and his productions will never touch the hearts of his readers!” Amen! My friend Otto put his glass down on the table with such vehemence that the red wine in it spattered on the table-cloth. I am very shy by nature; people who talk loud and set down their glass energetically, looking at me at the same time, as much as to say, “Any objections?” always awe me. That is the reason my friend Otto awed me. We sat opposite at the table in the Italian wine-room; while he was speaking he looked firmly at me; there was no doubt of it, he counted me in with these blameworthy authors. Our other friends who sat at table with us gazed at me in silence; it was evident that I was expected to say a weighty word in self-defence. I myself felt it incumbent upon me,—but unfortunately nothing appropriate occurred to me. After a lengthy pause I mildly remarked, “Quite true, one should dip down into the fulness of human life.” My friend Otto laughed scornfully into his glass, our friends gave me a look of pity—I had undoubtedly made a fool of myself.
At the same time, the words of my friend Otto would never have made such an impression upon me if my conscience had not troubled me. A plan was ripening within me for a great social novel, delineating the life of the lower classes in Berlin. Realism—that was my programme. In spirit I saw my likeness in all the illustrated papers; behind my name I read, “The German Zola,” in a parenthesis. I had not yet fully decided upon the contents of the novel; but so much was sure, the hero should be a second-class cab-driver,—if that didn’t take, I didn’t know what would.
“KEPT ME WAITING AT THE DOOR WHILE HE WAS AMUSING HIMSELF WITH HIS ADORED.”
As I was walking home, I was tortured with tormenting doubts called forth by the words of my friend. “So you would delineate a second-class cab-driver?” I said to myself. “What do you know about a second-class cab-driver? That in summer he wears a coat trimmed with galloons, and a cocked hat, and in winter a mantle, high boots lined with straw, and a fur cap—everybody knows that. But have you ever listened to the conversation with which at the stopping-places he makes time pass for himself and his colleagues? Have you ever followed him into the gin-shops where he refreshes himself with a glass of half-and-half and a sandwich? Do you know aught about his likes and dislikes? Or of the mutual relation between him and his horse? In a word, have you any knowledge of the inner life of a second-class cab-driver? Be honest with yourself, you have none; and here you are going to write a social novel about him! Well I never!” The last word I said half-audibly to myself while I was opening the street-door in a very ill humour.
I did not sleep well that night. I was perpetually pondering over the inner life of the second-class cab-driver.
When I arose, sighing, the next morning, I perceived that I should accomplish nothing by going on in this way, and I resolved to devote myself to practical studies. Armed with my note-book, I stepped out into the street.