Her hand was hanging loose. I grasped it.
She drew a sudden long breath, and murmured, without
fretting to disengage herself,
‘My friend, not that!’
Her voice carried an unmistakeable command. I
kissed above the fingers and released them.
‘Are you still able to run?’ said she,
leading with an easy canter, face averted. She
put on fresh speed; I was outstripped.
Had she quitted me in anger? Had she parted from
me out of view of the villa windows to make it possible
for us to meet accidentally again in the shadow of
her old protecting Warhead, as we named him from his
appearance, gaunt Schwartz?
AN EVENING WITH DR. JULIUS VON KARSTEG
In my perplexity, I thought of the Professor’s
saying: ’A most fortunate or a most unfortunate
young man.’ These words began to strike
me as having a prophetic depth that I had not fathomed.
I felt myself fast becoming bound in every limb, every
branch of my soul. Ottilia met me smiling.
She moved free as air. She could pursue her studies,
and argue and discuss and quote, keep unclouded eyes,
and laugh and play, and be her whole living self,
unfettered, as if the pressure of my hand implied
nothing. Perhaps for that reason I had her pardon.
‘My friend, not that!’ Her imperishably
delicious English rang me awake, and lulled me asleep.
Was it not too securely friendly? Or was it not
her natural voice to the best beloved, bidding him
respect her, that we might meet with the sanction
of her trained discretion? The Professor would
invite me to his room after the ‘sleep well’
of the ladies, and I sat with him much like his pipe-bowl,
which burned bright a moment at one sturdy puff, but
generally gave out smoke in fantastical wreaths.
He told me frankly he had a poor idea of my erudition.
My fancifulness he commended as something to be turned
to use in writing stories. ’Give me time,
and I’ll do better things,’ I groaned.
He rarely spoke of the princess; with grave affection
always when he did. He was evidently observing
me comprehensively. The result was beyond my
guessing.
One night he asked me what my scheme of life was.
On the point of improvizing one of an impressive character,
I stopped and confessed: ‘I have so many
that I may say I have none.’ Expecting
reproof, I begged him not to think the worse of me
for that.
‘Quite otherwise,’ said he. ’I
have never cared to read deliberately in the book
you open to me, my good young man.’
‘The book, Herr Professor?’
’Collect your wits. We will call it Shakespeare’s
book; or Gothe’s, in the minor issues.
No, not minor, but a narrower volume. You were
about to give me the answer of a hypocrite. Was
it not so?’
I admitted it, feeling that it was easily to have
been perceived. He was elated.
’Good. Then I apprehend that you wait for
the shifting of a tide to carry you on?’
