FullReads

I have put the story together as it seems to me it must have happened. The incidents, at all events, are facts. Things have since occurred to those concerned affording me hope that they will never read it. I should not have troubled to tell it at all, but that it has a moral.

*****

Six persons sat round the great oak table in the wainscoted Speise Saal of that cosy hostelry, the Kneiper Hof at Konigsberg. It was late into the night. Under ordinary circumstances they would have been in bed, but having arrived by the last train from Dantzic, and having supped on German fare, it had seemed to them discreeter to remain awhile in talk. The house was strangely silent. The rotund landlord, leaving their candles ranged upon the sideboard, had wished them “Gute Nacht” an hour before. The spirit of the ancient house enfolded them within its wings.

Here in this very chamber, if rumour is to be believed, Emmanuel Kant himself had sat discoursing many a time and oft. The walls, behind which for more than forty years the little peak-faced man had thought and worked, rose silvered by the moonlight just across the narrow way; the three high windows of the Speise Saal give out upon the old Cathedral tower beneath which now he rests. Philosophy, curious concerning human phenomena, eager for experience, unhampered by the limitation Convention would impose upon all speculation, was in the smoky air.

“Not into future events,” remarked the Rev. Nathaniel Armitage, “it is better they should be hidden from us. But into the future of ourselves–our temperament, our character–I think we ought to be allowed to see. At twenty we are one individual; at forty, another person entirely, with other views, with other interests, a different outlook upon life, attracted by quite other attributes, repelled by the very qualities that once attracted us. It is extremely awkward, for all of us.”

“I am glad to hear somebody else say that,” observed Mrs. Everett, in her gentle, sympathetic voice. “I have thought it all myself so often. Sometimes I have blamed myself, yet how can one help it: the things that appeared of importance to us, they become indifferent; new voices call to us; the idols we once worshipped, we see their feet of clay.”

“If under the head of idols you include me,” laughed the jovial Mr. Everett, “don’t hesitate to say so.” He was a large red-faced gentleman, with small twinkling eyes, and a mouth both strong and sensuous. “I didn’t make my feet myself. I never asked anybody to take me for a stained-glass saint. It is not I who have changed.”

“I know, dear, it is I,” his thin wife answered with a meek smile. “I was beautiful, there was no doubt about it, when you married me.”

“You were, my dear,” agreed her husband: “As a girl few could hold a candle to you.”

“It was the only thing about me that you valued, my beauty,” continued his wife; “and it went so quickly. I feel sometimes as if I had swindled you.”

“But there is a beauty of the mind, of the soul,” remarked the Rev. Nathaniel Armitage, “that to some men is more attractive than mere physical perfection.”

The soft eyes of the faded lady shone for a moment with the light of pleasure. “I am afraid Dick is not of that number,” she sighed.

“Well, as I said just now about my feet,” answered her husband genially, “I didn’t make myself. I always have been a slave to beauty and always shall be. There would be no sense in pretending among chums that you haven’t lost your looks, old girl.” He laid his fine hand with kindly intent upon her bony shoulder. “But there is no call for you to fret yourself as if you had done it on purpose. No one but a lover imagines a woman growing more beautiful as she grows older.”