X
MR. FEUERSTEIN IS CONSISTENT
The next day Mr. Feuerstein returned from exile. It is alwaysdisillusioning to inspect the unheroic details of the life of thatfavorite figure with romancers--the soldier of fortune. Of Mr.Feuerstein's six weeks in Hoboken it is enough to say that they wereweeks of storm and stress--wretched lodgments in low boarding-houses,odd jobs at giving recitations in beer halls, undignified ejectmentsfor drunkenness and failure to pay, borrowings which were removed fromfrank street-begging only in his imagination. He sank very low indeed,but it must be recorded to the credit of his consistency that he nevereven contemplated the idea of working for a living. And now here hewas, back in New York, with Hoboken an exhausted field, with noresources, no hopes, no future that his brandy-soaked brain coulddiscern.
His mane was still golden and bushy; but it was ragged and too long infront of the ears and also on his neck. His face still expressedinsolence and vanity; but it had a certain tragic bitterness, as if itwere trying to portray the emotions of a lofty spirit flinging defianceat destiny from a slough of despair. It was plain that he had beendrinking heavily--the whites of his eyes were yellow and bloodshot, themuscles of his eyelids and mouth twitched disagreeably. His romantichat and collar and graceful suit could endure with good countenanceonly the most casual glance of the eye.
Mr. Feuerstein had come to New York to perform a carefully-planned lastact in his life-drama, one that would send the curtain down amid tearsand plaudits for Mr. Feuerstein, the central figure, enwrapped in asomber and baleful blaze of glory. He had arranged everything exceptsuch details as must be left to the inspiration of the moment. He wasimpatient for the curtain to rise--besides, he had empty pockets andmight be prevented from his climax by a vulgar arrest for vagrancy.
At one o'clock Hilda was in her father's shop alone. The rest of thefamily were at the midday dinner. As she bent over the counter, nearthe door, she was filling a sheet of wrapping paper withfigures--calculations in connection with the new business. A shadowfell across her paper and she looked up. She shrank and clasped herhands tightly against her bosom. "Mr. Feuerstein!" she exclaimed in alow, agitated voice.
He stood silent, his face ghastly as if he were very ill. His eyes,sunk deep in blue-black sockets, burned into hers with an intensitythat terrified her. She began slowly to retreat.
"Do not fly from me," he said in a hollow voice, leaning against thecounter weakly. "I have come only for a moment. Then--you will see menever again!"
She paused and watched him. His expression, his tone, his words filledher with pity for him.
"You hate me," he went on. "You abhor me. It is just--just! Yet"--helooked at her with passionate sadness--"it was because I loved you thatI deceived you. Because--I--loved you!"
"You must go away," said Hilda, pleading rather than commanding."You've done me enough harm."
"I shall harm you no more." He drew himself up in gloomy majesty. "Ihave finished my life. I am bowing my farewell. Another instant, and Ishall vanish into the everlasting night."
"That would be cowardly!" exclaimed Hilda. She was profoundly moved."You have plenty to live for."
"Do you forgive me, Hilda?" He gave her one of his looks of tragiceloquence.
"Yes--I forgive you."
He misunderstood the gentleness of her voice. "She loves me still!" hesaid to himself. "We shall die together and our names will echo downthe ages." He looked burningly at her and said: "I was mad--mad withlove for you. And when I realized that I had lost you, I went down,down, down. God! What have I not suffered for your sake, Hilda!" Ashe talked he convinced himself, pictured himself to himself as havingbeen drawn on by a passion such as had ruined many others of the greatof earth.
"That's all past now." She spoke impatiently, irritated againstherself because she was not hating him. "I don't care to hear any moreof that kind of talk."
A customer came in, and while Hilda was busy Mr. Feuerstein went to therear counter. On a chopping block lay a knife with a long, thin blade,ground to a fine edge and a sharp point. He began to play with it, andpresently, with a sly, almost insane glance to assure himself that shewas not seeing, slipped it into the right outside pocket of his coat.The customer left and he returned to the front of the shop and stoodwith just the breadth of the end of the narrow counter between him andher.
"It's all over for me," he began. "Your love has failed me. There isnothing left. I shall fling myself through the gates of death. Ishall be forgotten. And you will live on and laugh and not rememberthat you ever had such love as mine."
Another customer entered. Mr. Feuerstein again went to the rear of thespace outside the counters. "She loves me. She will gladly die withme," he muttered. "First into HER heart, then into mine, and we shallbe at peace, dead, as lovers and heroes die!"
When they were again alone, he advanced and began to edge round the endof the counter. She was no longer looking at him, did not note hisexcitement, was thinking only of how to induce him to go. "Hilda," hesaid, "I have one last request--a dying man's request--"
The counter was no longer between them. He was within three feet ofher. His right hand was in his coat pocket, grasping the knife. Hiseyes began to blaze and he nerved himself to seize her--
Both heard her father's voice in the hall leading to the sitting-room."You must go," she cried, hastily retreating.
"Hilda," he pleaded rapidly, "there is something I must say to you. Ican not say it here. Come over to Meinert's as soon as you can. Ishall be in the sitting-room. Just for a moment, Hilda. It might savemy life. If not that, it certainly would make my death happier."
Brauner was advancing into the shop and his lowering face warned Mr.Feuerstein not to linger. With a last, appealing look at Hilda hedeparted.
"What was HE doing here?" growled Brauner.
"He'd just come in," answered Hilda absently. "He won't bother us anymore."
"If he comes again, don't speak to him," said Brauner in the commandingvoice that sounded so fierce and meant so little. "Just call me orAugust."
Hilda could not thrust him out of her mind. His looks, his tones, hisdramatic melancholy saddened her; and his last words rang in her ears.She no longer loved him; but she HAD loved him. She could not think ofhim as a stranger and an enemy--there might be truth in his plea thathe had in some mysterious way fallen through love for her. She mightbe able to save him.
Almost mechanically she left the shop, went to Sixth Street and to the"family entrance" of Meinert's beer-garden. She went into the littleanteroom and, with her hand on the swinging door leading to thesitting-room, paused like one waking from a dream.
"I must be crazy," she said half aloud. "He's a scoundrel and no goodcan come of my seeing him. What would Otto think of me? What am Idoing here?" And she hastened away, hoping that no one had seen her.
Mr. Feuerstein was seated at a table a few feet from where she hadpaused and turned back. He had come in half an hour before and hadordered and drunk three glasses of cheap, fiery brandy. As the momentspassed his mood grew wilder and more somber. "She has failed me!" heexclaimed. He called for pen, ink and paper. He wrote rapidly and,when he had finished, declaimed his production, punctuating thesentences with looks and gestures. His voice gradually broke, and heuttered the last words with sobs and with the tears streaming down hischeeks. He signed his name with a flourish, added a postscript. Hetook a stamped envelope from his pocket, sealed the letter, addressedit and laid it before him on the table. "The presence of deathinspired me," he said, looking at his production with tragic pride.And he called for another drink.
When the waiter brought it, he lifted it high and, standing up, bowedas if some one were opposite him at the table. "I drink to you,Death!" he said. The waiter stared in open-mouthed astonishment, andwith a muttered, "He's luny!" backed from the room.
He sat again and drew the knife from his pocket and slid his fingeralong the edge. "The key to my
sleeping-room," he muttered, halfimagining that a vast audience was watching with bated breath.
The waiter entered and he hid the knife.
"Away!" he exclaimed, frowning heavily. "I wish to be alone."
"Mr. Meinert says you must pay," said the waiter. "Four drinks--sixtycents."
Mr. Feuerstein laughed sardonically.
"Pay! Ha--ha! Always pay! Another drink, wretch, and I shall pay forall--for all!" He laughed, with much shaking of the shoulders androlling of the eyes.
When the waiter had disappeared he muttered: "I can wait no longer."He took the knife, held it at arm's length, blade down. He turned hishead to the left and closed his eyes. Then with a sudden tremendousdrive he sent the long, narrow blade deep into his neck. The bloodspurted out, his breath escaped from between his lips with long,shuddering, subsiding hisses. His body stiffened, collapsed, rolled tothe floor.
Mr. Feuerstein was dead--with empty pockets and the drinks unpaid for.