THE PHILOSOPHER'S PENDULUM

by RUDOLPH LINDAU

I.

During many long years Hermann Fabricius had lost sight of his
friend Henry Warren, and had forgotten him.

Yet when students together they had loved each other dearly, and
more than once they had sworn eternal friendship. This was at a
period which, though not very remote, we seem to have left far
behind us--a time when young men still believed in eternal
friendship, and could feel enthusiasm for great deeds or great
ideas. Youth in the present day is, or thinks itself, more rational.
Hermann and Warren in those days were simple-minded and ingenuous;
and not only in the moment of elation, when they had sworn to be
friends for ever, but even the next day, and the day after that, in
sober earnestness, they had vowed that nothing should separate them,
and that they would remain united through life. The delusion had not
lasted long. The pitiless machinery of life had caught up the young
men as soon as they left the university, and had thrown one to the
right, the other to the left. For a few months they had exchanged
long and frequent letters; then they had met once, and finally they
had parted, each going his way. Their letters had become more
scarce, more brief, and at last had ceased altogether. It would
really seem that the fact of having interests in common is the one
thing sufficiently powerful to prolong and keep up the life of
epistolary relations. A man may feel great affection for an absent
friend, and yet not find time to write him ten lines, while he will
willingly expend daily many hours on a stranger from whom he expects
something. None the less he may be a true and honest friend. Man is
naturally selfish; the instinct of self-preservation requires it of
him. Provided he be not wicked, and that he show himself ready to
serve his neighbor--after himself--no one has a right to complain,
or to accuse him of hard-heartedness.

At the time this story begins, Hermann had even forgotten whether he
had written to Warren last, or whether he had left his friend's last
letter unanswered. In a word, the correspondence which began so
enthusiastically had entirely ceased. Hermann inhabited a large
town, and had acquired some reputation as a writer. From time to
time, in the course of his walks, he would meet a young student with
brown hair, and mild, honest-looking blue eyes, whose countenance,
with its frank and youthful smile, inspired confidence and invited
the sympathy of the passer-by. Whenever Hermann met this young man
he would say to himself, "How like Henry at twenty!" and for a few
minutes memory would travel back to the already distant days of
youth, and he would long to see his dear old Warren again. More than
once, on the spur of the moment, he had resolved to try and find out
what had become of his old university comrade. But these good
intentions were never followed up. On reaching home he would find
his table covered with books and pamphlets to be reviewed, and
letters from publishers or newspaper editors asking for "copy"--to
say nothing of invitations to dinner, which must be accepted or
refused; in a word, he found so much URGENT business to despatch
that the evening would go by, and weariness would overtake him,
before he could make time for inquiring about his old friend.

In the course of years, the life of most men becomes so regulated
that no time is left for anything beyond "necessary work." But,
indeed, the man who lives only for his own pleasure--doing, so to
speak, nothing--is rarely better in this respect than the writer,
the banker, and the savant, who are overburdened with work.

One afternoon, as Hermann, according to his custom, was returning
home about five o'clock, his porter handed him a letter bearing the
American post-mark. He examined it closely before opening it. The
large and rather stiff handwriting on the address seemed familiar,
and yet he could not say to whom it belonged. Suddenly his
countenance brightened, and he exclaimed, "A letter from Henry!" He
tore open the envelope, and read as follows:

"MY DEAR HERMANN,--It is fortunate that one of us at least should
have attained celebrity. I saw your name on the outside of a book of
which you are the author. I wrote at once to the publisher; that
obliging man answered me by return of post, and, thanks to these
circumstances, I am enabled to tell you that I will land at Hamburg
towards the end of September. Write to me there, Poste Restante, and
let me know if you are willing to receive me for a few days. I can
take Leipzig on my way home, and would do so most willingly if you
say that you would see me again with pleasure.

"Your old friend,

"HENRY WARREN."

Below the signature there was a postscript of a single line: "This
is my present face." And from an inner envelope Hermann drew a small
photograph, which he carried to the window to examine leisurely. As
he looked, a painful impression of sadness came over him. The
portrait was that of an old man. Long gray hair fell in disorder
over a careworn brow; the eyes, deep sunk in their sockets, had a
strange and disquieting look of fixity; and the mouth, surrounded by
deep furrows, seemed to tell its own long tale of sorrow.

"Poor Henry!" said Hermann; "this, then, is your present face! And
yet he is not old; he is younger than I am; he can scarcely be
thirty-eight. Can I, too, be already an old man?"

He walked up to the glass, and looked attentively at the reflection
of his own face. No! those were not the features of a man whose life
was near its close; the eye was bright, and the complexion indicated
vigor and health. Still, it was not a young face. Thought and care
had traced their furrows round the mouth and about the temples, and
the general expression was one of melancholy, not to say
despondency.

"Well, well, we have grown old," said Hermann, with a sigh. "I had
not thought about it this long while; and now this photograph has
reminded me of it painfully." Then he took up his pen and wrote to
say how happy he would be to see his old friend again as soon as
possible.

The next day chance brought him face to face in the street with the
young student who was so like Warren. "Who knows?" thought Hermann;
" fifteen or twenty years hence this young man may look no brighter
than Warren does today. Ah, life is not easy! It has a way of
saddening joyous looks, and imparting severity to smiling lips. As
for me, I have no real right to complain of my life. I have lived
pretty much like everybody; a little satisfaction, and then a little
disappointment, turn by turn; and often small worries; and so my
youth has gone by, I scarcely know how."

On the 2d of October Hermann received a telegram from Hamburg
announcing the arrival of Warren for the same evening. At the
appointed hour he went to the railway station to meet his friend. He
saw him get down from the carriage slowly, and rather heavily, and
he watched him for a few seconds before accosting him. Warren
appeared to him old and broken-down, and even more feeble than he
had expected to see him from his portrait. He wore a travelling suit
of gray cloth, so loose and wide that it hung in folds on the gaunt
and stooping figure; a large wide-awake hat was drawn down to his
very eyes. The new-comer looked right and left, seeking no doubt to
discover his friend; not seeing him, he turned his weary and languid
steps towards the way out. Hermann then came forward. Warren
recognized him at once; a sunny, youthful smile lighted up his
countenance, and, evidently much moved, he stretched out his hand.
An hour later, the two friends were seated opposite to each other
before a well-spread table in Hermann's comfortable apartments.

Warren ate very little; but, on the other hand, Hermann noticed with
surprise and some anxiety that his friend, who had been formerly a
model of sobriety, drank a good deal. Wine, however, seemed to have
no effect on him. The pale face did not flush; there was the same
cold, fixed look in the eye; and his speech, though slow and dull in
tone, betrayed no embarrassment.

When the servant who had waited at dinner had taken away the dessert
and brought in coffee, Hermann wheeled two big arm-chairs close to
the fire, and said to his friend:

"Now, we will not be interrupted. Light a cigar, make yourself at
home, and tell me all you have been doing since we parted."

Warren pushed away the cigars. "If you do not mind," said he, "I
will smoke my pipe. I am used to it, and I prefer it to the best of
cigars."

So saying, he drew from its well-worn case an old pipe, whose color
showed it had been long used, and filled it methodically with moist,
blackish tobacco. Then he lighted it, and after sending forth one or
two loud puffs of smoke, he said, with an air of sovereign
satisfaction:

"A quiet, comfortable room--a friend--a good pipe after dinner--and
no care for the morrow. That's what I like."

Hermann cast a sidelong glance at his companion, and was painfully
struck at his appearance. The tall gaunt frame in its stooping
attitude; the grayish hair and sad, fixed look; the thin legs
crossed one over the other; the elbow resting on the knee and
supporting the chin,--in a word, the whole strange figure, as it sat
there, bore no resemblance to Henry Warren, the friend of his youth.
This man was a stranger, a mysterious being even. Nevertheless, the
affection he felt for his friend was not impaired; on the contrary,
pity entered into his heart. "How ill the world must have used him,"
thought Hermann, "to have thus disfigured him!" Then he said aloud:

"Now, then, let me have your story, unless you prefer to hear mine
first."

He strove to speak lightly, but he felt that the effort was not
successful. As to Warren, he went on smoking quietly, without saying
a word. The long silence at last became painful. Hermann began to
feel an uncomfortable sensation of distress in presence of the
strange guest he had brought to his home. After a few minutes he
ventured to ask for the third time, "Will you make up your mind to
speak, or must I begin?"

Warren gave vent to a little noiseless laugh. "I am thinking how I
can answer your question. The difficulty is that, to speak truly, I
have absolutely nothing to tell. I wonder now--and it was that made
me pause--how it has happened that, throughout my life, I have been
bored by--nothing. As if it would not have been quite as natural,
quite as easy, and far pleasanter, to have been amused by that same
nothing--which has been my life. The fact is, my dear fellow, that I
have had no deep sorrow to bear, neither have I been happy. I have
not been extraordinarily successful, and have drawn none of the
prizes of life. But I am well aware that, in this respect, my lot
resembles that of thousands of other men. I have always been obliged
to work. I have earned my bread by the sweat of my brow. I have had
money difficulties; I have even had a hopeless passion--but what
then? every one has had that. Besides, that was in bygone days; I
have learned to bear it, and to forget. What pains and angers me is,
to have to confess that my life has been spent without satisfaction
and without happiness."

He paused an instant, and then resumed, more calmly: "A, few years
ago I was foolish enough to believe that things might in the end
turn out better. I was a professor with a very moderate salary at
the school at Elmira. I taught all I knew, and much that I had to
learn in order to be able to teach it--Greek and Latin, German and
French, mathematics and physical sciences. During the so-called
play-hours, I even gave music lessons. In the course of the whole
day there were few moments of liberty for me. I was perpetually
surrounded by a crowd of rough, ill-bred boys, whose only object
during lessons was to catch me making a fault in English. When
evening came, I was quite worn out; still, I could always find time
to dream for half an hour or so with my eyes open before going to
bed. Then all my desires were accomplished, and I was supremely
happy. At last I had drawn a prize! I was successful in everything;
I was rich, honored, powerful--what more can I say? I astonished the
world--or rather, I astonished Ellen Gilmore, who for me was the
whole world. Hermann, have you ever been as mad? Have you, too, in a
waking dream, been in turn a statesman, a millionaire, the author of
a sublime work, a victorious general, the head of a great political
party? Have you dreamt nonsense such as that? I, who am here, have
been all I say--in dreamland. Never mind; that was a good time.
Ellen Gilmore, whom I have just mentioned, was the eldest sister of
one of my pupils, Francis Gilmore, the most undisciplined boy of the
school. His parents, nevertheless, insisted on his learning
something; and as I had the reputation of possessing unwearying
patience, I was selected to give him private lessons. That was how I
obtained a footing in the Gilmore family. Later on, when they had
found out that I was somewhat of a musician--you may remember,
perhaps, that for an amateur I was a tolerable performer on the
piano--I went every day to the house to teach Latin and Greek to
Francis, and music to Ellen.

"Now, picture to yourself the situation, and then laugh at your
friend as he has laughed at himself many a time. On the one side--
the Gilmore side--a large fortune and no lack of pride; an
intelligent, shrewd, and practical father; an ambitious and vain
mother; an affectionate but spoilt boy; and a girl of nineteen,
surpassingly lovely, with a cultivated mind and great good sense. On
the other hand, you have Henry Warren, aged twenty-nine; in his
dreams the author of a famous work, or the commander-in-chief of the
Northern armies, or. it may be, President of the Republic--in
reality, Professor at Elmira College, with a modest stipend of
seventy dollars a month. Was it not evident that the absurdity of my
position as a suitor for Ellen would strike me at once? Of course it
did. In my lucid moments, when I was not dreaming, I was a very
rational man, who had read a good deal, and learned not a little;
and it would have been sheer madness in me to have indulged for an
instant the hope of a marriage between Ellen and myself. I knew it
was an utter impossibility--as impossible as to be elected President
of the United States; and yet, in spite of myself, I dreamed of it.
However, I must do myself the justice to add that my passion
inconvenienced nobody. I would no more have spoken of it than of my
imaginary command of the army of the Potomac. The pleasures which my
love afforded me could give umbrage to no one. Yet I am convinced
that Ellen read my secret. Not that she ever said a word to me on
the subject; no look or syllable of hers could have made me suspect
that she had guessed the state of my mind.

"One single incident I remember which was not in accordance with her
habitual reserve in this respect. I noticed one day that her eyes
were red. Of course I dared not ask her why she had cried. During
the lesson she seemed absent; and when leaving she said, without
looking at me, 'I may perhaps be obliged to interrupt our lessons
for some little time; I am very sorry. I wish you every happiness.'
Then, without raising her eyes, she quickly left the room. I was
bewildered. What could her words mean? And why had they been said in
such an affectionate tone?

"The next day Francis Gilmore called to inform me, with his father's
compliments, that he was to have four days' holidays, because his
sister had just been betrothed to Mr. Howard, a wealthy New York
merchant, and that, for the occasion, there would be great
festivities at home.

"Thenceforward there was an end of the dreams which up to that
moment had made life pleasant. In sober reason I had no more cause
to deplore Ellen's marriage than to feel aggrieved because Grant had
succeeded Johnson as President. Nevertheless, you can scarcely
conceive how much this affair--I mean the marriage--grieved me. My
absolute nothingness suddenly stared me in the face. I saw myself as
I was--a mere schoolmaster, with no motive for pride in the past, or
pleasure in the present, or hope in the future."

Warren's pipe had gone out while he was telling his story. He
cleaned it out methodically, drew from his pocket a cake of
Cavendish tobacco, and, after cutting off with a penknife the
necessary quantity, refilled his pipe and lit it. The way in which
he performed all these little operations betrayed long habit. He had
ceased to speak while he was relighting his pipe, and kept on
whistling between his teeth. Hermann looked on--silently. After a
few minutes, and when the pipe was in good order, Warren resumed his
story.

"For a few weeks I was terribly miserable; not so much because I had
lost Ellen--a man cannot lose what he has never hoped to possess--as
from the ruin of all my illusions. During those days I plucked and
ate by the dozen of the fruits of the tree of self-knowledge, and I
found them very bitter. I ended by leaving Elmira, to seek my
fortunes elsewhere. I knew my trade well. Long practice had taught
me how to make the best of my learning, and I never had any
difficulty in finding employment. I taught successively in upwards
of a dozen States of the Union. I can scarcely recollect the names
of all the places where I have lived--Sacramento, Chicago, St.
Louis, Cincinnati, Boston, New York; I have been everywhere--
everywhere. And everywhere I have met with the same rude schoolboys,
just as I have found the same regular and irregular verbs in Latin
and Greek. If you would see a man thoroughly satiated and saturated
with schoolboys and classical grammars, look at me.

"In the leisure time which, whatever might be my work, I still
contrived to make for myself, I indulged in philosophical
reflections. Then it was I took to the habit of smoking so much."

Warren stopped suddenly, and, looking straight before him, appeared
plunged in thought. Then, passing his hand over his forehead, he
repeated, in an absent manner, "Yes, of smoking so much. I also took
to another habit," he added, somewhat hastily; "but that has nothing
to do with my story. The theory which especially occupied my
thoughts was that of the oscillations of an ideal instrument of my
own imagining, to which, in my own mind, I gave the name of the
Philosopher's Pendulum. To this invention I owe the quietude of mind
which has supported me for many years, and which, as you see, I now
enjoy. I said to myself that my great sorrow--if I may so call it
without presumption--had arisen merely from my wish to be
extraordinarily happy. When, in his dreams, a man has carried
presumption so far as to attain to the heights of celebrity, or to
being the husband of Ellen Gilmore, there was nothing wonderful if,
on awaking, he sustained a heavy fall before reaching the depths of
reality. Had I been less ambitious in my desires, their realization
would have been easier, or, at any rate, the disappointment would
have been less bitter. Starting from this principle, I arrived at
the logical conclusion that the best means to avoid being unhappy is
to wish for as little happiness as possible. This truth was
discovered by my philosophical forefathers many centuries before the
birth of Christ, and I lay no claim to being the finder of it; but
the outward symbol which I ended by giving to this idea is--at least
I fancy it is--of my invention.

"Give me a sheet of paper and a pencil," he added, turning to his
friend, "and with a few lines I can demonstrate clearly the whole
thing."

Hermann handed him what he wanted without a word. Warren then began
gravely to draw a large semicircle, open at the top, and above the
semicircular line a pendulum, which fell perpendicularly and touched
the circumference at the exact point where on the dial of a clock
would be inscribed the figure VI. This done, he wrote on the right-
hand side of the pendulum, beginning from the bottom and at the
places of the hours V, IV, III, the words Moderate Desires--Great
Hopes, Ambition--Unbridled Passion, Mania of Greatness. Then,
turning the paper upside-down, he wrote on the opposite side, where
on a dial would be marked VII, VIII, IX, the words Slight Troubles--
Deep Sorrow, Disappointment--Despair. Lastly, in the place of No.
VI, just where the pendulum fell, he sketched a large black spot,
which he shaded off with great care, and above which he wrote, like
a scroll, Dead Stop, Absolute Repose.

Having finished this little drawing, Warren laid down his pipe,
inclined his head on one side, and raising his eyebrows, examined
his work with a critical frown. "This compass is not yet quite
complete," he said; "there is something missing. Between Dead Stop
and Moderate Desires on the right, and Slight Troubles on the left,
there is the beautiful line of Calm and Rational Indifference.
However, such as the drawing is, it is sufficient to demonstrate my
theory. Do you follow me?"

Hermann nodded affirmatively. He was greatly pained. In lieu of the
friend of his youth, for whom he had hoped a brilliant future, here
was a poor monomaniac!

"You see," said Warren, speaking collectedly, like a professor, "if
I raise my pendulum till it reaches the point of Moderate Desires
and then let it go, it will naturally swing to the point of Slight
Troubles, and go no further. Then it will oscillate for some time in
a more and more limited space on the line of Indifference, and
finally it will stand still without any jerk on Dead Stop, Absolute
Repose. That is a great consolation!"

He paused, as if waiting for some remark from Hermann; but as the
latter remained silent, Warren resumed his demonstration.

"You understand now, I suppose, what I am coming to. If I raise the
pendulum to the point of Ambition or Mania of Greatness, and then
let it go, that same law which I have already applied will drive it
to Deep Sorrow or Despair. That is quite clear, is it not?"

"Quite clear," repeated Hermann sadly.

"Very well," continued Warren, with perfect gravity; "for my
misfortune, I discovered this fine theory rather late. I had not set
bounds to my dreams and limited them to trifles. I had wished to be
President of the Republic, an illustrious savant, the husband of
Ellen. No great things, eh? What say you to my modesty? I had raised
the pendulum to such a giddy height that when it slipped from my
impotent hands it naturally performed a long oscillation, and
touched the point Despair. That was a miserable time. I hope you
have never suffered what I suffered then. I lived in a perpetual
nightmare--like the stupor at intoxication." He paused, as he had
done before, and then, with a painfully nervous laugh, be added,
" Yes, like intoxication. I drank." Suddenly a spasm seemed to pass
over his face, be looked serious and sad as before, and he said,
with a shudder, "It's a terrible thing to see one's self inwardly,
and to know that one is fallen."

After this he remained long silent. At last, raising his head, he
turned to his friend and said, "Have you had enough of my story, or
would you like to hear it to the end?"

"I am grieved at all you have told me," said Hermann; "but pray go
on; it is better I should know all"

"Yes; and I feel, too, that it relieves me to pour out my heart.
Well, I used to drink. One takes to the horrid habit in America far
easier than anywhere else. I was obliged to give up more than one
good situation because I had ceased to be RESPECTABLE. Anyhow, I
always managed to find employment without any great difficulty. I
never suffered from want, though I have never known plenty. If I
spent too much in drink, I took it out of my dress and my boots.

"Eighteen months after I had left Elmira, I met Ellen one day in
Central Park, in New York. I was aware that she had been married a
twelve-month. She knew me again at once, and spoke to me. I would
have wished to sink into the earth. I knew that my clothes were
shabby, that I looked poor, and I fancied that she must discern on
my face the traces of the bad habits I had contracted. But she did
not, or would not, see anything. She held out her hand, and said in
her gentle voice:

"'I am very glad to see you again, Mr. Warren. I have inquired about
you, but neither my father nor Francis could tell me what had become
of you. I want to ask you to resume the lessons you used to give me.
Perhaps you do not know where I live? This is my address,' and she
gave me her card.

"I stammered out a few unmeaning words in reply to her invitation.
She looked at me, smiling kindly the while; but suddenly the smile
vanished, and she added, 'Have you been ill, Mr. Warren? You seem
worn.'

"'Yes,' I answered, too glad to find an excuse for my appearance--
'yes, I have been ill, and I am still suffering.'

"'I am very sorry,' she said, in a low voice.

"Laugh at me, Hermann--call me an incorrigible madman; but believe
me when I say that her looks conveyed to me the impression of more
than common interest or civility. A thrilling sense of pain shot
through my frame. What had I done that I should be so cruelly tried?
A mist passed before my eyes; anxiety, intemperance, sleeplessness,
had made me weak. I tottered backwards a few steps. She turned
horribly pale. All around us was the crowd--the careless,
indifferent crowd.

"'Come and see me soon,' she added hastily, and left me. I saw her
get into a carriage, which she had doubtless quitted to take a walk;
and when she drove past, she put her head out and looked at me with
her eyes wide open--there was an almost wildly anxious expression in
them.

"I went home. My way led me past her house--it was a palace. I shut
myself up in my wretched hotel-room, and once more I fell to
dreaming. Ellen loved me; she admired me; she was not for ever lost
to me! The pendulum was swinging, you see, up as high as Madness.
Explain to me, if you can, how it happens that a being perfectly
rational in ordinary life should at certain seasons, and, so to
speak, voluntarily, be bereft of reason. To excuse and explain my
temporary insanity, I am ready to admit that the excitement to which
I gave way may have been a symptom of the nervous malady which laid
hold of me a few days later, and stretched me for weeks upon a bed
of pain.

"As I became convalescent, reason and composure returned. But it was
too late. In the space of two months, twenty years had passed over
my head. When I rose from my sick-bed I was as feeble and as broken-
down as you see me now. My past had been cheerless and dim, without
one ray of happiness; yet that past was all my life! Henceforward
there was nothing left for me to undertake, to regret, or to desire.
The pendulum swung idly backwards and forwards on the line of
Indifference. I wonder what are the feelings of successful men--of
men who HAVE been victorious generals, prime ministers, celebrated
authors, and that sort of tiling! Upheld by a legitimate pride, do
they retire satisfied from the lists when evening conies, or do they
lay down their arms as I did, disappointed and dejected, and worn
out with the fierce struggle? Can no man with impunity look into his
own heart and ask himself how his life has been spent?"

Here Warren made a still longer pause than before, and appeared
absorbed in gloomy thought. At last he resumed in a lower tone:

"I had not followed up Ellen's invitation. But in some way she had
discovered my address, and knew of my illness. Do not be alarmed, my
dear Hermann; my story will not become romantic. No heavenly vision
appeared to me during my fever; I felt no gentle white hands laid on
my burning brow. I was nursed at the hospital, and very well nursed
too; I figured there as 'Number 380,' and the whole affair was, as
you see, as prosaic as possible. But on quitting the hospital, and
as I was taking leave of the manager, he handed me a letter, in
which was enclosed a note for five hundred dollars. In the envelope
there was also the following anonymous note:

"'An old friend begs your acceptance, as a loan, of the inclosed
sum. It will be time enough to think of paying off this debt when
you are strong enough to resume work, and you can then do it by
instalments, of which you can yourself fix the amount, and remit
them to the hospital of New York.'

"It was well meant, no doubt, but it caused me a painful impression.
My determination was taken at once. I refused without hesitation. I
asked the manager, who had been watching me with a friendly smile
while I read the letter, whether he could give the name of the
person who had sent it. In spite of his repeated assurances that he
did not know it, I never doubted for a single instant that he was
concealing the truth. After a few seconds' reflection I asked if he
would undertake to forward an answer to my unknown correspondent;
and, on his consenting to do so, I promised that he should have my
answer the next day.

"I thought long over my letter. One thing was plain to me--it was
Ellen who had come to my help. How could I reject her generous aid
without wounding her or appearing ungrateful? After great hesitation
I wrote a few lines, which, as far as I can recollect, ran thus:

"'I thank you for the interest you have shown me, but it is
impossible for me to accept the sum you place at my disposal. Do not
be angry with me because I return it. Do not withdraw your sympathy;
I will strive to remain worthy of it, and will never forget your
goodness.'

"A few days later, after having confided this letter to the manager,
I left New York for San Francisco. For several years I heard nothing
of Ellen; her image grew gradually fainter, and at last almost
disappeared from my memory.

"The dark river that bore the frail bark which carried me and my
fortunes was carrying me smoothly and unconsciously along towards
the mysterious abyss where all that exists is engulfed. Its course
lay through a vast desert; and the banks which passed before my eyes
were of fearful sameness. Indescribable lassitude took possession of
my whole being. I had never, knowingly, practised evil; I had loved
and sought after good. Why, then, was I so wretched? I would have
blessed the rock which wrecked my bark so that I might have been
swallowed up and have gone down to my eternal rest. Up to the day
when I heard of Ellen's betrothal, I had hoped that the morrow would
bring happiness. The long-wished-for morrow had come at last, gloomy
and colorless, without realizing any of my vague hopes. Henceforth
my life was at an end."

Warren said these last words so indistinctly that Hermann could
scarcely hear them; he seemed to be speaking to himself rather than
to his friend. Then he raised the forefinger of his right hand, and
after moving it slowly from right to left, in imitation of the swing
of a pendulum, he placed it on the large black dot he had drawn on
the sheet of paper exactly below his pendulum, and said, "Dead Stop,
Absolute Repose. Would that the end were come!"

Another and still longer interval of silence succeeded, and at last
Hermann felt constrained to speak.

"How came you to make up your mind," he said, "to return to Europe?"

"Ah, yes, to be sure," answered Warren, hurriedly; "the story--the
foolish story--is not ended. In truth it has no end, as it had no
beginning; it is a thing without form or purpose, and less the
history of a life than of a mere journeying towards death. Still I
will finish--following chronological order. It does not weary you?"

"No, no; go on, my dear friend."

"Very well. I spent several years in the United States. The pendulum
worked well. It came and went, to and fro, slowly along the line of
Indifference, without ever transgressing as its extreme limits on
either hand, Moderate Desires and Slight Troubles. I led obscurely a
contemplative life, and I was generally considered a queer
character. I fulfilled my duties, and took little heed of any one.
Whenever I had an hour at my disposal, I sought solitude in the
neighboring woods, far from the town and from mankind. I used to lie
down under the big trees. Every season in turn, spring and summer,
autumn and winter, had its peculiar charm for me. My heart, so full
of bitterness, felt lightened as soon as I listened to the rustling
of the foliage overhead. The forest! There is nothing finer in all
creation. A deep calm seemed to settle down upon me. I was growing
old. I was forgetting. It was about this time that, in consequence
of my complete indifference to all surroundings, I acquired the
habit of answering 'Very well' to everything that was said. The
words came so naturally that I was not aware of my continual use of
them, until one day one of my fellow-teachers happened to tell me
that masters and pupils alike had given me the nickname of 'Very
well.' Is it not odd that one who has never succeeded in anything
should be known as 'Very well'?

"I have only one other little adventure to relate, and I will have
told all. Then I can listen to your story.

"Last year, my journeyings brought me to the neighborhood of Elmira.
It was holiday-time. I had nothing to do, and I had in my purse a
hundred hardly earned dollars, or thereabout. The wish seized me to
revisit the scene of my joys and my sorrows. I had not set foot in
the place for more than seven years. I was so changed that nobody
could know me again; nor would I have cared much if they had. After
visiting the town and looking at my old school, and the house where
Ellen had lived, I bent my steps towards the park, which is situated
in the environs--a place where I used often to walk in company of my
youthful dreams. It was September, and evening was closing in. The
oblique rays of the setting sun sent a reddish gleam the leafy
branches of the old oaks. I seated on a bench beneath a tree on one
side of the path. As I drew near I recognized Ellen. I remained
rooted to the spot where I stood, not daring to move a step. She was
stooping forward with her head bent down, while with the end of her
parasol she traced lines upon the gravel. She had not seen me. I
turned back instantly, and retired without making any noise. When I
had gone a little distance, I left the path and struck into the
wood. Once there, I looked back cautiously. Ellen was still at the
same place and in the same attitude. Heaven knows what thoughts
passed through my brain! I longed to see her closer. What danger was
there? I was sure she would not know me again. I walked towards her
with the careless step of a casual passer-by, and in a few minutes
passed before her. When my shadow fell on the path, she looked up.
and our eyes met. My heart was beating fast. Her look was cold and
indifferent; but suddenly a strange light shot into her eyes, and
she made a quick movement, as if to rise. I saw no more, and went on
without turning round. Before I could get out of the park her
carriage drove past me, and I saw her once more as I had seen her
five years before in Central Park, pale, with distended eyes, and
her anxious looks fixed upon me. Why did I not bow to her? I cannot
say; my courage failed me. I saw the light die out of her eyes. I
almost fancied that I saw her heave a sigh of relief as she threw
herself back carelessly in the carriage; and she disappeared. I was
then thirty-six, and I am almost ashamed to relate the schoolboy's
trick of which I was guilty. I sent her the following lines: 'A
devoted friend, whom you obliged in former days, and who met you
yesterday in the park without your recognizing him, sends you his
remembrances.' I posted this letter a few minutes before getting
into the train which was to take me to New York; and, as I did so,
my heart beat as violently as though I had performed a heroic deed.
Great adventures, forsooth! And to think that my life presents none
more striking, and that trifles such as these are the only food for
my memory!

"A twelvemonth later I met Francis Gilmore in Broadway. The world is
small--so small that it is really difficult to keep out of the way
of people one has once known. The likeness of my former pupil to his
sister struck me, and I spoke to him. He looked at me at first with
a puzzled expression, but after a few moments of hesitation he
recognized me, a bright smile lighted up his pleasant face, and he
shook hands warmly.

"'Mr. Warren,' he exclaimed, 'how glad I am to see you! Ellen and I
have often talked of you, and wondered what could have become of
you. Why did we never hear from you?'

"'I did not suppose it would interest you.' I spoke timidly; and yet
I owed nothing to the young fellow, and wanted nothing of him.

"'You wrong us by saying that,' replied Francis; 'do you think me
ungrateful? Do you fancy I have forgotten our pleasant walks in
former days, and the long conversations we used to have? You alone
ever taught me anything, and it is to you I owe the principles that
have guided me through life. Many a day I have thought of you, and
regretted you sincerely. As regards Ellen, no one has ever filled
your place with her; she plays to this day the same pieces of music
you taught her, and follows all your directions with a fidelity that
would touch you.'

"'How are your father and mother, and how is your sister?' I
inquired, feeling more deeply moved than I can express.

"'My poor mother died three years ago. It is Ellen who keeps house
now.'

"'Your brother-in-law lives with you, then?'

"'My brother-in-law!' replied Francis, with surprise; 'did you not
know that he was on board the Atlantic, which was lost last year in
the passage from Liverpool to New York?'

"I could find no words to reply.

"'As to that,' added Francis, with great composure--'between you and
me, he was no great loss. My dear brother-in-law was not by any
means what my father fancied he was when he gave him my sister as a
wife. The whole family has often regretted the marriage. Ellen lived
apart from her husband for many years before his death.'

"I nodded so as to express my interest in his communications, but I
could not for worlds have uttered a syllable.

"'You will come and see us soon, I hope,' added Francis, without
noticing my emotion. 'We are still at the same place; but to make
sure, here is my card. Come, Mr. Warren--name your own day to come
and dine with us. I promise you a hearty welcome.'

"I got off by promising to write the next day, and we parted.

"Fortunately my mind had lost its former liveliness. The pendulum,
far from being urged to unruly motion, continued to swing slowly in
the narrow space where it had oscillated for so many years. I said
to myself that to renew my intimacy with the Gilmores would be to
run the almost certain risk of reviving the sorrows and the
disappointments of the past. I was then calm and rational. It would
be madness in me, I felt, to aspire to the hand of a young, wealthy,
and much admired widow. To venture to see Ellen again was to incur
the risk of seeing my reason once more wrecked, and the fatal
chimera which had been the source of all my misery start into life
again. If we are to believe what poets say, love ennobles man and
exalts him into a demigod. It may be so, but it turns him likewise
into a fool and a madman. That was my case. At any cost I was to
guard against that fatal passion. I argued seriously with myself,
and I determined to let the past be, and to reject every opportunity
of bringing it to life again.

"A few days before my meeting with Francis, I had received tidings
of the death of an old relative, whom I scarcely knew. In my
childhood I had, on one or two occasions, spent my holidays at his
house. He was gloomy and taciturn, but nevertheless he had always
welcomed me kindly. I have a vague remembrance of having been told
that he had been in love with my mother once upon a time, and that
on hearing of her marriage he had retired into the solitude which he
never left till the day of his death. Be that as it may, I had not
lost my place in his affections, it seems: he had continued to feel
an interest in me; and on his deathbed he had remembered me, and
left me the greater part of his not very considerable fortune. I
inherited little money; but there was a small, comfortably-furnished
country-house, and an adjoining farm let on a long lease for two
hundred and forty pounds per annum. This was wealth for me, and more
than enough to satisfy all my wants. Since I had heard of this
legacy I had been doubtful as to my movements. My chance meeting
with Francis settled the matter. I resolved at once to leave
America, and to return to live in my native country. I knew your
address, and wrote to you at once. I trusted that the sight of my
old and only friend would console me for the disappointments that
life has inflicted on me--and I have not been deceived. At last I
have been able to open my heart to a fellow-creature, and relieve
myself of the heavy burden which I have borne alone ever since our
separation. Now I feel lighter. You are not a severe judge.
Doubtless you deplore my weakness, but you do not condemn me. If, as
I have already said, I have done no good, neither have I committed
any wicked action. I have been a nonentity--an utterly useless
being; 'one too many,' like the sad hero of Tourgueneff's sad story.
Before leaving, I wrote to Francis informing him that the death of a
relative obliged me to return to Europe, and giving him your
address, so as not to seem to be running away from him. Then I went
on board, and at last reached your home. Dixi!"

Warren, who during this long story had taken care to keep his pipe
alight, and had, moreover, nearly drained the bottle of port placed
before him, now declared himself ready to listen to his friend's
confession. But Hermann had been saddened by all he had heard, and
was in no humor for talking. He remarked that it was getting late,
and proposed to postpone any further conversation till the morrow.

Warren merely answered, "Very well," knocked the ashes out of his
pipe, shared out the remainder of the wine between his host and
himself, and, raising his glass, said, in a somewhat solemn tone,
" To our youth, Hermann!" After emptying his glass at one draught, be
replaced it on the table, and said complacently, "It is long since I
have drunk with so much pleasure; for this time I have not drunk to
forgetfulness, but to memory."