University of Virginia Library

3. III
FORTUNE FAVORS THE IMPUDENT

Like all people who lead useful lives and neither have nor pretend to have acquired tastes for fine-drawn emotion, Otto and Hilda indulged in little mooning. They put aside their burdens—hers of dread, his of despair—and went about the work that had to be done and that healthfully filled almost all their waking moments; and when bed-time came their tired bodies refused either to sit up with their brains or to let their brains stay awake. But it was gray and rainy for Hilda and black night for Otto.

On Sunday morning he rose at half-past three, instead of at four, his week-day rising time. Many of his hard-working customers were astir betimes on Sunday to

have the longer holiday. As they would spend the daylight hours in the country and would not reach home until after the shop had closed, they bought the supplies for a cold or warmed-up supper before starting. Otto looked so sad—usually he was in high spirits—that most of these early customers spoke to him or to Joe Schwartz about his health. There were few of them who did not know what was troubling him. Among those friendly and unpretending and well-acquainted people any one's affairs were every one's affairs —why make a secret of what was, after all, only the routine of human life the world over and the ages through? Thus Otto had the lively but tactful sympathy of the whole community.

He became less gloomy under the warmth of this succession of friendly faces and friendly inquiries. But as trade slackened, toward noon, he had more leisure

to think, and the throbbing ache returned to his heavy heart. All the time pictures of her were passing before his eyes. He had known her so long and she had become such an intimate part of his daily life, so interwoven with it, that he could not look at present, past or future without seeing her.

Why, he had known her since she was a baby. Did he not remember the day when he, a small boy on his way to school, had seen her toddle across the sidewalk in front of him? Could he ever forget how she had reached with great effort into a snowbank, had dug out with her small, red-mittened hands a chunk of snow, and, lifting it high above her head, had thrown it weakly at him with such force that she had fallen headlong upon the sidewalk? He had seen her every day since then— every day!

He most clearly of all recalled her as a

school-girl. Those were the days of the German bands of six and seven and even eight pieces, wandering as the hand-organs do now. And always with them came a swarm of little girls who danced when the band played, and of little boys who listened and watched. He had often followed her as she followed a band, all day on a Saturday. And he had never wearied of watching her long, slim legs twinkling tirelessly to the music. She invented new figures and variations on steps which the other girls adopted. She and her especial friends became famous among the children throughout the East Side; even grown people noted the grace and originality of a particular group of girls, led by a black-haired, slim-legged one who danced with all there was of her. And how their mothers did whip them when they returned from a day of this forbidden joy! But they were off again the next Saturday —who would not pass a bad five minutes for the sake of hours on hours of delight?

And Hilda was gone from his life, was sailing away on his ship—was it not his ship? was not its cargo his hopes and dreams and plans?—was sailing away with another man at the helm! And he could do nothing—must sit dumb upon the shore.

At half-past twelve he closed the shop and, after the midday dinner with his mother, went down to Brauner's. Hilda was in the room back of the shop, alone, and so agitated with her own affairs that she forgot to be cold and contemptuous to Otto. He bowed to her, then stood staring at the framed picture of Die Wacht am Rhein as if he had never before seen the wonderful lady in red and gold seated under a tree and gazing out over the river —all the verses were underneath. When he could stare at it no longer he turned to

the other wall where hung the target bearing the marks of Paul Brauner's best shots in the prize contest he had won. But he saw neither the lady watching the Rhine nor the target with its bullet holes all in the bull's-eye ring, and its pendent festoon of medals. He was longing to pour out his love for her, to say to her the thousand things he could say to the image of her in his mind when she was not near. But he could only stand, an awkward figure, at which she would have smiled if she had seen it at all.

She went out into the shop. While he was still trying to lay hold of an end of the spinning tangle of his thoughts and draw it forth in the hope that all would follow, she returned, fright in her eyes. She clasped her hands nervously and her cheeks blanched. “Mr. Feuerstein!” she exclaimed. “And he's coming here! What shall I do?”

“What is the matter?” he asked.

She turned upon him angrily—he was the convenient vent for her nervousness. “It's all your fault!” she exclaimed. “They want to force me to marry you. And I dare not bring here the man I love.”

“My fault?” he muttered, dazed. “I'm not to blame.”

“Stupid! You're always in the way—no wonder I hate you!” She was clasping and unclasping her hands, trying to think, not conscious of what she was saying.

“Hate me?” he repeated mechanically.

“Oh, no—surely not that. No, you can't—”

“Be still! Let me think. Ach! Gott im Himmel! He's in the hall!” She sank wretchedly into a chair. “Can you do nothing but gape and mutter?” In her desperation her tone was appealing.

“He can say he came with me,” said Otto. “I'll stand for him.”

“Yes—yes!” she cried. “That will do! Thank you—thank you!” And as the knock came at the door she opened it. She had intended to be reproachful, but she could not. This splendid, romantic creature, with his graceful hat and his golden hair and his velvet collar, was too compelling, too overpowering. Her adoring love put her at a hopeless disadvantage. “Oh— Mr. Feuerstein,” she murmured, her color coming and going with the rise and fall of her bosom.

Mr. Feuerstein majestically removed his hat and turned a look of haughty inquiry upon Otto. Otto's fists clenched— he longed to discuss the situation in the only way which seemed to him to meet its requirements.

“Hilda,” said the actor, when he thought there had been a long enough pause for an imposing entrance, “I have come to end the deception—to make you,

before the world, as you are before Almighty God, my affianced bride.”

“You—you mustn't,” implored Hilda, her fears getting the better of her awe.

“If my parents learn now—just now, they will—oh, it will be hopeless!”

“I can not delay, angel of my heart!” He gave her the look that is the theatrical convention for love beyond words. “It must be settled at once. I must know my fate. I must put destiny to the touch and know happiness or—hell!”

“Bah!” thought Otto. “He has to hurry matters—he must be in trouble. He's got to raise the wind at once.”

“Mr. Feuerstein—Carl!” pleaded Hilda. “Please try to be practical.” She went up to him, and Otto turned away, unable to bear the sight of that look of love, tenderness and trust. “You must not—at least, not right away.” She turned to Otto. “Help me, Otto. Explain to him.”

Heilig tried to put courtesy in his voice as he said to Mr. Feuerstein: “Miss Brauner is right. You'll only wreck her—her happiness. We're plain people down here and don't understand these fine, grand ways. You must pass as my friend whom I brought here—but I make one condition.” He drew a long breath and looked at Hilda. For the first time she heard him, the real Otto Heilig, speak. “Hilda,” he went on, “I don't want to hurt you— I'd do anything for you, except hurt you. And I can't stand for this fel—for Mr. Feuerstein, unless you'll promise me you won't marry him, no matter what he may say, until your father has had a chance to find out who and what he is.”

Mr. Feuerstein drew himself up grandly. “Who is this person, Miss Brauner?” he demanded with haughty coldness.

“He don't know any better,” she replied hurriedly. “He's an old friend. Trust me,

Mr. Feuer—Carl! Everything depends on it.”

“I can not tolerate this coarse hand between me and the woman I love. No more deception! Carl Feuerstein”—how he did roll out that name!—“can guard his own honor and his own destiny.”

The door into the private hall opened and in came Brauner and his wife, fine pictures of homely content triumphing over the discomforts of Sunday clothes. They looked at Mr. Feuerstein with candidly questioning surprise. Avenue A is not afraid to look, and speak, its mind. Otto came forward. “This is Mr. Feuerstein,” he said.

At once Brauner showed that he was satisfied, and Mrs. Brauner beamed. “Oh, a friend of yours,” Brauner said, extending his hand. “Glad to see any friend of Otto's.”

Mr. Feuerstein advanced impressively

and bowed first over Brauner's hand, then over Mrs. Brauner's. “I am not a friend of this—young man,” he said with the dignity of a Hoheit. “I have come here to propose for the honor of your daughter's hand in marriage.”

Mr. Feuerstein noted the stupefied expression of the delicatessen dealer and his wife, and glanced from Otto to Hilda with a triumphant smile. But Hilda was under no delusion. She shivered and moved nearer to Otto. She felt that he was her hope in this crisis which the mad love of her hero-lover had forced. Brauner was the more angry because he had been thus taken by surprise.

“What nonsense is this?” he growled, shaking his head violently. “My daughter is engaged to a plain man like ourselves.”

At this Heilig came forward again, pale and sad, but calm. “No, Mr. Brauner— she is not engaged. I'm sure she

loves this gentleman, and I want her to be happy. I can not be anything to her but her friend. And I want you to give him a chance to show himself worthy of her.”

Brauner burst out furiously at Hilda. The very presence of this gaudy, useless-looking creature under his roof was an insult to his three gods of honor and happiness— his “Arbeit und Liebe und Heim.”

“What does this mean?” he shouted.

“Where did you find this crazy fellow? Who brought him here?”

Hilda flared. “I love him, father! He's a noble, good man. I shall always love him. Listen to Otto—it'll break my heart if you frown on my marrying the man I love.” There was a touch of Mr. Feuerstein in her words and tone.

“Let's have our game, Mr. Brauner,” interrupted Otto. “All this can be settled afterward. Why spoil our afternoon?”

Brauner examined Mr. Feuerstein, who

was posing as a statue of gloomy wrath.

“Who are you?” he demanded in the insulting tone which exactly expressed his state of mind.

Mr. Feuerstein cast up his eyes. “For Hilda's sake!” he murmured audibly. Then he made a great show of choking down his wrath. “I, sir, am of an ancient Prussian family—a gentleman. I saw your peerless daughter, sought an introduction, careless who or what she was in birth and fortune. Love, the leveler, had conquered me. I—”

“Do you work?” Brauner broke in.

“What are your prospects? What have you got? What's your character? Have you any respectable friends who can vouch for you? You've wandered into the wrong part of town. Down here we don't give our daughters to strangers or do-nothings or rascals. We believe in love—yes. But we also have a little common sense and

self-respect.” Brauner flung this at Mr. Feuerstein in High-German. Hilda, mortified and alarmed, was also proud that her father was showing Mr. Feuerstein that she came of people who knew something, even if they were “trades-folk.”

“I can answer all your questions to your satisfaction,” replied Mr. Feuerstein loftily, with a magnanimous wave of his white hand. “My friends will speak for me. And I shall give you the addresses of my noble relatives in Germany, though I greatly fear they will oppose my marriage. You, sir, were born in the Fatherland. You know their prejudices.”

“Don't trouble yourself,” said Brauner ironically. “Just take yourself off and spare yourself the disgrace of mingling with us plain folk. Hilda, go to your room!” Brauner pointed the stem of his pipe toward the outside door and looked meaningly at Mr. Feuerstein.

Hilda, her eyes sparkling and her cheeks flushed, put herself between Mr. Feuerstein and the door. “I guess I've got something to say about that!” she exclaimed. “Father, you can't make me marry Otto Heilig. I hate him. I guess this is a free country. I shall marry Mr. Feuer—Carl.” She went up to him and put her arm through his and looked up at him lovingly. He drew her to him protectingly, and for an instant something of her passionate enthusiasm fired him, or rather, the actor in him.

Otto laid his hand on Brauner's arm.

“Don't you see, sir,” he said in Low-German, very earnestly, “that you're driving her to him? I beg you”—in a lower tone —“for the sake of her future—don't drive him out, and her with him. If he really would make her a good husband, why not let her have him? If he's not what he claims, she won't have him.”

Brauner hesitated. “But she's yours. Her mother and I have promised. We are people of our word.”

“But I won't marry her—not unless she wishes it, she herself. And nothing can be done until this man has had a chance.”

It was evident from Brauner's face that he was yielding to this common sense. Hilda looked at Otto gratefully. “Thank you, Otto,” she said. He shook his head mournfully and turned away.

Brauner gave Mr. Feuerstein a contemptuous glance. “Perhaps Otto's right,” he growled. “You can stay. Let us have our game, Otto.”

Mrs. Brauner hurried to the kitchen to make ready for four-o'clock coffee and cake. Hilda arranged the table for pinochle, and when her father and Otto were seated, motioned her lover to a seat beside her on the sofa.

“Heart's bride,” he said in a low tone, “I am prostrated by what I have borne for your sake.”

“I love you,” she said softly, her young eyes shining like Titania's when she was garlanding her ass-headed lover. “You were right, my beloved. We shall win— father is giving in. He's very good-natured, and now he's used to the idea of our love.”

Otto lost the game, and, with his customary patience, submitted to the customary lecture on his stupidity as a player. Brauner was once more in a good humor. Having agreed to tolerate Mr. Feuerstein, he was already taking a less unfavorable view of him. And Mr. Feuerstein laid himself out to win the owner of three tenements. He talked German politics with him in High-German, and applauded his accent and his opinions. He told stories of the old German Emperor

and Bismarck, and finally discovered that Brauner was an ardent admirer of Schiller. He saw a chance to make a double stroke—to please Brauner and to feed his own vanity.

“With your permission, sir,” he said, “I will give a soliloquy from Wallenstein.”

Brauner went to the door leading down the private hall. “Mother!” he called. “Come at once. Mr. Feuerstein's going to act.”

Hilda was bubbling over with delight. Otto sat forgotten in the corner. Mrs. Brauner came bustling, her face rosy from the kitchen fire and her hands moist from a hasty washing. Mr. Feuerstein waited until all were seated in front of him. He then rose and advanced with stately tread toward the clear space. He rumpled his hair, drew down his brows, folded his arms, and began a melancholy, princely pacing of the floor. With a suddenness

that made them start, he burst out thunderously. He strode, he roared, he rolled his eyes, he waved his arms, he tore at his hair. It was Wallenstein in a soul-sweat. The floor creaked, the walls echoed. His ingenuous auditors, except Otto, listened and looked with bated breath. They were as vastly impressed as is a drawing-room full of culture-hunters farther up town when a man discourses to them on a subject of which he knows just enough for a wordy befuddling of their ignorance. And the burst of applause which greeted the last bellowing groan was full as hearty as that which greets the bad singing or worse playing at the average musicale.

Swollen with vanity and streaming with sweat, Mr. Feuerstein sat down. “Good, Mr. Feuerstein—ah! it is grand!” said Brauner. Hilda looked at her lover proudly. Otto felt that the recitation was idiotic

— “Nobody ever carried on like that,” he said to himself. But he also felt the pitiful truth, “I haven't got a ghost of a chance.”

He rose as soon as he could muster the courage. “I must get back and help Schwartz open up,” he said, looking round forlornly. “It's five o'clock.”

“You must stay to coffee,” insisted Mrs. Brauner. It should have been served before, but Mr. Feuerstein's exhibition had delayed it.

“No—I must work,” he replied. “It's five o'clock.”

“That's right,” said Brauner with an approving nod. “Business first! I must go in myself—and you, too, Hilda.” The late Sunday afternoon opening was for a very important trade.

Hilda blushed—the descent from the romantic to the practical jarred upon her. But Mr. Feuerstein rose and took leave

most graciously. “May I return this evening?” he said to Brauner.

“Always glad to see our friends,” answered Brauner with a shamefaced, apologetic look at Otto.

At seven o'clock that evening Otto, just closing his shop, saw Mr. Feuerstein and Hilda pass on their way toward Tompkins Square. A few minutes later Sophie came along. She paused and tried to draw him into conversation. But he answered briefly and absently, gradually retreating into the darkness of his shop and pointedly drawing the door between him and her. Sophie went on her way downcast, but not in the least disheartened. “When Hilda is Mrs. Feuerstein,” she said to herself.