German fiction -- Translations into English; Short stories, German -- Translations into English
He shook his head gloomily. Only by very slow degrees could I extort
from him the cause of his despair. Briefly it was as follows: He had
found himself in the presence of his beloved at the usual hour, and
after eating an extra tart and drinking a glass of bishop in honour of
the day, he had brought out the gifts with which he meant to surprise
her in a sequence which seemed well advised. First he had freed the
bouquet from its paper coverings, and she had thanked him with a kindly
glance, and put it at once in a glass of water. Then he gave her the
song, and sang it for her under his voice, she sitting opposite with
downcast eyes, and giving not the slightest sign by which to judge
whether she saw its application or not. Only when he had ended she held
out her hand--a favour of which she was chary--and said in a cordial
tone: "It is very kind of you to have thought of my birthday, and to
have brought me such beautiful flowers and such a charming song. There
is nothing I love so much as flowers and music, and I very seldom come
in for either. I shall soon know the tune; indeed I half know it now."
He could not part with the hand given him, and as her graciousness had
inspired him with courage, he now brought out the serpent-pin, and
placed it in her hand. "Here is something else," he said; "it is but a
humble offering, but I should be very happy if you would not disdain to
wear it."
She looked full at him, opened the little case slowly and with evident
reluctance, and as soon as she saw the shining of the gold, dropped it
on the table as though the metal had been red-hot. "Why have you done
this?" she said, hastily rising. "I have not deserved it from you--at
least I do not think I have behaved in such a way as to authorise you
to make me a present like this. I see I have been mistaken in you. You,
too, think meanly of me because I am poor and dependent. I cannot
conceal that this pains me, from you of all people," and her eyes grew
moist. "Now I can only request that you will instantly leave me, and
never return," and with that she laid the flowers and song down before
him on the table, and spite of his distracted assurances and
entreaties, with burning face and tearful eyes she contrived to elude
him, and not only left the little inner room, but the shop as well.
It was in vain that he awaited her return; in her stead the
square-built woman entered, but apparently without the least idea of
what it was that had scared the young girl away. A full half-hour he
continued in a most miserable state of mind to occupy his accustomed
seat on the sofa. But as she remained invisible, he at length took his
departure, and once in the street, plucked the nosegay to pieces, and
tore up the song into shreds, and--"There," he cried, "is that wretched
pin that has made all the mischief, you may take it, and give it to
whom you will! I could hardly resist the temptation as I came along to
open a vein with it."
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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