Stories by Foreign Authors: German — Volume 1 — John Shaqi
Stories by Foreign Authors: German — Volume 1
General
Stories by Foreign Authors: German — Volume 1
Short stories, German -- Translations into English
"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.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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