Believe me,
Yours sincerely,
Hermann Sudermann.
In conclusion, I had better say that on receiving Herr Sudermann's
reply and from Mr. Huebsch his consent, I entered into negotiations
with Miss Beatrice Marshall for a new translation of the book, which is
now offered to the public with every confidence that it will meet with
a wide and enthusiastic reception. I should like too to add my thanks
to the various writers who responded to my circular letter with such
readiness and sympathy.
John Lane.
The Bodley Head,
Vigo Street, London
_1st May_, 1913.
PART I
The Song of Songs
CHAPTER I
When Lilly was just fourteen her father, Kilian Czepanek, the
music-master, suddenly disappeared. He had been giving lessons all day
as usual, cursing the heat--which was terrific--and drinking seltzer
water and moselle in the intervals. Now and then he had rushed into the
dining-room to snatch a cognac and arrange his disordered tie. He had
playfully pulled Lilly's brown, flowing curls, as she sat pondering
over her French verbs, and then vanished again into the drawing-room,
where pupils came and went and only discords and curses went on for
ever.
Contrary to his custom, he had not reappeared in a fury, with a
tremendous appetite, after his last unfortunate victim had strapped up
his portfolio and slammed the front door behind him. Instead, Czepanek
had stayed where he was. He neither whistled nor wept, nor gave vent to
his rage on the keys of the piano, as he was sometimes in the habit of
doing when the day's work was over. No sounds of any sort, except a
deep-drawn groan, proceeded from the other room.
Lilly, who was greatly interested in everything this handsome papa of
hers did or did not do, let her French grammar slide from her lap to
the floor, and crept to the keyhole. Through it she saw him standing
before the long mirror absorbed in self-contemplation. Now and again he
raised his left hand and pressed it with a gesture of despair to the
silken, dark artist locks, which mamma tended regularly every day with
bay-rum and French brilliantine.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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