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THE INDIAN LILY

AND OTHER STORIES




BY

HERMANN SUDERMANN




TRANSLATED BY

LUDWIG LEWISOHN, M.A.



1911




CONTENTS


THE INDIAN LILY

THE PURPOSE

THE SONG OF DEATH

THE VICTIM

AUTUMN

MERRY FOLK

THEA





THE INDIAN LILY




Chapter I.


It was seven o'clock in the morning when Herr von Niebeldingk opened
the iron gate and stepped into the front garden whose wall of
blossoming bushes separated the house from the street.

The sun of a May morning tinted the greyish walls with gold, and
caused the open window-panes to flash with flame.

The master directed a brief glance at the second story whence floated
the dull sound of the carpet-beater. He thrust the key rapidly into
the keyhole for a desire stirred in him to slip past the porter's
lodge unobserved.

"I seem almost to be--ashamed!" he murmured with a smile of
self-derision as a similar impulse overcame him in front of the
house door.

But John, his man--a dignified person of fifty--had observed his
approach and stood in the opening door. The servant's mutton-chop
whiskers and admirably silvered front-lock contrasted with a repressed
reproach that hovered between his brows. He bowed deeply.

"I was delayed," said Herr von Niebeldingk, in order to say something
and was vexed because this sentence sounded almost like an excuse.

"Do you desire to go to bed, captain, or would you prefer a bath?"

"A bath," the master responded. "I have slept elsewhere."

That sounded almost like another excuse.

"I'm obviously out of practice," he reflected as he entered the
breakfast-room where the silver samovar steamed among the dishes of
old Sevres.

He stepped in front of the mirror and regarded himself--not with the
forbearance of a friend but the keen scrutiny of a critic.

"Yellow, yellow...." He shook his head. "I must apply a curb to my
feelings."

Upon the whole, however, he had reason to be fairly satisfied with
himself. His figure, despite the approach of his fortieth year, had
remained slender and elastic. The sternly chiselled face, surrounded
by a short, half-pointed beard, showed neither flabbiness nor bloat.
It was only around the dark, weary eyes that the experiences of the
past night had laid a net-work of wrinkles and shadows. Ten years
ago pleasure had driven the hair from his temples, but it grew
energetically upon his crown and rose, above his forehead, in a
Mephistophelian curve.

The civilian's costume which often lends retired officers a guise of
excessive spick-and-spanness had gradually combined with an easier
bearing to give his figure a natural elegance. To be sure, six years
had passed since, displeased by a nagging major, he had definitely
hung up the dragoon's coat of blue.

He was wealthy enough to have been able to indulge in the luxury of
that displeasure. In addition his estates demanded more rigorous
management.... From Christmas to late spring he lived in Berlin, where
his older brother occupied one of those positions at court that mean
little enough either to superior or inferior ranks, but which, in a
certain social set dependent upon the court, have an influence of
inestimable value. Without assuming the part of either a social lion
or a patron, he used this influence with sufficient thoroughness to be
popular, even, in certain cases, to be feared, and belonged to that
class of men to whom one always confides one's difficulties, never
one's wife.

John came to announce to his master that the bath was ready. And while
Niebeldingk stretched himself lazily in the tepid water he let his
reflections glide serenely about the delightful occurrence of the
past night.

That occurrence had been due for six months, but opportunity had been
lacking. "I am closely watched and well-known," she had told him, "and
dare not go on secret errands."... Now at last their chance had come
and had been used with clever circumspectness.... Somewhere on the