Immensee | Page 6

she said, without altering her position.
"Well, then, give us a song," cried the young nobleman, and threw a
silver coin into her lap. The girl slowly ran her fingers through her
black hair while the fiddler whispered in her ear. But she threw back
her head, and rested her chin on her zither.
"For him," she said, "I'm not going to play."
Reinhard leapt up with his glass in his hand and stood in front of her.
"What do you want?" she asked defiantly.
"To have a look at your eyes."
"What have my eyes to do with you?"
Reinhard's glance flashed down on her. "I know they are false."
She laid her cheek in the palm of her hand and gave him a searching
look. Reinhard raised his glass to his mouth.
"Here's to your beautiful, wicked eyes!" he said, and drank.
She laughed and tossed her head.
"Give it here," she said, and fastening her black eyes on his, she slowly
drank what was left in the glass. Then she struck a chord and sang in a
deep, passionate voice:
To-day, to-day thou think'st me Fairest maid of all; To-morrow, ah!
then beauty Fadeth past recall. While the hour remaineth, Thou art yet
mine own; Then when death shall claim me, I must die alone.
While the fiddler struck up an allegro finale, a new arrival joined the
group.

"I went to call for you, Reinhard," he said, "You had already gone out,
but Santa Claus had paid you a visit."
"Santa Claus?" said Reinhard. "Santa Claus never comes to me now."
"Oh, yes, he does! The whole of your room smelt of Christmas tree and
ginger cakes."
Reinhard dropped the glass out of his hand and seized his cap.
"Well, what are you going to do now?" asked the girl.
"I'll be back in a minute."
She frowned. "Stay," she said gently, casting an amorous glance at him.
Reinhard hesitated. "I can't," he said.
She laughingly gave him a tap with the toe of her shoe and said: "Go
away, then, you good-for-nothing; you are one as bad as the other, all
good-for-nothings." And as she turned away from him, Reinhard went
slowly up the steps of the Ratskeller.
Outside in the street deep twilight had set in; he felt the cool winter air
blowing on his heated brow. From some window every here and there
fell the bright gleam of a Christmas tree all lighted up, now and then
was heard from within some room the sound of little pipes and tin
trumpets mingled with the merry din of children's voices.
Crowds of beggar children were going from house to house or climbing
up on to the railings of the front steps, trying to catch a glimpse through
the window of a splendour that was denied to them. Sometimes too a
door would suddenly be flung open, and scolding voices would drive a
whole swarm of these little visitors away out into the dark street. In the
vestibule of yet another house they were singing an old Christmas carol,
and little girls' clear voices were heard among the rest.
But Reinhard heard not; he passed quickly by them all, out of one street
into another. When he reached his lodging it had grown almost quite
dark; he stumbled up the stairs and so gained his apartment.
A sweet fragrance greeted him; it reminded him of home; it was the
smell of the parlour in his mother's house at Christmas time. With
trembling hand he lit his lamp; and there lay a mighty parcel on the
table. When he opened it, out fell the familiar ginger cakes. On some of
them were the initial letters of his name written in sprinkles of sugar;
no one but Elisabeth could have done that.
Next came to view a little parcel containing neatly embroidered linen,
handkerchiefs and cuffs; and finally letters from his mother and

Elisabeth. Reinhard opened Elisabeth's letter first, and this is what she
wrote:
"The pretty sugared letters will no doubt tell you who helped with the
cakes. The same person also embroidered the cuffs for you. We shall
have a very quiet time at home this Christmas Eve. Mother always puts
her spinning-wheel away in the corner as early as half-past nine. It is so
very lonesome this winter now that you are not here.
"And now, too, the linnet you made me a present of died last Sunday. It
made me cry a good deal, though I am sure I looked after it well.
"It always used to sing of an afternoon when the sun shone on its cage.
You remember how often mother would hang a piece of cloth over the
cage in order to keep it quiet when it sang so lustily.
"Thus our