In Midsummer Days and Other Tales | Page 7

of the Burgundy; another time he felt as if something hot had touched his face, but that was certainly the Burgundy; and so he turned over and fell asleep again.
At half-past nine he got up, dressed, and went into the sitting-room to refresh himself with a glass of milk which always stood ready for him in the morning.
It was anything but cool in the sitting-room this morning; it was almost warm, too warm. And the cold milk was not cold; it was lukewarm, unpleasantly lukewarm.
The conductor was not a hot-tempered man, but he liked order and method in everything. Therefore he rang for old Louisa, and since he made his first fifty remonstrances always in a very mild tone, he spoke kindly but firmly to her, as she put her head through the door.
"Louisa," he said, "you have given me lukewarm milk."
"Oh! no, sir," replied Louisa, "it was quite cold, it must have got warm in standing."
"Then you must have had a fire in the room; it's very warm here this morning."
No, Louisa had not had a fire; and she retired into the kitchen, very much hurt.
He forgave her for the milk. But a look round the sitting-room made him feel very depressed. I must tell you that he had built a little private altar in a corner, near the piano, which consisted of a small table with two silver candlesticks, a large photograph of a young woman, and a tall, gold-edged champagne glass. This glass--it was the glass he had used on his wedding-day, and he was a widower now--always contained a red rose in memory of and as an offering to her who once had been the sunshine of his life. Whether it was summer or winter, there was always a rose; and in the winter time it lasted a whole week, that is to say if he trimmed the stem occasionally and put a little salt into the water. Now, he had put a fresh rose into the glass only last night, and to-day it was faded, shrivelled up, dead, with its head drooping. This was a bad omen. He knew what sensitive creatures flowers are, and had noticed that they thrive with some people and not with others. He remembered how sometimes, in his wife's lifetime, her rose, which always stood on her little work-table, had faded and died quite unexpectedly. And he had also noticed that this always happened when his sun was hiding behind a cloud, which after a while would dissolve in large drops to the accompaniment of a low rumbling. Roses must have peace and kind words; they can't bear harsh voices. They love music, and sometimes he would play to the roses and they opened their buds and smiled.
Now Louisa was a hard woman, and often muttered and growled to herself when she turned out the room. There were days when she was in a very bad temper, so that the milk curdled in the kitchen, and the whole dinner tasted of discord, which the conductor noticed at once; for he was himself like a delicate instrument, whose soul responded to moods and influences which other people did not feel.
He concluded that Louisa had killed the rose; perhaps if she had scolded the poor thing, or knocked the glass, or breathed on the flower angrily, a treatment which it could not bear. Therefore he rang again; and when Louisa put in her head, he said, not unkindly, but more firmly than before:
"What have you done to my rose, Louisa?"
"Nothing, sir!"
"Nothing? Do you think the flower died without a very good reason? You can see for yourself that there is no water in the glass! You must have poured it away!"
As Louisa had done no such thing, she went into the kitchen and began to cry, for it is disagreeable to be blamed when one is innocent.
Conductor Crossberg, who could not bear to see people crying, said no more, but in the evening he bought a new rose, one which had only just been cut, and, of course, was not wired, for his wife had always had an objection to wired flowers.
And then he went to bed and fell asleep. And again he fancied in his sleep that the wall-paper was on fire, and that his pillow was very hot; but he went on sleeping.
On the following morning, when he came into the sitting-room, to say his morning prayers before the little altar--alas! there lay his rose, all the pink petals scattered by the side of the stem. He was just stretching out his hand to touch the bell, when he saw the photograph of his beloved, half rolled up, lying by the side of the champagne glass. Louisa could not have done that!
"She, who was my all, my conscience and my