The Malady of the Century | Page 5

high, steep hill, with a
white path climbing in zigzags through its wooded sides. On the
summit a white house with many windows was perched, seeming to
hang perpendicularly a thousand feet above the valley. Its whitewashed
walls stood out sharply against the background of green pine trees,
clearly visible for many miles round. A conspicuous inscription in large
black letters showed that this audacious and picturesque house was the
Schloss hotel, and a glance at the gray ruined tower which rose behind
it gave at once a meaning to the name. Behind the hill, with its outline
softened by trees and encircled by the blue sky, were ridges of other
hills in parallel lines meeting the horizon, alternately sharp-edged and
rounded, stretching from north to south. They seemed like some great
sea, with majestic wave-hills and wave-valleys; behind the first
appeared a second, then a third, then a fourth, as far as one's eye could
see; each one of a distinct tone of color, and of all the shades from the
deepest green through blue and violet to vaporous pale gray.
The sight of this picture had decided Wilhelm Eynhardt not to go any
further. The others had resolved to push on to Triberg the same day,
and above all, not to turn back till they had bathed in the Boden- see.
As every persuasion was powerless to alter Eynhardt's decision, they
separated, and the travelers started on their walk to Triberg. Eynhardt,
however, stayed at Hornberg, meaning to climb to the Schloss hotel
again from the other side.
Wilhelm Eynhardt was a young man of twenty-four, tall and slim of
figure, with a strikingly handsome face. His eyes were almond- shaped,
not large but very dark, with much charm of expression. The
finely-marked eyebrows served by their raven blackness to emphasize
the whiteness of the forehead, which was crowned by an abundant mass
of curling black hair. His fresh complexion had still the bloom of early
youth, and would hardly have betrayed his age, if it had not been
shaded by a dark brown silky beard, which had never known a razor. It
was an entirely uncommon type, recalling in profile, Antinous, and the
full face reminding one of the St. Sebastian of Guido Roni in the
museum of the Capitol; a face of the noblest manhood, without a single

coarse feature. His manner, although quiet, gave the impression of keen
enthusiasm, or, more rightly speaking, of unworldly inspiration. All
who saw him were powerfully attracted, but half-unconsciously felt a
slight doubt whether even so fine a specimen of manhood was quite
fitly organized and equipped for the strife of existence. At the
university he had been given the nickname of Wilhelmina, on account
of a certain gentleness and delicacy of manner, and because he neither
drank nor smoked. Such jokes, not ill-natured, were directed against his
outward appearance, but had a shade of meaning as regards his
character.
As Wilhelm walked into the courtyard of the Schloss hotel he stopped a
moment to regain his breath. Before him was the stately new house,
whose white-painted walls and many windows had looked down on the
high-road; to the left stood the round tower inclosed within a ruined
wall, shading an airy lattice-work building, in which on a raised
wooden floor stood a table and some benches. Several people,
evidently guests at the hotel, sat there drinking wine and beer, and
eying the newcomer curiously. The burly landlord, in village dress,
emerged from the open door of the cellar in the tower, and wished him
"good-day." He had a thick beard and a sunburned face, with
good-natured blue eyes. With a searching glance at the young man's
cap and knapsack, he waited for Wilhelm to speak.
"Can I have a room looking on to the valley?" asked the latter.
"Not at this moment," the landlord answered, clearing his throat loudly;
"there is hardly a room free here, and that only in the top story. But
to-morrow, or the day after, many people are leaving, and then I can
give you what you want."
Wilhelm's face clouded with disappointment, but only for a moment,
then he said: "Very well, I will stay."
"Luggage?" said the landlord, in his short, unceremonious way. "My
luggage is at Haslach. It can come up to-morrow."
"Bertha," called the landlord, in such a strident tone that the mountains

echoed the sound. The visitors drinking in the kiosk smiled; they were
well accustomed to the man. A neat red-cheeked girl appeared in the
doorway. "Number 47," shouted the landlord, and went off to his other
duties.
Bertha led the new guest up three flights of uncarpeted wooden
staircase, down a long passage to a light, clean, but sparely- furnished
room. The girl told him the hours of meals,