IN front of the conversation House at Baden-Baden the usual crowd was assembled. The band was playing the old, well-known tunes in the pavilion. Round about the green tables, indoors, were to be seen the customary faces, with that expression of dull, savage, grasping cupidity which the habit of gambling will at last stamp upon the finest features. And, as usual, there was the inevitable gathering of our worthy compatriots near the Russian Tree. On meeting, they bowed to one another with the dignified coolness proper to persons of the highest social standing. When they had sat down, they did not talk to each other, but tried to kill time by doing nothing at all, or by laughing at the silly, stale, vulgar jokes of a so-called Bohemian, who came from Paris, a loquacious buffoon with an absurd little peak of hair on his chin, and enormous boots on his flat feet. These jokes of his, which he had borrowed from old Parisian comic papers, were loudly applauded by the Russian nobility, who showed that they appreciated foreign wit while acknowledging their own want of imagination.
The said listening Russians were the flower of our society, the most refined and cultured people of our land. There was Count X., the distinguished amateur, who, though he read like a schoolboy, sang operatic airs superbly — something like a French hair-dresser. There was the fascinating Baron Y., incomparably versatile, author, orator, statesman, and scholar. 74 And then there was Prince Z., a patron of the masses and the Church, who had made a fortune out of the manufacture of adulterated brandy. And there was the dashing General O., who had once upon a time gained a great victory, somewhere, over somebody, but whose want of self-mastery was evident through his behavior. A delightful fellow was P., an alleged invalid and wit, who was in reality as strong as an ox and as stupid as an owl, and whose specialty was elegant deportment. Statesmen and diplomats of European fame there were, profound and acute, who thought that Irish bulls were issued by the pope, and that the taxes for the support of the poor were contributed by the poor themselves. Besides all these were the ardent but diffident adherents of the stage, young bloods with hair exquisitely parted behind, gorgeous whiskers, and clothes made in London.
Yet, though there seemed nothing wanting to put these gentlemen on an equal footing with the buffoon from Paris, our ladies nevertheless paid no attention to them. Thus, Countess C., the renowned lady of fashion, from her malicious tongue nicknamed “Queen of the Wasps,” when the buffoon was absent slighted her countrymen, showing her preference for Italians, Austrians, Americans, attachés of foreign legations, and even the greenest sprigs of the German aristocracy. About this social star hovered Princess Babette, in whose arms Chopin had breathed his last — an honor claimed by a thousand ladies in Europe; Princess Annette, who would have been a fairy but for her stoutness — qualifying her for a washerwoman; Princess Paquette, whose husband, after being made governor of his province, had got into a fisticuff match with a subordinate, and then absconded with twenty thousand rubles of government funds; and finally there might be mentioned giddy Mlle. Zizi, and melancholy 75 Mlle. Zozo. But, one and all, these ladies turned their back upon their countrymen in cold disdain.
ONE day the Supreme Being took it into His head to give a great banquet in His azure palace.
All the virtues were invited. Men he did not ask — only ladies.
There was a large number of them, great and small. The lesser virtues were more agreeable and genial than the great ones; but they all appeared to be in good-humor, and chatted amiably together, as was only becoming for near relations and friends.
But the Supreme Being noticed two charming ladies who seemed to be totally unacquainted.
The Host gave one of the ladies His arm, and led her up to the other.
“Beneficence!” He said, indicating the first.
“Gratitude!” He added, indicating the second.
Both the virtues were amazed beyond expression. Ever since the world had stood — and it had been standing a long time — this was the first time they had met.
WHATEVER a man prays for, he prays for a miracle. Every prayer reduces itself to this: “Great God, grant that twice two be not four.”
76Only such a prayer is a real prayer from person to person. To pray to the Cosmic Spirit, to the Higher Being, to the Kantian, the Hegelian, quintessential, formless God, is impossible and unthinkable.
But can even a personal, living, imaged God make twice two not to be four?
Every believer is bound to answer “He can,” and is bound to persuade himself of it.
But what if reason sets him revolting against his unreasonableness?
Then Shakespeare comes to his aid: “There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio,” etc.
And if they set about confuting him in the name of truth, he has but to repeat the famous question: “What is truth?”
And so let us eat, drink, and be merry — and say our prayers.
ONCE upon a time there was a fool.
For a long period he lived in peace and contentment; but by degrees rumors began to reach him that he was regarded on all sides as a common idiot.
The fool was abashed, and began to ponder gloomily how he might put an end to these unpleasant rumors.
A sudden idea at last illuminated his dull little brain. Without the slightest delay he put it into practise.
A friend met him in the street, and fell to praising a well-known painter.
“Upon my word,” cried the fool, “that painter has been 77 out of date for years! You didn’t know it? I should never have suspected it of you! You are quite behind the times.”
The friend was alarmed, and promptly agreed with the fool.
“Such a splendid book I read yesterday!” said another friend to him.
“Upon my word,” cried the fool, “I wonder you’re not ashamed! The book’s good for nothing; every one has seen through it long ago. Didn’t you know it? You’re quite behind the times.”
This friend, too, was alarmed, and he agreed with the fool.
“What a wonderful fellow my friend N——, is!” said a third friend to the fool. “Now, there’s a really fine man for you!”
“Upon my word!” cried the fool. “N——, the notorious scoundrel! He swindled all his relations. Every one knows that. You’re quite behind the times.”
The third friend was alarmed, and he agreed with the fool and deserted his friend. And whoever and whatever was praised in the fool’s presence, he had the same retort for everything.
Sometimes he would add reproachfully, “And do you still believe in authorities?”
“Spiteful! Malignant!” his friends began to say of the fool. “But what a brain! And what a tongue!” Others would add, “Oh, yes, he is very talented.”
It ended in an editor of a paper proposing to the fool that he should undertake the reviewing column.
And the fool fell to criticizing everything and every one, without in the least changing his manner or his exclamations.
Now he who once declaimed against authorities is himself an authority, and the young men venerate and fear him.
78And what else can they do, poor young men? Though one ought not, as a general rule, to venerate anybody, in this case, if one didn’t venerate him, one would find oneself quite behind the times!
Fools succeed well among cowards.