# The Masses (periodical)/Volume 1/Number 2/Iolanthe's Wedding

Iolanthe's Wedding February 1911
March 1911→
THE MASSES
A MONTHLY MAGAZINE DEVOTED TO THE INTERESTS OF THE WORKING PEOPLE
EDITED BY Thomas Seltzer
Eugene Wood, PRES. HAYDEN CARRUTH, VICE-PRES. ANDRE TRIDON, SEC'Y.
THE MASSES PUBLISHING COMPANY 112 E. 19TH ST. NEW YORK
IOLANTHE'S WEDDING
By Hermann Sudermann
Author of "Magda," "Dame Care," "Song of Songs," etc.
Illustrated by Frank Van Sloun
Herman Sudermann is without a doubt Germany's greatest novelist today, and until Hauptmann's rise he held undisputed sway in the German drama also. Now he shares the laurels with him. As a novelist he is almost as well known abroad as in his own country. It has been said that he is the only German writer of fiction who can bear translation into English. His "Song of Songs," the sensation of a year in Germany, was published last year in this country, and quickly passed through several editions. Ellen Glasgow, author of the "Wheel of Life," said it was works like the "Song of Songs" that were the despair of American novelists. Many of our greatest writers have spoken of it in equally high terms. A short time ago it was published in England, where the Law and Order Society proceeded to enhance the prospects of its popularity by prohibiting its sale. The story, the first instalment of which comes out in this number, is one of the most successful of his works. It has never before appeared in English.—Editor.
I TELL you, gentlemen, it's beastly, it's disgusting to stand beside an old friend's grave, his open grave.
You stand there with your feet deep in the freshly dug earth, twirling your mustache and looking stupid, while you feel like howling the soul out of your body.
He was dead—there was no helping that.
In him was lost the greatest genius for concocting and mixing punches, grogs, cobblers and hot and cold bowls. I tell you, gentlemen, when you went walking in the country with him and he began to draw the air in through his nose in his peculiar fashion, you might feel sure he had just gotten a new idea for a bowl. From the mere smell of some weed or other, he knew the sorts of wine that had to be poured over it to bring into being something that had never before existed.
Altogether he was a good fellow, and in all the years we sat opposite each other, evening after evening—either he came to me at Ilgenstein, or I rode over to him at Döbeln—time never hung heavy.
If only it hadn't been for his eternal marriage schemes. That was his weak side. I mean so far as I was concerned. Because for himself—"Good Lord," he'd say, "I'm just waiting for that vile water to creep up to my heart, then I'll slide off into eternity."
And now it had come to that—he was gone—he lay there in his black coffin, and I felt like tapping on the lid and saying:
"Pütz, don't play dirty tricks—come out—why, what'll become of our piquet to-day?"
Nothing to laugh at, gentlemen. Habit is the most violent passion. And the number of persons ruined every year by having their habits interrupted are never sung in song or epic, to quote my old friend Uhland.
Such weather! I wouldn't send a clog out in such weather. It rained and hailed and blew all at once. Some of the gentlemen wore mackintoshes, and the water ran down them in rivulets. And it ran down their cheeks and into their beards—perhaps a few tears, too—because he left no enemies, not he.
There was only one chief mourner—what the world calls chief mourner—his son, a dragoon of the Guards in Berlin. Lothar was his name. He had come from Berlin on the day of his father's death, and he behaved like a good son, kissed his father's hands, wept much, thanked me gratefully, and did a dreadful lot of ordering about—a lieutenant, you know—when all of a sudden—well, I was there—and we had arranged everything.
As I looked from the corner of my eyes at the handsome fellow standing there, manfully choking down his tears, my old friend's words occurred to me, what he had said the day before he died.
"Hanckel," he said, "take pity on me in my grave. Don't forsake my boy."
As I said, those words of his occurred to me, and when the pastor beckoned to me to come throw the three handfuls of earth in the grave, I silently sent a vow along with them: "I will not forsake him, old fellow. Amen."
Everything has an end. The gravediggers had made a sort of mound of the mud, and laid the wreaths on top, since there were no women at the funeral—the neighbors took leave, and the only ones that remained were the pastor, Lothar, and myself.
The boy stood there like a block of stone, staring at the mound as if to dig it up again with his eyes, and the wind blew the collar of his riding coat about his ears.
The pastor tapped him gently on his shoulder, and said:
"Baron, will you pardon an old man one word more——"
But I beckoned to him to step aside.
"Just go home, little minister," I said, "and get your wife to give you a glass of good hot punch. I fancy it's a bit draughty in that silk vestment of yours."
"Hee, hee!" he said, and grinned quite slyly. "That's the way it looks, but I wear my overcoat underneath."
"Never mind," I said. "Go home. I'll look out for the boy. I know better than you where the shoe pinches him."
So then he left us alone.
"Well, my boy," I said "that won't make him come back to life again. Come home, and if you want I'll sleep at your house to-night."
"Never mind, uncle," he said—he called me uncle because I had once been called uncle in a joke. His face was hard and dogged and his looks seemed to say, "Why do you bother me in my grief?"
"But maybe we can talk over business?" I asked.
That silenced him.
You know what an empty house after a funeral is, gentlemen. When you come back from the cemetery, the smell of the coffin still clings, and the smell of fading flowers.
Ghastly!
My sister, to be sure, who kept house for me then—the dear good soul has been dead, too, these many years—had had things put into some order, the bier removed, and so on—but not much could be done in such a hurry.
​I ordered the carriage to come and take her home, fetched a bottle of Pütz's best Port, and seated myself opposite Lothar, who was sitting on the sofa, poking the sole of his shoe with the point of his sword.
As I said, he was a superb fellow, tall, stalwart, just what a dragoon should be—thick mustache, heavy eyebrows, and eyes like two wheels of fire. A fine head, but his forehead a bit wild and low, because his hair grew down on it. But a wild forehead suits young people. He had the dash characteristic of the Guards to which we all once so ardently aspired. Neither the Tilsit nor the Allenstein Dragoons could come up to it. The devil knows what the secret of it is.
We clinked glasses—to my old friend's memory, of course—and I asked him:
"Well, what next?"
"Do I know?" he muttered between his teeth, and glared at me desperately with his burning eyes.
So that was the state of affairs.
My old friend's circumstances had never been brilliant. Added to that his love for everything in the shape of drink. Well—and you know where there's a swamp the frogs will jump in—especially the boy, who had been going it for years, as if the stones at Döbeln were nuggets of gold.
"The debts are mounting?" I asked.
"Quite so, uncle," he said.
"Bad for you," I said. "Mortgages, first, second, third—way over the value of the property, and there's nothing to be earned from farming on the estate—the very chickens know that."
"Then good-bye to the army?" he asked, and looked me full in the face, as if he expected to hear sentence pronounced by the judge of a court martial.
"Unless you have a friend I don't know about to rescue you."
He shook his head in a rage.
"Then, of course."
"And suppose I should have Döbeln cut up into lots, what do you think I'd realize?"
"Shame on you, boy," I said. "What! Sell the shirt from your body, chop your bed into kindlings?"
"Uncle," he replied, "you are talking through your hat. I am dead broke."
"How much is it?" I asked.
He mentioned a sum. I'll not tell what it was, because I paid it.
I named my terms. Firstly, immediate withdrawal from the army. Secondly, his personal management of the estate. Thirdly, the settlement of the lawsuit.
The suit was against Krakow of Krakowitz, and had been going on for years. It had been my old friend's favorite sport. Like all those things, it turned, of course, upon a question of inheritance, and had swallowed up three times as much as the whole business was worth.
Krakow was a boor, so the dispute took on a personal color, and led to grinding hate, at least on Krakow's side, because Pütz was phlegmatic and always managed to see a bit of humor in the affair. But Krakow had openly declared and sworn he would have his dogs chase that Pütz and anybody connected with him from his place if they dared to come near it.
Well, those were my terms. And the boy agreed to them. Whether willingly or unwillingly, I did not inquire.
I made up my mind to take the first steps myself toward an understanding with Krakow, although I had every reason to believe his threat applied to me, too. I had had several tilts with him in the county council.
But I—look at me—I don't mean to boast—I can fell a bull to the ground with this fist of mine. Then why should I fight shy of a few curs?
So I let three days pass, gentlemen, to sleep on the matter—then my two coach-horses in harness—my yellow phaeton—and heigho for Krakowitz.
Beautiful bit of property, no denying that. Somewhat run down, but A-No. 1. Lots of black fallow. It might have been meant for winter kale or something of the sort. The wheat so-so. The cattle splendid.
The courtyard! You know, a courtyard is like the human heart. Once you have learned to see into it, you cannot be bamboozled so easily. There are neglected hearts, but you can see gold nuggets peeping out through the dirt covering them. Then there are hearts all done up and polished and smartened, hearts brought up, you might say, on arsenic. They glitter and glisten, and all you can say when you look at them is "By Jingo!" But for all that they are rotten and mouldy. There are hearts in the ascending and descending scale, hearts of which the better is more hopeless than the much, much worse, because the worse improves while the other gradually declines. And so on.
Well, the Krakowitz yard was a little of all this. Bright, clean barns, miserable wagons, fine drain from the stable, but poor stable arrangements. An air of whimsicality about the whole place, with a sprinkling of stinginess or scarcity. From appearances it is difficult to distinguish between the two. The manor-house—two stories, red bricks faced with yellow stones and overgrown with ivy. In a word, not bad, something like unconscious—well, you know what I mean.
"Is the Baron at home?"
"Yes. Whom shall I say?"
"Hanckel, Baron Hanckel-Ilgenstein."
"Step in, sir."
So I walked in—everything old—old furniture, old pictures—wormeaten, but cosy.
The next instant I heard someone cursing and swearing in the adjoining room.
"The dirty blackguard—the impudence of him—always was a friend of that Pütz, the cur!"
"Pleasant reception," I thought.
Women's voices joined in.
"Papa, papa!"
Dear me!
Then he came in. Gentlemen, if I hadn't just heard it with my own ears! He held out his hands, the old sinner's face beamed, his Dachs eyes blinked slyly, but with a merry light in them.
"My dear sir, delighted."
"See here, Krakow," I said, "look out. I heard everything just now."
"What did you hear, what did you hear?"
"The epithets you bestowed upon me—dirty blackguard and heaven knows what else."
"Oh, that," he said, without a twitch of his lids. "I tell my wife every day the doors are no good. But, my dear sir, you musn't mind what I said. I always have been angry that you stuck up for Pütz. And I tell you, sir, my womenfolk mix just as good bowls as he. If you had come to us—— Iolanthe!—Iolanthe's my daughter. Iolanthe!! The comfort of my soul! Doesn't hear, doesn't hear. Didn't I just say the doors are no good? But both those women are at the keyhole now! Will you get away from there, you hussies? Do you hear their skirts rustling? They're running away. Ha-ha! Those women!"
Gentlemen, who could take offence? I couldn't. Perhaps I'm too thick-skinned. But I couldn't.
You want to know like what he looked?
The creature didn't reach much above my waist line. Round, fat, bow-legged. And on such a trunk sat a regular Apostle's head, either St. Peter's or perhaps St. Andrew's or somebody of the sort. A fine broad, round beard, with a band of white running down from each corner of his mouth—yellow, parchment skin, thick crows' feet at the corners of his eyes, the top of his head bald, but two huge grey bushes over his ears.
The fellow danced about me like wild.
Don't for a moment suppose, gentleman, that I was taken in by his fuss and to-do. I had known him long enough. I saw through and through him—but say what you will, I liked him.
And I liked everything about him.
There was a little corner at the window with carved oak cabinets all around—the window overgrown with ivy—very cosy. The sun shone through as in an arbor, and on a table in an ivory bowl was a ball of worsted. And a copy of "Daheim" lay on the table, and a piece of nibbled cake.
As I said, altogether comfortable and cosy.
We sat down in the corner, and a maid brought cigars.
The cigars were no good, but the smoke curled so merrily in the sunshine that I did not pay much attention to the fact that they burned like a match.
I wanted to begin to talk about my business, but Krakow laid his hand on my shoulders and said:
"After the coffee!"
"If you please, Krakow," I said.
"After the coffee!"
I courteously inquired about his farming and pretended great interest in his innovations, about which he boasted extravagantly, though they were as old as the hills to me.
Then the Baroness came in.
"A fine old piece. A slender dame. Long, narrow blue eyes, silver hair under a black lace cap, a melancholy smile, fine yellow hands. A bit too tender for a country gentlewoman and especially for such a boor of a husband.
She welcomed me very properly, while the old man kept screaming as if possessed.
"Iolanthe—girl—where are you hiding? A bachelor's here—a suitor—a——"
"Krakow!" I said, completely taken aback. Don't joke that way with an old weed like me."
And the Baroness saved me by saying very neatly:
"Don't worry, Baron. We mothers gave you up for hopeless years ago."
"But the girl can come in at any rate," screamed the old fellow.
And finally she came.
Gentlemen, take off your hats! I stood there as if somebody had knocked me on the head. Race, gentlemen, race! A figure like a young queen's—her hair loose in a thousand wavelets and ringlets, golden brown like the mane of a Barbary steed. Her throat white and voluptuous. Her bosom not too high, and broad and curving at the sides. In a horse, we call a chest like that a lion's chest. And when she breathed her whole body seemed to breathe along with her lungs, so strongly did the air pulsate through that young thoroughbred organism.
Gentlemen, you don't have to go in for breeding animals as a passionate pursuit to know how much toil and effort it costs to produce a perfect specimen, no matter of what species. And I'm not a woman connoisseur, and one doesn't have to be, to fold one's hands at the sight of so perfect a creature and pray:
"O Lord, I thank Thee for allowing such a thing to walk this earth. For as long as such bodies are created we need have no fear for our souls."
The one thing I did not like at first were her eyes. Too pale a blue, too languishing for such an abundance of life. They seemed to be soaring toward heaven, and yet when they narrowed, a searching, lowering look came into them, such a look as surly dogs have that get beaten too often.
Old Krakow caught her by both shoulders and began to brag outrageously.
"This is my work—this is what I brought into being—I'm the father of this," and so on.
Drawn by Frank Van Sloun.
"Gentlemen, take off your hats."
She tried to shake him off and turned scarlet—ashamed of him.
Then the ladies got the table ready for coffee. Fresh red waffles—preserves after the Russian fashion—a gleaming damask—and knives and spoons with buckhorn handles. The fine blue smoke of charcoal puffed up from the chimney of the brass coffee machine, and made everything still cosier.
We sat there drinking our coffee. Old Krakow blustered, the Baroness smiled a fine, melancholy smile, and Iolanthe made eyes at me.
Yes, gentlemen, made eyes at me. You may be at the time of life when that sort of thing happens to you none too rarely. But just you get to be well on in the forties, conscious to the very depths of your soul of your fatness and baldness, and you will see how grateful you'll be to a housemaid or a barmaid for taking the trouble to ogle you.
And what if she should be a choice creature like this one, a creature given to us by God's grace.
At first I thought I hadn't seen straight, then I stuck my red hands in my pockets, then I got a fit of coughing, then I swore at myself—you idiot! you donkey!—then I wanted to bolt, and finally I took to staring into my empty coffee cup.
Like a little schoolgirl.
But when I looked up—I had to look up every now and then—I always met those great, light-blue, languishing eyes. They seemed to say:
"Don't you know I'm an enchanted princess whom you are to set free?"
"Do you know why I gave her that crazy name?" the old man asked, grinning at her slyly.
She turned her head scornfully and stood up. She seemed to know his jokes.
"This is how it was. She was a week old. She lay in her cradle kicking her legs—legs like little sausages. And her little buttocks, you know——"
Ye gods! I scarcely risked looking up, I was so embarrassed. The Baroness behaved as if she heard nothing, and Iolanthe left the room.
But the old man shook with laughter.
"Ha—ha—such a rosy mite—such tenderness, and a shape like a rose leaf. Well, when I saw all that, I said, in my young father's joy, 'That girl's going to be beautiful and will kick her legs the whole of her life. She must have a very poetic name—then she'll rise in value with the suitors.' So I looked up names in the dictionary. Thekla, Hero, Elsa, Angelica—no, they were all too soft, like persimmons—with a name of that sort she'll languish away for some briefless lawyer. Then Rosaura, Carmen, Beatrice, Wana—nixy—too passionate—would elope with some butler or other—you know a person's name is his fate. Finally I found Iolanthe. Iolanthe melts so sweetly on your tongue—just the name for lovers—and yet it does not provoke people to do silly things. It is both ticklish and dignified. It lures a man on, but inspires him with serious intentions. That's the way I calculated, and my calculation has turned out quite right so far, if after all she does not remain an old maid on my hands for all her good looks."
Iolanthe now entered the room again. Her eyes were half closed, and she was smiling like a child who has gotten an undeserved scolding. I was sorry for the poor, pretty creature, and to turn the conversation quickly I began to speak about the business I had come for.
The ladies silently cleared the table, and the old man filled the half-charred bowl of his pipe. He seemed inclined to listen patiently.
But scarcely did the name Pütz cross my lips when he sprang up and dashed his pipe against the stove, so that the burning tobacco leaves flew about in all directions. The mere sight of his face was enough to frighten you. It turned red and blue and swelled up as if he had been seized with a stroke of apoplexy.
"Sir-r-r!" he shouted. "Is that the reason you visited me—to poison my home? Don't you know that d—— name is not to breathed in this house? Don't you know I curse the fellow in his grave, and curse his brood, and curse all——"
At this point he choked and coughed and had to sink down into his upholstered chair. And the Baroness gave him sweetened water to drink.
I took up my hat without saying anything. Then I happened to notice Iolanthe standing there white as chalk. She held her hands folded and looked at me as if in all her shame and misery she wanted to beg my pardon, or expected something like help from me.
I wanted to say good-by at least. So I waited quietly until I felt I might assume that the old man, who was lying there groaning and panting, was in a condition to understand me. Then I said:
"Baron von Krakow, you must understand, of course, that after such an attack upon my friend and his son, whom I love as my own, our relations——"
He pounded with his hands and feet as a sign to me not to go on speaking, and after he had tried several times in vain to catch his breath he finally succeeded in saying:
"That asthma—the devil take it—like a halter around your neck—snap—your throat goes shut. But what's that you're cackling about our relations? Our relations, that is, your and my relations—there never has been anything wrong with them, my dear sir. They are the best relations in the world. If I insulted that litigious fellow, the—the—noble man, I take it all back, and call myself a dog. Only nobody must speak to me about him. I don't want anybody to remind me that he has a son and heir to his name. To me he's dead, you see—he's dead, dead, dead."
He cut the air three times with his fist, and looked at me triumphantly, as if he had dealt my friend Pütz his deathblow.
"Nevertheless, Baron——" I started to say.
"No neverthelessing here. You are my friend! You are the friend of my family—look at my womenfolk—completely smitten. Don't be ashamed, Iolanthe! Just make eyes at him, child. Do you think I don't see anything, goosie?"
She did not blush, nor did she seem to be abashed, but just raised her folded hands up to ​me. It was such a touching, helpless gesture that it completely disarmed me. So I sat down again for a few moments, and spoke about indifferent matters. Then I took leave as soon as I could without provoking him again.
"Go to the door with him, Iolanthe," said the old man, "and be charming to him, because he's the richest man in the district." At that we all laughed. But when Iolanthe walked next to me in the twilight of the hall, she said very softly, with a sort of timid grief:
"I know you don't want to come again."
(To be continued)
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1929.
The longest-living author of this work died in 1928, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 95 years or less. This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works.
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