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THE INDIAN LILY
AND OTHER STORIES
BY
HERMANN SUDERMANN
TRANSLATED BY
LUDWIG LEWISOHN, M.A.
1911
CONTENTS
THE INDIAN LILY
THE PURPOSE
THE SONG OF DEATH
THE VICTIM
AUTUMN
MERRY FOLK
THEA
THE INDIAN LILY
Chapter I.
It was seven o'clock in the morning when Herr von Niebeldingk openedthe iron gate and stepped into the front garden whose wall ofblossoming bushes separated the house from the street.
The sun of a May morning tinted the greyish walls with gold, andcaused the open window-panes to flash with flame.
The master directed a brief glance at the second story whence floatedthe dull sound of the carpet-beater. He thrust the key rapidly intothe keyhole for a desire stirred in him to slip past the porter'slodge unobserved.
"I seem almost to be—ashamed!" he murmured with a smile ofself-derision as a similar impulse overcame him in front of thehouse door.
But John, his man—a dignified person of fifty—had observed hisapproach and stood in the opening door. The servant's mutton-chopwhiskers and admirably silvered front-lock contrasted with a repressedreproach that hovered between his brows. He bowed deeply.
"I was delayed," said Herr von Niebeldingk, in order to say somethingand was vexed because this sentence sounded almost like an excuse.
"Do you desire to go to bed, captain, or would you prefer a bath?"
"A bath," the master responded. "I have slept elsewhere."
That sounded almost like another excuse.
"I'm obviously out of practice," he reflected as he entered thebreakfast-room where the silver samovar steamed among the dishes ofold Sèvres.
He stepped in front of the mirror and regarded himself—not with theforbearance of a friend but the keen scrutiny of a critic.
"Yellow, yellow…." He shook his head. "I must apply a curb to myfeelings."
Upon the whole, however, he had reason to be fairly satisfied withhimself. His figure, despite the approach of his fortieth year, hadremained slender and elastic. The sternly chiselled face, surroundedby a short, half-pointed beard, showed neither flabbiness nor bloat.It was only around the dark, weary eyes that the experiences of thepast night had laid a net-work of wrinkles and shadows. Ten yearsago pleasure had driven the hair from his temples, but it grewenergetically upon his crown and rose, above his forehead, in aMephistophelian curve.
The civilian's costume which often lends retired officers a guise ofexcessive spick-and-spanness had gradually combined with an easierbearing to give his figure a natural elegance. To be sure, six yearshad passed since, displeased by a nagging major, he had definitelyhung up the dragoon's coat of blue.
He was wealthy enough to have been able to indulge in the luxury ofthat displeasure. In addition his estates demanded more rigorousmanagement…. From Christmas to late spring he lived in Berlin, where