Part 46 (1/2)
”Gladly, Lena, these names are only nicknames.”
”I know that. You said so before.”
”So they are names that we have given each other for convenience, with or without reason, just by chance.”
”And what does Pitt mean?”
”Pitt was an English statesman.”
”And is your friend a statesman too?”
”For heaven's sake ...”
”And Serge?”
”That is a Russian given name, belonging to a Russian saint and many Russian crown princes.”
”Who, however, do not find it necessary to be saints if I am right?...
And Gaston?”
”Is a French name.”
”Yes, I remember that. Once when I was a little young thing, before I was confirmed, I saw a piece: 'The Man with the Iron Mask.' And the man with the mask was called Gaston. And I cried dreadfully.”
”And now you will laugh if I tell you that I am Gaston.”
”No, I will not laugh. You have a mask too.”
Botho was about to contradict this, both in earnest and in jest, but Frau Dorr, who just then came in, broke off the conversation, by excusing herself for having kept them waiting so long. But an order had come in and she had been obliged to make a burial wreath in a hurry.
”A big one or a little one?” asked Frau Nimptsch, who loved to talk about funerals and had a pa.s.sion for hearing all the details about them.
”Well,” said Frau Dorr, ”it was a middle-sized one; plain people. Ivy and azaleas.”
”Oh, Lord!” went on Frau Nimptsch, ”every one is wild about ivy and azaleas, but I am not. Ivy is well enough when it grows on the grave and covers it all so green and thick that the grave seems as peaceful as he who lies below. But ivy in a wreath, that is not right. In my day we used immortelles, yellow or half yellow, and if we wanted something very fine we took red ones or white ones and made a wreath out of those, or even just one color and hung it on the cross, and there it hung all winter, and when spring came there it hung still. And some lasted longer than that. But this ivy and azalea is no good at all. And why not? because it does not last long. And I always think that the longer the wreath hangs on the grave, the longer people remember him who lies below. And a widow too, if she is not too young. And that is why I favor immortelles, yellow or red or even white, and any one can hang up another wreath also if he wants to. That is just for the looks of it. But the immortelle is the real thing.”
”Mother,” said Lena, ”you talk so much about graves and wreaths lately.”
”Yes, child, everyone speaks as he thinks. And if one is thinking of a wedding, he talks about weddings, and if he is thinking of a funeral, then he talks about graves. And, anyway, I didn't begin talking about graves and wreaths; Frau Dorr began it, which was quite right. And I only keep on talking about it because I am always anxious and I keep thinking. Who will bring you one?”
”Now, mother ...”
”Yes, Lena, you are good, you are a dear child. But man proposes and G.o.d disposes, and to-day red, to-morrow, dead. And you might die any day as well as I; for all that, I do not believe you will. And Frau Dorr may die, or when I die she may live somewhere else, or I may be living somewhere else and may have just moved in. Ah, my dear Lena, one can never be sure of anything, not even of a wreath for one's grave.”
”Oh, but you can, Mother Nimptsch,” said Botho, ”you shall certainly have one.”
”Oh, Herr Baron, if that is only true.”