Transcribed from the 1887 Macmillan and Co. edition of “TheMadonna of the Future et al.” , email ccx074@coventry.ac.uk. Proofed by Vanessa M. Mosher, Faith Matievich and Jonesey.
It was at Homburg, several years ago, before the gaming had beensuppressed. The evening was very warm, and all the world was gatheredon the terrace of the Kursaal and the esplanade below it to listen tothe excellent orchestra; or half the world, rather, for the crowd wasequally dense in the gaming-rooms around the tables. Everywherethe crowd was great. The night was perfect, the season was atits height, the open windows of the Kursaal sent long shafts of unnaturallight into the dusky woods, and now and then, in the intervals of themusic, one might almost hear the clink of the napoleons and the metalliccall of the croupiers rise above the watching silence of the saloons. I had been strolling with a friend, and we at last prepared to sit down. Chairs, however, were scarce. I had captured one, but it seemedno easy matter to find a mate for it. I was on the point of givingup in despair, and proposing an adjournment to the silken ottomans ofthe Kursaal, when I observed a young man lounging back on one of theobjects of my quest, with his feet supported on the rounds of another. This was more than his share of luxury, and I promptly approached him. He evidently belonged to the race which has the credit of knowing best,at home and abroad, how to make itself comfortable; but something inhis appearance suggested that his present attitude was the result ofinadvertence rather than of egotism. He was staring at the conductorof the orchestra and listening intently to the music. His handswere locked round his long legs, and his mouth was half open, with rathera foolish air. “There are so few chairs,” I said,“that I must beg you to surrender this second one.” He started, stared, blushed, pushed the chair away with awkward alacrity,and murmured something about not having noticed that he had it.
“What an odd-looking youth!” said my companion, who hadwatched me, as I seated myself beside her.
“Yes, he is odd-looking; but what is odder still is that Ihave seen him before, that his face is familiar to me, and yet thatI can’t place him.” The orchestra was playing thePrayer from Der Freischütz, but Weber’s lovely music onlydeepened the blank of memory. Who the deuce was he? where, when,how, had I known him? It seemed extraordinary that a face shouldbe at once so familiar and so strange. We had our backs turnedto him, so that I could not look at him again. When the musicceased we left our places, and I went to consign my friend to her mammaon the terrace. In passing, I saw that my young man had departed;I concluded that he only strikingly resembled some one I knew. But who in the world was it he resembled? The ladies went offto their lodgings, which were near by, and I turned into the gaming-roomsand hovered about the circle at roulette. Gradually I filteredthrough to the inner edge, near the table, and, looking round, saw mypuzzling friend stationed opposite to me. He was watching thegame, with his hands in his pockets; but singularly enough, now thatI observed him at my leisure, the look of familiarity quite faded fromhis face. What had made us call his appearance odd was his greatlength and leanness of limb, his long, white neck, his blue, prominenteyes, and his ingenuous, unconscious absorption in the scene beforehim. He was not handsome, certainly, but he looked peculiarlyamiable and if his overt wonderment savoured a trifle of rurality, itwas an agreeable contrast to the hard, inexpressive masks about him. He was the verdant offshoot, I said to myself, of some ancient, rigidstem; he had been brought up in