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Speaker 1: The Cold Embrace by Mary Elizabeth Bradden. He was an artist.

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Such things as happened to him happened sometimes to artists.

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He was a German. Such things as happened to him

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happened sometimes to Germans. He was young, handsome, studious, enthusiastic, metaphysical, reckless, unbelieving, heartless,

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And being young, handsome and eloquent, he was beloved. He

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was an orphan under the guardianship of his dead father's brother,

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his uncle Wilhelm, in whose house he had been brought

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up from a little child. And she who loved him

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was his cousin, his cousin Gertrude, whom he swore he

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loved in return, did he love her? Yes? When he

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first swore it, it soon wore out. This passionate love.

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How threadbare and wretched a sentiment. It became at last

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in the selfish heart of the student, but in its

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first golden dawn, when he was only nineteen and had

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just returned from his apprenticeship to a great painter at Antwerp,

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and they wandered together in the most romantic outskirts of

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the city, at rosy sunset by holy moonlight, or bright

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and joyous morning how beautiful a dream. They keep it

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a secret from Wilhelm, as he has the father's ambition

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of a wealthy suitor for his only child, a cold

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and dreary vision beside the lover's dream. So they are

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betrothed and standing side by side. When the dying sun

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in the pale rising moon divide the heavens, he puts

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the betrothal ring upon her finger, the white and taper finger,

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whose slender shape he knows so well. This ring is

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a peculiar one, a massive golden serpent, its tail in

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its mouth, the symbol of eternity. It had been his mother's,

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and he would know it amongst a thousand. If he

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were to become blind tomorrow, he could select it from

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amongst a thousand by the touch alone. He places it

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on her finger, and they swear to be true to

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each other forever and ever, through trouble and danger, sorrow

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and change in wealth or poverty. Her father must needs

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be one to consent to their union by and by,

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for they were now betrothed, and death alone could part them.

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But the young student the scoffer at revelation. Yet the

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enthusiastic adorer of the metaphysical asks can death. Patus I

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would return to you from the grave, Gertrude, my soul

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would come back to be near my love. And you you,

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if you died before me, the cold earth would not

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hold you from me. If you loved me, you would

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return and again the these fair arms would be clasped

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round my neck, as they are now. But she told him,

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with a holier light in her deep blue eyes than

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had ever shown in his. She told him that the

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dead who die at peace with God are happy in

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heaven and cannot return to the troubled earth, and that

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it is only the suicide the lost wretch on whom

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sorrowful angels shut the door of paradise, whose unholy spirit

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haunts the footsteps of the living. The first year of

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their betrothal has passed, and she is alone, for he

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has gone to Italy on a commission for some rich

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man to copy Raphael's Titians Guidos in a gallery at Florence.

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He has gone to win fame, perhaps, but it is

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not the less bitter he is gone. Of course, Her

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father misses his young nephew, who has been as a

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son to him, and he thinks his daughter said madness

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no more than a cousin should feel for a cousin's absence.

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In the meantime, the weeks and months pass. The lover writes,

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often at first, then seldom at last, not at all.

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How many excuses she invents for him, How many times

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she goes to the distant little post office to which

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he is to address his letters. How many times she

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hopes only to be disappointed. How many times she despairs,

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only to hope again. But real despair comes at last,

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and will not be put off anymore. The rich suitor

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appears on the scene, and her father is determined she

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is to marry at once. The wedding day is fixed,

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the fifteenth of June. The date seems burned into her brain.

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The date written in fire dances forever before her eyes.

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The date shrieked by the furies, sounds continually in her ears.

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But there is time yet. It is the middle of May.

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There is time for a letter to reach him at Florence.

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There is time for him to come back to Brunswick,

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to take her away and marry her, in spite of

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her father, in spite of the whole world. But the

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days and weeks fly by, and he does not write

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he does not come. This is indeed despair which usurps

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her heart and will not be put away. It is

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the fourteenth of June. For the last time, she goes

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to the little post office for the last time. She

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asks the old question, and they give her, for the

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last time the dreary answer no, no letter, for the

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last time. For tomorrow is the day appointed for her bridle.

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Her father will hear no entities, her rich suitor will

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not listen to her prayers. They will not be put

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off a day an hour. Tonight alone is hers, this night,

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which she may employ as she will. She takes another

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path than that which leads home. She hurries through some

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by streets of the city out onto a lonely bridge,

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where he and she had stood so often in the sunset,

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watching the rose colored light glow, fade and die upon

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the river. He returns from Florence. He had received her letter,

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that letter blotted with tears, entreating despairing. He had received it,

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but he loved her no longer. A young Florentine who

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has sat to him for a model, had bewitched his fancy,

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that fancy which with him stood in place of a

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heart and Gertrude had been half forgotten. If she had

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a rich suitor, good, let her marry him, better for her,

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better far for himself. He had no wish to fetter

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himself with a wife, had he not his art, always,

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his eternal bride, his unchanging mistress. Thus he thought it

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wiser to delay his journey to Brunswick, so that he

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should arrive when the wedding was over, arrive in time

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to salute the bride and the vows, the mystical fancies,

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the belief in his return, even after death, to the

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embrace of his beloved Oh, gone out of his life,

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melted away forever, those foolish dreams of his boyhood. So

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on the fifteenth of June he enters Brunswick by that

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very bridge on which she stood, the stars looking down

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on her the night before. He strolls across the bridge

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and down by the water's edge, a great rough dog

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at his heels, and the smoke from his short meercham

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pipe curling in blue wreaths fantastically in the pure morning air.

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He has his sketch book under his arm, and attracted

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now and then by some object that catches his artist's eye,

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stops to draw a few weeds and pebbles on the

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river's bank, a crag on the opposite shore, a group

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of pollard willows in the distance. When he has done,

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he admires his drawing, shuts his sketch book, empties the

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ashes from his pipe, refills from his tobacco pouch, sings

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the refrain of a gay drinking song, calls to his dog,

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smokes again, and walks on. Suddenly he opens his sketch

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book again, this time that which attracts him as a

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group of figures. But what is it? It is not

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a funeral, for there are no mourners. It is not

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a funeral, but a corpse lying on a rough buyer,

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covered with an old sail, carried between two bearers. It

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is not a funeral, for the bearers are fishermen, fishermen

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in their everyday garb. About one hundred yards from him.

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They rest their burden on a bank. One stands at

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the head of the buyer, the other throws himself down

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at the foot of it, and thus they form a

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perfect group. He walks back two or three paces, selects

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his point of sight, and begins to sketch a hurried outline.

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He has finished it. Before they move. He hears their voices,

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though he cannot hear their words, and wonders what they

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can be talking of. Presently, he walks on and joins them.

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You have a corpse there, my friends, he says, Yes,

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a corpse washed ashore an hour ago, drowned, Yes, drowned

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a young girl. Very handsome. Suicide's are allwit's handsome, says

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the painter, And then he stands for a little while,

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idly smoking and meditating, looking at the sharp outline of

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the corpse and the stiff folds of the rough canvas

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covering life is such a golden holiday for him, young, ambitious, clever,

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that it seems as though sorrow and death could have

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no part in his destiny. At last, he says that,

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as this poor suicide is so handsome, he should like

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to make a sketch of her. He gives the fisherman

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some money, and they offer to remove the sailcloth that

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covers her features. No, he will do it himself. He

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lifts the rough, coarse, wet canvas from her face. What face,

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the face that shone on the dreams of his foolish boyhood,

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the face which once was the light of his uncle's home,

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his cousin, Gertrude, his betrothed. He sees as in one

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glance while he draws one breath, the rigid features, the

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marble arms, the hands crossed on the cold bosom, and

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on the third finger of the left hand, the ring

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which had been his mother's, the golden serpent, the ring which,

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if he were to become blind, he could select from

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a thousand others by the touch alone. But he is

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a genius and a metaphysician. Grief, true grief, is not

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for such as he. His first thought is flight, Flight,

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anywhere out of that accursed city, anywhere far from the

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brink of that hideous river, anywhere away from remorse, anywhere

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to forget. He is miles on the road that leads

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away from Brunswick before he knows that he has walked

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a step. It is only when his dog lies down,

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panting at his feet that he feels how exhausted he

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is himself, and sits down upon a bank to rest.

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How the landscape spins round and round before his dazzled eyes,

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while his morning sketch of the two fishermen and the

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canvas covered bier glares redly at him out of the twilight.

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At last, after sitting a long time by the roadside,

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idly playing with his dog, idly smoking, idly lounging, looking

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as any idle, light hearted traveling student might look, yet

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all the while acting over that morning scene in his

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burning brain a hundred times a minute. At last he

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grows a little more composed and tries presently to think

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of himself as he is apart from his cousin's suicide.

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Apart from that, he was no worse off than he

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was yesterday. His genius was not gone. The money he

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had earned at Florence still lined his pocketbook. He was

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his own master, free to go whither he would. And

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while he sits on the roadside, trying to separate himself

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from the scene of that morning, trying to put away

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the image of the corpse covered with the damp canvas sail,

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trying to think of what he should do next, where

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he should go, to be farthest away from Brunswick and remorse,

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the old Diligence comes, rumbling and jingling along. He remembers it.

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It goes from Brunswick to aile Chappelle. He whistles to

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his dog, shouts to the postilion to stop and springs

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into the coupe. During the whole evening through the long night,

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he does not once close his eyes. He never speaks

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a word, But when morning dawns and the other passengers

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away can begin to talk to each other, he joins.

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In the conversation. He tells them that he is an artist,

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that he is going to Cologne and to Antwerp to

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copy Reuben's and the great picture by Quentin Matcy's in

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the museum. He remembered afterwards that he talked and laughed boisterously,

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and that when he was talking and laughing loudest, a

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passenger older and graver than the rest, opened the window

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near him and told him to put his head out.

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He remembered the fresh air blowing in his face, the

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singing of the birds in his ears, and the flat

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fields and roadside reeling before his eyes. He remembered this,

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and then falling in alne lifeless heap on the floor

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of the Diligence. It is a fever that keeps him

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for six long weeks on a bed at a hotel

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in Eila Chapelle. He gets well and accompanied by his dog,

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starts on foot for Cologne. By this time he is

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his former self once more. Again, the blue smoke from

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his short Meerschaum curls upwards in the morning air. Again

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he sings some old university drinking song again, stops here

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and there, meditating and sketching. He is happy, and he

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has forgotten his cousin, and so on to Cologne. It

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is by the great cathedral he is standing, with his

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dog at his side. It is night. The bells have

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just chimed the hour, and the clocks are striking eleven.

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The moonlight shines full upon the magnificent pile over which

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the artist's eye wanders, absorbed in the beauty of form.

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He is not thinking of his drowned cousin, for he

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has forgotten her and is happy. Suddenly, someone, something from

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behind him, puts two cold arms round his neck and

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clasps its hands on his breast. And yet there is

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no one behind him, for on the flags bathed in

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the broad moonlight, there are only two shadows, his own

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and his dogs. He turns quickly round. There is no one,

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nothing to be seen in the broad square but himself

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and his dog. And though he feels he cannot see,

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the cold arms clasped round his neck It is not

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ghostly this embrace, for it is palpable to the touch.

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It cannot be real, for it is invisible. He tries

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to throw off the cold caress. He clasps the hands

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in his own, to tear them asunder, and to cast

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them off his neck. He can feel the long, delicate fingers,

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cold and wet beneath his touch, and on the third

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finger of the left hand can feel the ring which

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was his mother's, the golden serpent, the ring which he

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has always said he would know among a thousand by

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the touch alone. He knows it now. His dead cousin's

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cold arms are round his neck, his dead cousin's wet

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hands are clasp upon his breast. He asks himself if

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he is mad. Up Leo. He shouts, up, up, boy,

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and the Newfoundland leaps up on to his shoulders. The

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dog's paws are on the dead hands, and the animal

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utters a terrific howl and springs away from his master.

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The student stands in the moonlight, the dead arms round

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his neck, and the dog at a little distance, moaning piteously. Presently,

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a watchman, alarmed by the howling of the dog, comes

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into the square to see what is wrong. In a breath,

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the cold arms are gone. He takes the watchman home

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to the hotel with him and gives him money. In

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his gratitude. He could have given that man half his

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little fortune. Will it ever come to him again? This

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embrace of the dead. He tries never to be alone.

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He makes a hundred acquaintances and shares the chamber of

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another student. He starts up if he is left by

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himself in the public room at the inn where he

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is staying, and runs into the street. People notice his

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strange actions and begin to think that he is mad.

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But in spite of all, he is alone once more

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for one night, the public room being empty for a moment,

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when on some idle pretense, he strolls into the street.

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The street is empty too, and for the second time

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he feels the cold arms round his neck, and for

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the second time when he calls his dog, the animal

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SLINKs away from him with a piteous howl. After this,

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he leaves Cologne, still traveling on foot of necessity. Now,

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for his money is getting low, he joins traveling hawkers.

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He walks side by side with laborers. He talks to

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every foot passenger he falls in with, and tries from

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morning till night to get company on the road. At

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night he sleeps by the fire in the kitchen of

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the inn at which he stops, but do what he will.

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He is often alone, and it is now a common

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thing for him to feel the cold arms round his neck.

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Many months have passed since his cousin's death, autumn, winter,

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early spring. His money is nearly gone, his health is

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utterly broken. He is the shadow of his former self,

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and he is getting near to Paris. He will reach

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that city at the time of the Carnival. To this

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he looks forward in Paris in carnival time, he need

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never surely be alone, never feel that deadly caress. He

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may even recover his lost gaiety, his lost health, once more,

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resume his profession, once more earn fare, aim and money

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by his art. How hard he tries to get over

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the distance that divides him from Paris, while day by

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day he grows weaker and his steps slower and more heavy.

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But there is an end. At last, the long, dreary

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roads are past. This is Paris, which he enters for

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the first time, Paris which he has dreamed so much,

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Paris whose million voices are to exercise his phantom. To him, tonight,

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Paris seems one vast chaos of lights, music, and confusion.

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Lights which dance before his eyes and will not be still,

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music that rings in his ears and deafens him, Confusion

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which makes his head whirl round and round. But in

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spite of all he finds the opera house, where there

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is a masked ball. He has enough money left by

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a ticket of admission, and to hire a domino to

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throw over his shabby dress. It seems only a moment

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after his entering the gates of Paris that he is

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in the very midst of all the wild gaiety of

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the opera house ball. No more darkness, no more loneliness,

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but a mad crowd shouting and dancing, and a lovely

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de breadeus hanging on his arm. The boisterous gaiety, he feels, surely,

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is his old light heartedness come back. He hears the

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people round him talking of the outrageous conduct of some

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drunken student. And it is to him they point when

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they say this, to him, who has not moistened his

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lips since yesterday at noon. For even now he will

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not drink, though his lips are parched, and his throat burning,

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he cannot drink. His voice is thick and hoarse, and

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his utterance indistinct. But still this must be his old

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light heartedness come back, that makes him so wildly gay.

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The little Debrau Deus is wearied out. Her arm rests

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on his should, heavier than lead. The other dancers one

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by one drop off, the lights, and the chandeliers one

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by one die out. The decorations look pale and shadowy

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in that dim light, which is neither night nor day,

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A faint glimmer from the dying lamps, a pale streak

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of cold gray light from the newborn day, creeping in

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through half open shutters. And by this light, the bright

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eyed Debadeus fades sadly. He looks her in the face.

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How the brightness of her eyes dies out again. He

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looks her in the face, how white that face has

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grown again. And now it is the shadow of a

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face alone that looks in his again. And they are gone,

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the bright eyes, the face, the shadow of the face.

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He is alone, alone in that vast saloon, alone, and

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in the terrible silence he hears the echoes of his

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own footsteps, in that dismal dance which has no music,

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No music, but the beating of his breast. For the

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cold arms are round his neck. They whirl with him.

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They will not be flung off or cast away. He

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can no more escape from their icy grip than he

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can escape from death. He looks behind him. There is

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nothing but himself in the great empty salle. But he

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can feel cold deathlike. But oh how palpable, the long,

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slender fingers, and the ring which was his mother's. He

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tries to shout, but he has no power in his

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burning throat. The silence of the place is only broken

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by the echoes of his own footsteps in the dance

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from which he cannot extricate himself, who says he has

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no part. The cold hands are clasped on his breast,

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and now he does not shun their caress. Know one

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more polka if he drops down dead. The lights are

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all out, and half an hour after the gendarmes come

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in with a lantern to see that the house is empty.

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They are followed by a great dog that they have

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found seated howling on the steps of the theater. Near

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the principal entrance. They stumble over the body of a

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student who has dyed from want of food, exhaustion, and

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the breaking of a blood vessel. End of the Cold

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Embrace by Mary Elizabeth Bradden