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Iolanthe's Wedding
The Woman Who Was His Friend
The New Year's Eve Confession
The Gooseherd
IOLANTHE'S WEDDING
IOLANTHE'S WEDDING
You stand with your feet planted in the upturned earth, and twirl your moustache and look stupid, while you feel like crying the soul out of your body.
He was dead--there was no use wishing he weren't.
In him was lost the greatest genius for concocting and mixing punches, cocktails, grogs, cobblers--every sort of drink. 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 be sure he had just conceived a new idea for a punch. From the mere smell of a weed he knew the sorts of wine that had to be poured over it to bring into being a something extra fine, a something that had never before existed.
All in all he was a good fellow, and in the many years we sat opposite each other, evening after evening, when he came to me at Ilgenstein, or I rode over to him at D?beln, the time never dragged.
If only it hadn't been for his eternal marriage schemes. That was his weak side. I mean as far as I was concerned. As 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 the next world."
And now it had come to that. He had slid off. He lay there in his black coffin, and I felt like tapping on the lid and saying:
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