" Everything seemed solved now that
Gretchen stood at my side.
But she turned as if to go.
"Gretchen," I called, "do not go. Forgive me; if only you understood!'"
"Perhaps I do understand," she replied with a gentleness new to me.
"Do you remember why I asked you to stay?"
"Yes; I was to be your friend."
"This time it is for me to ask whether I go or stay."
"Stay, Gretchen!" But I was a hypocrite when I said it.
"I knew that you would say that," simply.
"Gretchen, sit down and I'll tell you the story of my life, as they say
on the stage." I knocked the dead ash from my pipe and stuffed the
bowl with fresh weed. I lit it and blew a cloud of smoke into the air.
"Do you see that, Gretchen?"
"Yes, Herr," sitting down, the space of a yard between us.
"It is pretty, very; but see how the wind carries it about! As it
leaves my throat it looks like a tangible substance. Reach for it and
it is gone. That cloud of smoke is my history."
"It disappears," said Gretchen.
"And so shall I at the appointed time. That cloud of smoke was a
fortune. I reached for it, and there was nothing but the air in my
hand.
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