Travelin Man On The Road And Behind The Scenes

With Bob Seger Tom Weschler download

https://ebookbell.com/product/travelin-man-on-the-road-and-
behind-the-scenes-with-bob-seger-tom-weschler-4949008

Explore and download more ebooks at ebookbell.com

Here are some recommended products that we believe you will be
interested in. You can click the link to download.

The Best Traveled Man On Earth Jan Morris

https://ebookbell.com/product/the-best-traveled-man-on-earth-jan-
morris-11237148

The Show Must Go On A Young Mans Adventures With A Travelling Show In

1950s Britain Ross

https://ebookbell.com/product/the-show-must-go-on-a-young-mans-
adventures-with-a-travelling-show-in-1950s-britain-ross-11952572

The Show Must Go On A Young Mans Adventures With A Travelling Show In

1950s Britain Ross Bernard Slater Rus

https://ebookbell.com/product/the-show-must-go-on-a-young-mans-
adventures-with-a-travelling-show-in-1950s-britain-ross-bernard-
slater-rus-9458194

Travels With My Donkey One Man And His Ass On A Pilgrimage To Santiago
Tim Moore

https://ebookbell.com/product/travels-with-my-donkey-one-man-and-his-
ass-on-a-pilgrimage-to-santiago-tim-moore-51456576
Europe On 5 Wrong Turns A Day One Man Eight Countries One Vintage
Travel Guide Doug Mack

https://ebookbell.com/product/europe-on-5-wrong-turns-a-day-one-man-
eight-countries-one-vintage-travel-guide-doug-mack-51456624

Travelin Man Mendicino Tom

https://ebookbell.com/product/travelin-man-mendicino-tom-8452920

Traveling Man The Journey Of Ibn Battuta 13251354 James Rumford

https://ebookbell.com/product/traveling-man-the-journey-of-ibn-
battuta-13251354-james-rumford-50742996

Traveling Man The Journey Of Ibn Battuta 13251354 James Rumford

https://ebookbell.com/product/traveling-man-the-journey-of-ibn-
battuta-13251354-james-rumford-6986072

The Travelling Man Drabble Matt

https://ebookbell.com/product/the-travelling-man-drabble-matt-55527134
 S T r av e l i n ’ M a n

MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM
MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM

ii
T r av e l i n ’ M a n
 MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM
On the Road and Behind the Scenes with

Bob Seger

Tom Weschler | Gary Graff

Foreword by John Mellencamp Afterword by Kid Rock

A P a i n t e d T u r t l e B o o k D e t r o i t , M i c h i g a n
MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM

First paperback edition 2010 (ISBN 978-0-8143-3501-7).

© 2009 by Wayne State University Press, Detroit, Michigan 48201.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced without
formal permission. Manufactured in the United States of America.

14 13 12 11 10 5432 1

The Library of Congress has cataloged the hardcover edition as follows:

Weschler, Tom, 1948–

Travelin’ man : on the road and behind the scenes with Bob Seger /
Tom Weschler [photographer], Gary Graff ; with a foreword by
John Mellencamp and an afterword by Kid Rock.
p. cm.
Includes index and discography.
ISBN 978-0-8143-3459-1 (cloth : alk. paper)
1. Seger, Bob. 2. Rock musicians—United States—Biography.
3. Seger, Bob—Pictorial works. I. Graff, Gary. II. Title.
ML420.S447W45 2009
782.42166092—dc22
[B]
2009018201

∞ The paper used in this publication meets the minimum requirements

of the American National Standard for Information Sciences—
Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials. ANSI Z39.48-1984

Designed and typeset by Savitski Design

Composed in Leitura, Leitura Sans, and Magneto

All image scans courtesy of backstagegallery.com.

To order photos from this book, visit www.travelinfool.net.

Bob Seger album artwork reprinted with permission,

courtesy of Hideout Records & Distributors, Inc.
 MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM
To our children, Ian and Dylan Weschler and Hannah Graff—who,

like their old men, know that rock ’n’ roll never forgets, but

when you grow older it takes a while to remember everything.

This page intentionally left blank
 MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM
Contents

Foreword by John Mellencamp ix

Preface | Tales of Lucy Blue by Tom Weschler xi

Introduction | Heavy Music by Gary Graff xv

Time Line xix

Cast of Characters xxiii

On the Road and Behind the Scenes with Bob Seger 1

Afterword by Kid Rock 153

Bob Seger Discography 155

Acknowledgments 163

Index 165

T r av e l i n ’ M a n vii
This page intentionally left blank
 MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM
Foreword
J o hn M e ll e n c amp

I n 1969, I’m sixteen years old. I’m riding around with four guys in the small town
of Seymour, Indiana, and this drumbeat comes blaring out of the three-inch
speaker. Then this voice sings, “I wanna tell my tale, come on.” I asked the guys
in the car, “Who the fuck is this guy?” So I made the fella driving the car pull to the shoulder
of the road where there was no static and waited for the song to end and the DJ to announce
who was singing the song. It was the Bob Seger System. The song was “Ramblin’ Gamblin’
Man.” I didn’t know it that night but that was the beginning of a long love affair with Bob
Seger’s music—thoughtful and badass, all in one measure. As time went on, I learned to
respect Bob for who he would grow up to be, playing by his rules and staying honest to who
he is and where he comes from. If there really is such a thing as Midwest Rock, it started for
me that night. And now, all these years later, I am proud to be a part of his brood.

T r av e l i n ’ M a n ix
Y

MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM

Y Pat Kamego and Tom Weschler,

Meadow Brook Music Festival
(Rochester Hills), July 1968.

x T r av e l i n ’ M a n
 MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM
P r e fa c e

Tales of Lucy Blue:

Tom’s Story
To m W e s c hl e r

W hen I was six years old, my parents gave me a camera—a Kodak Brownie—and those
first snapshots began a lifelong journey in photography that also provided an oppor-
tunity to explore my other passions—and not only girls! It was music, too—rock ’n’
roll in general, and, specifically, Bob Seger. Every time he played around the Detroit area, my friends
and I would go to see him—always plenty of great music and lots of girls.
When I was fifteen, I found a decent job at Patterson’s Car Wash in Rochester, Michigan, and was
able to save enough money to buy a real 35 mm camera—a Nikkorex. Totally into rock ’n’ roll and
playing guitar to boot (though I was too stage-shy to perform on stage myself), I began photographing
bands in Rochester. Because I was around, they began enlisting me to help them set up equipment
and book gigs. I even booked bands for the Officers’ Club at the Selfridge Air Base in Mount Clemens,
Michigan. One thing led to another, and, in early 1965, I wound up managing a band, We Who Are,
opting to play telephone instead of bass.
This would eventually lead me to Bob Seger’s manager, Ed “Punch” Andrews, one of the most
ambitious, successful, formative—and formidable—players in Detroit’s fledgling rock scene. One night
when some of my friends and I were skipping catechism and down at the pool hall, a DJ on WKNR-AM
told all the Bob Seger fans that, if we wanted to hear his latest record, “East Side Story,” we had better
call and vote for it or it would not be played again. My friends and I monopolized the two pay phones
by table 1, disguising our voices for each call. We kept calling until the DJ said, “Okay, okay, we’ll keep
playing the record!”
Months later, I went to see Punch, who owned the Hideouts, local teen clubs where bands played
on Friday and Saturday nights. I wanted to get We Who Are a gig there, and, knowing a little about
Mr. Andrews, I gathered together as many girls as I could to go with me. We went on a Friday night
and requested an audition for my group. Perhaps impressed by the girls, who told him they were there
to support my band—and promised their friends would come—he said, “No need to audition, just have
your band here to open for the Mushrooms next Friday night.” That was Glenn Frey’s band before he
sang on Seger’s “Ramblin’ Gamblin’ Man” in 1968 and then moved to California, where he formed the
Eagles. Later that same night, I was dancing with one of the girls when Punch pulled me aside and
asked, “Is this band any good?” I assured him they were, and he snapped, “Yeah, well, they fuckin’
better be!” and walked away. Whoaaaah! That was my first encounter with Mr. Andrews as a serious
businessman.

T r av e l i n ’ M a n xi
MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM

On gig night, our amp blew up during the you’re the road manager now.” I replied, “Oh,
sound check, and Glenn Frey, the first time I ever great!” “Yeah, the band likes you. I’m taking a
met him, asked me, “What’s the matter, man?” chance, I know. You better be good at this shit.”
“Oh, our amp blew up.” “Well, here, you can use I said, “How much am I gonna make?” “$150 a
my Bogen 100 watt,” and he hooked it up for us. week.” “Great! How much are you paying the
He was a good guy—and still is. other guys?” Punch answered, “I don’t care how
After I graduated from Rochester High much you pay ’em. It comes out of your money.”
School, I found a job working at a music We played a lot of high schools, so I’d arrive early
equipment store called Artist’s Music, driving the and find guys who were waiting to go in and get
truck and delivering amps, guitars, and drums to them to help me in exchange for free admission
the four stores they had in the metro Detroit area. to the show. That worked for a while—until we
I picked up a lot of experience with instruments got bigger and I had to break down and hire
and band equipment while taking them to gigs somebody.
and setting them up. But I grew really jealous When we started to play around the
when I learned my friend Richard Kruezkamp, country, I became responsible for much more
who we called Krinkle, was working as the road than just setting up at the gigs. We were going

“D on’t be an asshole! You gotta go to college.

I want a dope to run my band out there on
manager for the best band in town—Bob Seger & to places where most Michigan bands had
the Last Heard! I was thinking, “Why didn’t they never gone before—Orlando, Florida; Portland,
call me?! This guy doesn’t know anything about Maine; Washington, DC. I had to make hotel
this stuff”—though, of course, he did. But one reservations, rent U-Haul trucks (until I
day in December ’68 Krinkle called me and told convinced Punch to buy our own truck), make
me that one of his roadies was sick and asked me sure the guys reached the gigs on time, and,
if I could help him set up Seger’s stuff for a gig at when possible, do sound checks in the afternoon.
the University of Detroit. Naturally, I said yes! Some of the things that are commonplace in
For the next few months, I helped with the touring music world now were just getting
Seger’s setups part-time while I was attending started back then. For instance, we had no riders
Oakland Community College (OCC). Then, in in our contract for food or beer and vodka and
April of ’69, Krinkle got sick and had to go to other dressing-room amenities. And we didn’t
the hospital. Punch called me and said, “Hey, have backstage passes; we could only trust that

xii T r av e l i n ’ M a n
 MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM
the people around the band were supposed to be artist who wrote most of the songs he played live.
there, and by this time we were attracting “camp The booking of the band was a new avenue that
followers”—girls who traveled just to see the Punch wanted me to explore, so in ’71 I started
band and be with us on the road. booking shows for Bob and made even more
Not surprisingly, my work began to be fun, money. We were rolling along like gangbusters.
too. I wanted to be on the road forever, and I Later, there was Palladium Records, our own
didn’t want to return to college. But Punch’s label. The art department was my domain ever
advice to me, which he phrased in his typical since I’d gotten on board, taking photos and
manner, was “Don’t be an asshole! You gotta designing the album covers, starting with the
go to college. Do you think I want a dope to run inside photo montage and the back of the Bob
my band out there on the road?” So with an Seger System Mongrel album in 1970. We also
associate’s degree in commercial art from OCC had a great young artist working with us, Carol
in hand, I enrolled at Oakland University and Bokonowicz—one of those gifted people who
studied art history. In the fall of 1969, the gigs could actually draw.
were scheduled in such a way that I could both The years I spent working with Bob are fabled
work for Seger and attend school (with a very among Seger fans—the years of hard gigging,
light class load), although heavy traveling, triumphs and frustrations, and

Do you think sometimes I opted for a growing reputation that led to the breakthroughs
the road and fibbed of Live Bullet and Night Moves in 1976 (with the

the road?” about classes to Punch.

He probably knew, but
Silver Bullet Band), which established Bob as
an American music icon. These were the days
he also knew that Seger he sang about in “Turn the Page” (1973), a mix
was starting to build a much larger following of innocent exuberance and hard-traveled
around the Midwest, the South, and the East. It frustration. Some days we felt on top of the
was important to have someone he trusted, with world; other times we battled debilitating
enough experience, at the helm while on the despair, wondering whether the talent we were
road. College would have to take a backseat. nurturing would ever reap his due reward.
By the spring of ’71, I was finished with college It’s easy to say, looking back from the success
and never looked back. I was either on the road or that finally arrived, that I don’t think any of us
in the office working daily with Punch and Julie would have traded these experiences. I know I
Sherr, our secretary and “gal Friday.” I began to wouldn’t.
oversee other aspects of the “vast music empire” I stopped going on the road to every gig with
Punch and Bob were building. Gear Publishing Bob and the band in 1973 and stopped working
Company needed someone to help with the full-time for the “empire” in 1974 to move on
mounting paperwork associated with a recording to other endeavors—including teaching, as

T r av e l i n ’ M a n xiii
MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM

well as starting a family. I remained close to all All of the photographs in this book were taken
concerned, however, and returned for special with my Nikon cameras (Nikkorex, Nikkormat,
projects such as the Live Bullet and Greatest Hits 2 F, and F2). All the lenses were Nikkor. I used
(2003) albums and some personal engagements. Kodak Tri-X for all the black-and-white images.
Travelin’ Man is a book about my time with The color film was either Kodak CPS color print
Bob, Punch, and all of those within that early film or Kodak Ektachrome. The flash exposures
Seger universe. This is not a formal biography; were F/5.6 or F/8 at a 60th or 90th of a sec. The
this is my story, told through my own personal ambient light exposures were variable between
lens—literally, since my camera was a constant F/5.6 and F/16 at a 125th or 250th sec., save one
companion during this journey. I am fortunate or two.
indeed to have such a great music writer—Gary
Graff—to help tell my story. His experience and
wisdom have been a blessing beyond measure.
In the following pages, I’ll share, through
photographs and words, the feel of that ramblin’
gamblin’ time, with all of its rich adventures
and enormously engaging personalities. There’s
nothing like being there, of course, but hopefully
this is the next best thing—an eyewitness
account of the rise of someone who is truly one of
American music’s great artists. Good fortune put
me together with this most excellent musician.
I’m thrilled to have been a part of his endeavor
and privileged to be able to share that experience.

xiv T r av e l i n ’ M a n
 MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM
I ntr o du c ti o n

Heavy Music
G ary G raff

I was a Bob Seger fan before I moved to Detroit in 1982—just in time to write about The
Distance, Seger’s twelfth studio album and his follow-up to Against the Wind, which
was his first to hit No. 1 on the Billboard 200 chart and also earned him his first Grammy
Award. Expectations, and stakes, were high, and I was excited and also a little appre-
hensive to be covering such an anxiously anticipated release on Seger’s home turf.
I settled into an upstairs office at Punch Enterprises, Seger’s management company, so I could
digest the new album and gather my thoughts before talking to Seger. Then, during the first chorus
into the first track, “Even Now,” there was a bounding of heavy footsteps on the staircase and into
the room popped Seger—smiling, ebullient with a sharp “How ya doin’?!”, sporting a short new
haircut, and raring to go. I was able to keep my jaw from dropping, but my heart did beat a bit faster
while the thought kept whirring in my head that “Oh God, I hope I like this album!” Fortunately I did,
and that December encounter was an auspicious beginning for what’s been an enjoyable, long-term
relationship with someone whose music I made sure was pounding through my car speakers when
I first crossed the Michigan state line on Interstate 75.
Travelin’ Man was not conceived as a full-scale, tell-all Seger biography—but it will tell you a lot
about the man and his music, particularly those infamous and legendary early days before he became
a hit-singles factory and the gold and platinum began to flow. Tom Weschler had a ringside seat to
that ascent. He rode on the bumpy road with Seger, often in vehicles in which they literally felt every
bump, and witnessed both the triumphs and the setbacks as Seger struggled to find his artistic voice
and an audience that wanted to hear it. Best of all, Tom carried his camera with him, chronicling
what transpired with a probing eye but also with an empathy that came from being a participant in
the story. The resulting images not only show what happened but convey the energy and emotion
of the moment and a real feeling of being there, a rare achievement borne of both his talent and the
circumstances in which he found himself.
The primary thing that strikes you in any encounter with Seger is how much he genuinely loves
music and how much it flows through his very fabric of being—and apparently has for most of his life.
“My dad made a big deal when I was, like, four years old about the fact that I sang ‘I’m Looking over
a Four-Leaf Clover’ in the back of his ’49 Buick,” Seger recalls. “He just went nuts over that. I think
that was maybe the very first inclination for me”—that music would be a substantial part of his life.
Seger, of course, went on to carve out a four-plus decade recording career during which he sold

T r av e l i n ’ M a n xv
MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM

more than fifty million albums and launched a Man” are not as unfettered as they initially seem
chain of enduring rock hits such as “Ramblin’ but rather tempered by a desire for a more rooted
Gamblin’ Man,” “Night Moves,” “Turn the Page,” kind of permanence. And the warm nostalgia
“Hollywood Nights,” “Against the Wind,” and of “Night Moves,” “Mainstreet,” and “Brave
“Like a Rock.” And 1978’s “Old Time Rock & Strangers” reveals the wisdom of remembering,
Roll” is not only the No. 1 jukebox selection of but not necessarily wallowing in, the past in a
all time but has virtually replaced Creedence pursuit to ensure “The Fire Inside” still burns hot.
Clearwater Revival’s “Proud Mary” as the Seger is not the first of rock’s songwriters to
mandatory anthem for weddings, bar mitzvahs, espouse these values—nor are they the exclusive
and similar celebrations. property of the heartland. But he’s filled the
Moreover, Seger is largely responsible for songs on his fifteen studio albums with a richly

S
creating a model for and voice of the midwestern, interwoven set of place and
or heartland, singer-songwriter, a different
breed of rock ’n’ roll animal than its East and
beliefs that surely speak
to a life spent, excepting
eger is
West Coast counterparts. Seger and those who
followed, from John Mellencamp to Seger pal and
a couple years in Los
Angeles, soaking up
voice of
fellow Detroiter Kid Rock, drew the same kind of inspiration from the Detroit
inspiration from Hank Williams, Woody Guthrie, environs where he still lives.
and Bob Dylan but applied their own regional “I don’t think it was really a choice; it was
aesthetic to it—a more narrative form built on where I lived and where I felt comfortable,” Seger
earth parables about maintaining everyday ideals explains. “By being in Detroit, I can keep things
amidst all manners of adversity and temptation. in perspective and just work as much as I can but
These were not plaintive troubadours, however; also have a life outside of it where I’m grounded
Seger and company also showed you could and where people put me in my place. Everybody
deliver these contemplative paeans with the same there treats me just like a guy and not a rock star,
kind of furious energy that you’d tap for songs and that’s good. It’s a more calm and grounded
about cars and girls. atmosphere to work in.”
In his work, Seger celebrates the nobility Seger’s earliest influences came from his
of the “Beautiful Loser” and the workers on the parents. His father, Stewart, was an auto worker
assembly lines “Makin’ Thunderbirds,” as well who played a variety of instruments—clarinet
as the metaphorical struggle of running “Against being his best—and on weekends performed with
the Wind.” The subject of his “Hollywood Nights” bands in the Ann Arbor area. Seger describes his
grapples with a dual-edged sword as he lives life mother, Charlotte, as the kind of music lover
in too fast of a lane, while the exuberant freedoms who “you name a song, and they’ll tell you not
of his “Ramblin’ Gamblin’ Man” and “Travelin’ only the singer but the writer and when it was

xiv T r av e l i n ’ M a n
 MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM
recorded. She was like a music encyclopedia.” met future Eagle Glenn Frey (a member of the
Seger’s father gave him his start around Detroit band the Mushrooms who sang backups
age nine, teaching him some chords on the bass on “Ramblin’ Gamblin’ Man”). He cut his teeth
ukulele, which led the fledgling musician to with Doug Brown & the Omens before starting
learn songs by Elvis Presley, Buddy Holly, and his solo career, hooking up with teen club
Little Richard that he heard on transistor radio operator Ed “Punch” Andrews, who became
late at night via stations such as WLAC-AM out his manager and coproducer.
of Nashville. Music remained important in the Seger’s regional acclaim—if everyone who
house even after Seger’s father left the family says they saw him perform at their school really
when he was ten, plunging them into poverty. did, he could have retired by the time he was
Seger was able to live what he calls “a totally old enough to vote—helped sell more than fifty

largely responsible for creating a model for and

the midwestern, or heartland, singer-songwriter.
free-spirited life” while his mother and older thousand copies of his first single, “East Side
brother, George, worked, but his contribution to Story.” He kept his local hero status intact with
the family was musical even before it became his “Persecution Smith” and the primal “Heavy
livelihood. Music,” while 1968’s “Ramblin’ Gamblin’ Man”
“I brought the music back into the family,” earned Seger his first visit to the Billboard Top 20.
Seger explains. “I always sat there and played The fallow period that followed has become
ukulele and sang . . . and kind of quelled all the the stuff of legend. Seger toured hard and kept
anger and disturbance because of the fact that recording, but nothing seemed to click. He tried
my father left.” different band configurations, even going solo
Few around him thought ill of Seger’s for a time, and changed labels; he even
musical dreams; in fact, he notes, “All my contemplated quitting music and going to
friends when I was growing up and going college after recording his 1969 album, Noah.
through junior high and high school, they The Michigan fan base was always there; the
would always envy me. They would say ‘You rest of the world, however, was oblivious.
know exactly what you want to do; you want But Seger never doubted himself. “In that
to be a musician.’ There was never any doubt.” seven-year period . . . even though we were
Seger was a fixture on the Ann Arbor and playing, like 250 nights a year, I could tell I
Detroit club scenes by the early ’60s, where he had something because the audiences wanted

T r av e l i n ’ M a n xvii
MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM

me back . . . and we killed every night,” Seger from music—in his marriage since 1993 to third
says. “So I knew I had something.” In hindsight, wife Nita and in being a father to son Cole and
however, Seger is willing to guess that the music daughter Samantha. Not surprisingly, the man
just wasn’t good enough. who was abandoned by his own father is driven
“I played too many nights,” he says, “and to give his children “what I didn’t feel when I
I really didn’t have enough time to write.” was a kid, which is a great sense of affection and
That changed in the mid-’70s, when he stability. It’s just nice to focus on trying to do a
formed his Silver Bullet Band and polished his good job.” He also took some time to become a
craft for albums such as Seven and especially championship sailor on the Great Lakes.
Beautiful Loser, a more carefully crafted and But the creative fire still burns inside.
diverse set of material that provided a clear bridge “I think I’m writing a little simpler, a little more
to the greater fortunes that followed. “Glenn Frey direct, and a little more out front,” he says.
. . . heard the Beautiful Loser stuff and said ‘This “I think I’m just coming into my own kind of
is great, Bob. You’re on your way. You’ve got it groove. You just want to get up there and sing,
now; you’re a songwriter,’” Seger remembers. y’know?”
The songwriter quickly became a superstar. “You think about how old I thought I
The definitive 1976 concert document, Live Bullet, was when I was writing ‘Rock and Roll Never
became his first platinum album. Night Moves— Forgets’—‘Sweet 16 turned 31!’” he adds with a
with its Top 5 title track about a teenage love hearty laugh. “But back then, the career arc for
affair (“My first broken heart!” he says)—took most people in entertainment was three good
Seger into the multiplatinum realm in 1976, years, five tops, and you were gone. I mean,
where he stayed for his next four albums. For who’d ever thought we’d be seeing McCartney
1980’s Against the Wind, he acknowledges, “We at sixty on stage? Jagger? Nobody. And here I
wanted to really have a No. 1 album; that’s what am—still. It’s just . . . interesting. But really
we went for.” And he got it, spending six weeks gratifying.”
atop the Billboard chart.
Seger has been on a different path since his
thirteenth album, The Distance, however. The
album releases have been more sporadic, as have
the tours. In private, however, he’s still prolific,
though while some of his writing has taken on
more detailed, cinematic qualities, Seger will tell
you his greatest satisfactions have come apart

xviii T r av e l i n ’ M a n
 MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM
T ime Line

May 6, 1945: Robert Clark Seger is born at Henry Ford August 1970: Mongrel is released. Peaks at No. 171.
Hospital in Detroit.
October 1971: Brand New Morning is released.
1961: After borrowing a guitar from a friend, Seger, then
a high school sophomore in Ann Arbor, Michigan, forms December 10, 1971: Seger performs at the John Sinclair
his first band, the Decibels. Freedom Rally at the University of Michigan’s Crisler Arena
in Ann Arbor. Part of his performance appears in the
1963: Seger spends three weeks on the Ford assembly documentary 10 for 2.
line, filling conveyors for automatic transmissions,
working nine hours a day, six days a week, for $4.20 January 21, 1972: Seger’s STK performs at the Autorama
an hour. show at Cobo Hall in Detroit.

1964: Seger joins the band the Town Cryers. August 1972: Smokin’ O.P.’s is released. Peaks at
No. 180.
September 1965: Seger releases “T.G.I.F.” with
Doug Brown & the Omens for Punch Records. January 1973: Back in ’72 is released. Peaks at No. 188.

January 1966: Seger leaves the Omens and forms February 17, 1973: Seger and his Borneo Band’s show at
the Last Heard. His first single, “East Side Story,” Masonic Temple Auditorium in Detroit—opening for Dan
originally written for the Detroit group the Underdogs, Hicks & His Hot Licks, though Seger and company went
is released on the Hideout label, credited to Bob Seger on last—is filmed for ABC’s In Concert series, but never
only. A subsequent release on Cameo-Parkway credits broadcast.
the song to Bob Seger & the Last Heard.
March 1974: Seven is released.
July 1967: Seger’s “Heavy Music,” an ode to high-energy
April 12, 1975: Beautiful Loser is released. Peaks at
rock ’n’ roll, tops the Detroit charts.
No. 131. Certified double platinum.
Autumn 1967: Seger signs with Capitol Records.
September 4–5, 1975: Seger and the Silver Bullet Band’s
January 1968: Seger’s debut single for Capitol, the two-night stand at Cobo Arena is recorded for the Live
antiwar protest song “2 + 2 = ?” is released. Bullet album, which is released in April 1976 and becomes
his first gold record.
December 21, 1968: The “Ramblin’ Gamblin’ Man”
single, released in September, debuts on the Billboard Hot September 12, 1975: Thin Lizzy releases a cover of
100 chart. It peaks at No. 17, and he won’t have another Seger’s “Rosalie” on its album Fighting.
Top 40 hit for eight years.
April 12, 1976: Live Bullet is released. Peaks at No. 34.
February 8, 1969: Seger’s debut album—Ramblin’ Certified five-times platinum.
Gamblin’ Man, with the Bob Seger System—is released.
June 26, 1976: Seger and the Silver Bullet Band perform
Peaks at No. 62 on the Billboard Top 200.
before a sold-out crowd of 76,000 at the Pontiac
August 17, 1969: The Bob Seger System performs at the Metropolitan Stadium (aka the Silverdome) in Pontiac,
opening of Hudson’s Oakland Mall location in Troy, Michigan.
Michigan.
October 22, 1976: Night Moves is released. Peaks at
September 1969: Noah is released. No. 8. Certified six-times platinum.

August 9, 1970: The Bob Seger System performs at the April 1978: “Night Moves” appears on the film sound-
Goose Lake International Music Festival in Leoni Township, track for FM.
Michigan.

T r av e l i n ’ M a n xix
Random documents with unrelated
content Scribd suggests to you:
The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Gnomes
of the Saline Mountains: A Fantastic Narrative
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States
and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no
restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it
under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this
ebook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the
United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where
you are located before using this eBook.

Title: The Gnomes of the Saline Mountains: A Fantastic Narrative

Author: Anna Goldmark Gross

Illustrator: I. T. Ballin

Release date: September 18, 2013 [eBook #43762]

Most recently updated: October 23, 2024

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Chris Whitehead and the Online Distributed

Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images generously made available by The
Internet Archive)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GNOMES OF

THE SALINE MOUNTAINS: A FANTASTIC NARRATIVE ***
WHISPERED MALICIOUS TALES INTO HIS EARS
 The Gnomes of the
Saline Mountains

A FANTASTIC NARRATIVE

By

ANNA GOLDMARK GROSS

Author of "The Whim of Fate," and numerous

short stories and plays.

THE SHAKESPEARE PRESS,

114-116 East 28th Street,
New York.
1912.
 Copyright, 1912,
by
ANNA G. GROSS.

I dedicate this book to the

blessed memory of my
father.
 ILLUSTRATIONS
by
I. T. BALLIN.

Whispered malicious tales in

his ears
Frontispiece
He gazed at the fair form in bridal attire
lying upon the floor
104
Here, Miss, I ain't got no money but I'd
like to give you them shoes
117
Confessing all to the wonder-working
Saint
167

Near Dresden lies a garden,

Therein a cherry tree,
Beneath whose fragrant shadow,
Came happy dreams to me.
On its bark my love for her,
In ardent words I traced;
In rapture, then in sorrow,
Trembling with nervous haste.

The moon so bright had risen,

Those words glared forth at night.
I glanced at them all frightened,
Then screened them from my sight.
* * * * * * * *
On zephyr's wave a whisper came,
From wicked gnomes to me addressed:
"Come here, come here, thou human toy,
And find with us thy final rest."
 The Gnomes of the Saline
Mountains
A FANTASTIC NARRATIVE
I.
Though rather early in the morning, the well-known esplanade along
the beautiful Traunsee at Gmunden, surrounded by green-decked
Saline Mountains, was already thronged to overflowing with eager-
looking sightseers, watching excitedly the completion of the
grandstands which were now being erected for the great event of
the day.
Special trains arrived hourly from Ischel, Aussee, Hallstadt, and
other mountain resorts of prominence, and the excitement seemed
to increase each moment more and more.
Humdrum life was thrown aside by young and old; everyone looked
on expectantly, reviewing the grandstands, the tourists, and
everything new around them.
Fair-browed girls robed in spotless white muslin, garlanded with
flowers and bright with rosy badges in honor of the occasion, were
seen here and there, while their eyes sparkled and their lips drank
from the cup of happiness, enjoying life and the blessing of being
young.
The constantly increasing throng of summer visitors and tourists
from all parts of the globe, speaking different languages and
wearing outlandish clothes, made up a bewildering picture, while the
July sun beamed down upon them, and over lake and green-decked
mountain-tops.
The much talked of floral regatta of 1910 was not to take place until
five, but by one o'clock the grandstands near the water, hardly
completed, began to fill rapidly with the elite of Viennese society.
These floral festivals, which had been so popular in previous years,
were to be surpassed in artistic splendor and brilliant originality by
today's display of picturesque effects, and symbolism of national life.
Members of the highest nobility had consented to take leading parts
in the regatta, which was under the protectorate of the Archduke
Victor. Many celebrities of the musical world, living there in their
beautiful cottages, were seen quietly taking their seats. The great
bare mountain "Traunstein" seemed to smile down on them from his
aerial height in friendly approval; they were no strangers to him,
these music giants, but rather belonged to his enthusiastic admirers.
Every spring they came to him, seeking relaxation for their over-
strained nerves, and every fall, when his bald head began to be
covered with a cap of snow, they went home full of elasticity and
creative power, often bringing along conceptions of masterpieces
which were later to fill the entire musical world with admiration. No
wonder then, that the bald-headed old fellow up there so high above
his neighbors looked down so proudly upon them.
Loud blasts of trumpets in the distance announced to the patiently
awaiting throng the approach of a long line of richly decorated
boats. Archduke Victor, leading the procession, sat in the stern of his
boat, which was gorgeously arrayed to represent a bower of field
roses. He opened the festival by throwing red carnations into the
water as far as his hand could reach. Next came the customary
exchange of greetings among the Austrian nobility, whose
elaborately decorated boats were stationed on both sides of the
lake. At their approach, the orchestra on the esplanade burst forth
with the National anthem of Austria, and the spectators applauded
frantically.
Right and left, as far as the eye could see, the shimmering surface
of the lake, with its little, gently splashing wavelets, was covered
with brightly colored crafts, every one an unique marvel of its kind.
There came splashing along a huge Easter egg, made up of lilies of
the valley; here a pagoda of large sunflowers called forth the
admiration of the delighted sightseers.
From the opposite shore there came floating a half opened Nautilus,
out of which a green-clad naiad cast coquettishly her golden net,
trying to catch some inexperienced young fish in her golden meshes.
Nearby sailed a sleeping beauty (though rather wide awake)
embowered enchantingly in clusters of American Beauties, looking in
all directions for her enchanted Prince to appear and make ardent
love to her.
Suddenly there came, as if by magic, a gondola from the other side
of the lake; it was gorgeously decorated, shining brightly in the
brilliant afternoon sun. This floating work of art was made of lotus
flowers, over which a canopy of glittering, diaphanous material was
hanging, presumably as a suitable background for a lady now the
cynosure of all eyes. She was of such entrancing beauty that all who
beheld her sat spellbound and actually forgot to applaud, according
to the customary greeting to newcomers, scarcely knowing which to
admire first; the magnificent craft, so artistically constructed, or the
dazzling apparition within.
Amazed and speechless, the distinguished gathering gazed at her.
"Who is she?" they whispered to each other. Her name was not on
the list of nobilities. Nobody knew anything about her, but she was
gorgeously dressed, her costume representing that of Cleopatra,
made up of pale green crepe de chine, covered with little amorettes
of silver pearls, which hung loosely in artistic folds about the
luxurious outlines of her bewitching form. Long flaxen hair,
artistically arranged, set off with diamond sparks, fell about her, and
shone like molten gold in the setting sun. It was supposed to be a
real reproduction, according to ancient pictures, of the flirtatious
Queen of Egypt, seen in the art galleries of Florence, Genoa and
Rome. Her large black eyes held a singular fascination in their
sparkling depths, which if once looked into, fastened themselves
upon the imagination of man to be forgotten no more.
At the sight of all these splendors amid such exclusive surroundings,
she looked with a frightened stare into space, as if she were a
newcomer, a stranger in this atmosphere of wealth and distinction.
Her features were rigid and white, and she seemed fascinated, dumb
with admiration at the sight of the splendid surroundings. For this
reason, she had failed to notice the sensation her beauty had
aroused among the masculine sightseers.
A slender man, with deep set eyes, and thin and bloodless lips
tightly pressed together, sat in an unpretentious little boat a short
distance away, murmuring grimly unintelligible words to himself. She
caught sight of him and sent him a friendly glance and a smile
similar to the greeting of well-known friends. He did not lose sight of
her for a moment, but almost devoured her with his eyes.
With feverish eagerness he followed her every movement, knitting
his brows threateningly when any boat of the Viennese "Jeunesse
doree" came with admiring curiosity too near to her's. In his jealous
rage he felt like driving all of them from the spot.
He began to reproach himself for having yielded to her cajoling
entreaty to be allowed to take part in the festivity.
"Miserable fops," he murmured contemptuously, as he contemplated
the admiring men with a scornful sneer. "I loathe the sight of all
these nobodies," he grumblingly soliloquized.
Many of them, in fact, had nothing to boast about. Many of these
so-called nobles in addition to a noble name, combined magnificent
poverty and an abhorrence for honest work; they acquired a heap of
debts and their inherited estates were often in the hands of
unscrupulous usurers, or mortgaged to the last cent, while the
sneering one had money in such abundance that he could have
purchased patents of nobility for an entire regiment, and still have a
reserve revenue from his unfathomable gold mine in South Africa.
His finances would have allowed him the luxury of such a woman—
although it must be whispered he had a wife in England, divorced
some people asserted.
 II.
It was seven o'clock; the great animated festival drew near its end.
At a given signal from the master of ceremonies, the music on the
esplanade stopped; a hush fell on the distinguished gathering.
Archduke Victor, in his own exalted person, was to award the
stipulated prizes to the boats of most artistic and original designs.
The fanfares sounded gayly over land and sea, and all the boats
small and large ranged themselves in a semi-circle about the
illustrious judge. The first prize, a silver statuette of the Goddess
Hebe, was awarded to the fascinating princess of Egypt.
With a flourish of trumpets, and amid shouts of applause from the
enthusiastic throng, all looked around for the boat of the prize
winner. But there was no sign of it anywhere, nor was the single
boat of the slender Englishman to be seen any more.
At a given signal from Mr. Ogden, the artistically constructed little
boat had quietly turned about, and the two, availing themselves of
the general excitement over the awarding of prizes, had quietly
slipped away behind the neighboring piers, where the palatial home
of the unfortunate Archduke Johann Salvatore is to be seen. He is
better known to the outer world under the pseudonym "Johann
Orth."
His sorrowing mother is still seen by passers-by sitting near the
window with expectant eyes waiting for the lost son to return.
The brilliant floral festival enacted on the lake was at an end. On the
esplanade were still seen groups of excited spectators discussing
with great animation once more, the singular disappearance of the
wonderful little boat that was fortunate enough to win the first prize
and whose occupants disappeared without claiming that distinction.
Others lost no time in entering the brightly illuminated cafes in the
vicinity of the esplanade to refresh themselves after the excitement
of the grand event.
On the eastern horizon a thin, fleecy scarf of clouds was visible and
the silvery moon with all her sparkling companions had just come
out to beam upon the scene. The West was a single shrine of beryl,
whereon ruby flakes of vapor seemed to float through the universe.
Meanwhile the much-admired boat was silently gliding over the
surface of the gently splashing waves. The half reclining form of the
fascinating woman seemed in the amber moonlight to resemble that
of Aphrodite, as if risen from the waves and in a wanton mood,
anxious to make a trial performance all by herself of her
incontestable power over the other sex.
"Am I really so fascinating? Did those admiring glances tell the tale
of my triumph?" she murmured with a happy smile to herself,
looking askance at the boat alongside her's, where her jealous
admirer sat with gloomy eyes, consumed by jealousy.
Mr. Ogden, to whom she owed all this splendor, regarded with
unconcealed displeasure the day's proceedings. He reproached
himself for having yielded to her entreaty. She had begged and
coaxed him so much, until he gave his consent, then he ordered the
decoration of the boat. Her costume was especially ordered from the
most expensive tailor according to ancient pictures of the Egyptian
Queen. Ogden undoubtedly wanted her to be the most striking
figure on the lake.
And now! Was he really jealous because she was the most admired,
the most beautiful? "Jealous? Ho! ho!"
She shrugged her white shoulders with a contemptuous smile.
Did he really think that she loved him? "Phew!"
She had only accepted his ardent devotion to learn what riches and
luxury really meant, for which she had an uncontrollable longing, a
longing that almost devoured her! Night and day she thought of it,
how to get rich.
The aggressive poverty in which she had passed her earlier days,
was too hideous to dwell upon; she could not think of it without a
shudder. The idea of being poor again took her breath away. How
could she ever have consented to become the wife of a man who
was poor? "Handsome but poor! What an anomaly!" she said in an
undertone, smiling sarcastically.
With bitter envy and scorn in her painfully contracted heart, she saw
the rich but most ugly looking women rolling by in their elegant
automobiles disdainfully glancing at her and her poor outfit. Often
enough when she was working,—engaged in the performance of her
household duties in the two small dark rooms of a tenement house,
without pure air, without light to brighten her beautiful face, she
cursed everything. This hovel her home! And she had the priceless
gift of beauty! She made up her mind not to stand it any longer.
The day came when she was seized by such a consuming desire to
go in pursuit of pleasure, to wear elegant, stylish clothes and feel
the admiring glances of the other sex resting upon her, that meeting
Mr. Ogden by accident and dazzled by his wealth, captivated by his
costly presents, she accepted his proposal to go with him forgetting
everything, even the sacred duty of a mother.

III.
The much-admired little boat was now approaching the narrow bay
which is only two minutes distance from Gmunden. There stood the
spick and span victoria of Mr. Ogden; the two black horses attached
to it struck out sparks of fire with their impatient hoofs. The tall
Englishman who had distanced her, stood there waiting. The
moment he caught sight of her bewitching face, his eyes sparkled
and smiling sweetly at her, helped her tenderly out of the boat.
The sun had just gone down behind a fleecy cloud and kindled a
volcano, from whose silver-rimmed crater fiery rays of scarlet shot
up almost to the clear zenith. She looked fatigued and closed her
eyes for a moment. Now she caught sight of him and smiled,
allowing him to take her away—
Tenderly kissing her hand, he led her to the carriage, lifted her
carefully in and wrapped a costly cloak, which was laying there,
around the enchanting form he so adored.
She did not speak, but sat by his side in silence. He gazed at her
several times and then gave the order to start. The carriage set off
at a rapid gait.
The light of day was rapidly failing. Day and night seemed to join
hands in a twilight mystery; black clouds were now piling up
threateningly on the western horizon. A heavy gust scattered the
thick aggressive atmosphere. Flying leaves were lifted up in the air
as if by magic, and went through the wildest dances to the piping
and howling of the storm, which now commenced to rage in all its
fury, while voices of sinister shadows in the air, seemed to hold
intercourse with others in the distance.
In these high mountainous regions a few moments suffice to turn a
smiling landscape into a cheerless dripping desert. Claps of thunder
and flashes of lightning followed each other at brief intervals. The
rain now fell in torrents and the howling storm whipped the green
lake whose wavelets had been so gently splashing half an hour ago.

IV.
During the events described in the preceding chapter, a man still in
the glow of youth was walking through the valley surrounded by
lofty saline cliffs, in this howling storm, while clouds of shrivelled
leaves danced above his head. He did not mind the dreary
desolation around him.
His face, naturally strong with manly beauty, was now pale and
haggard, showing unmistakable traces of a great sorrow. His large
intelligent eyes were now sunk deep in their sockets. A nervous
restlessness made him shiver, and his pale cheeks gathered only a
little color when an obstinate cough threatened to rend his suffering
breast asunder.
His coat betrayed the elegant cut of the fashionable tailor, but it was
now old and worn, and hung loosely about his emaciated form. He
looked like a teacher on whom fortune had persistently turned her
back.
He carried in his hands a thick book, carefully wrapped up in a
handkerchief, which he clasped tightly almost tenderly to his breast,
as if afraid at any moment it might escape or drop out of his hands.
This idea made him tremble. It was indeed his only source of
income; by the aid of this valuable book he had already earned
many a gold piece in the Tyrolian and Styrian mountains.
His humorous lectures had been received with great approbation in
different hotels frequented by many foreign tourists. And still, his
earnings were not sufficient to support him and his motherless child,
pretty little Marie, whom he had left in the meantime with a family of
friends in Dresden. Every silver groschen he had earned was for the
support of his child.
He had come all the way from Hallstadt, and this long walk had
exhausted his strength considerably; and his heart was sick and
heavy. Now he felt a frightful nervousness, fearing not to be able to
reach in time the hotel where he was announced to deliver his
humorous lecture.
He walked as quickly as he could to the farther end of the valley,
where he expected to see a clearing in the forest, and an open road
to the hotel. But on all sides he met high, unfamiliar cliffs.
Apprehension fell over him like an icy rain.
"Can I have lost my way?" he murmured, breathing heavily, while
great beads of perspiration broke out on his forehead.
In an hour's time he was supposed to be at the Mountain View
Hotel, and now.... He looked helplessly around. Darkness began to
fall, contesting every inch of ground with retreating daylight. His
teeth were chattering with a cold chill, when he set out to find
another opening.
The continuous excitement of this wandering from one hotel to
another, the consuming sorrow, the bleeding wound in his heart, had
gradually undermined his constitution, originally none too strong,
and now this wearing cough, the insidious fever!... "How upset I
feel; it's the peculiar atmosphere," he said to himself. At the same
time he remembered that the entertainment he proposed to offer
this evening, was not sufficiently furnished with witty epigrams and
bons mots. So, bowing and smiling to an imaginary audience of
cosmopolitan taste, he began to rehearse his lecture as he walked
on, sharpening the humour and adding some popular Austrian
witticisms in vogue as trump cards.
Suddenly he looked up and saw a dark cloud threatening down upon
him. Heavy gusts of wind commenced to bend the tops of the high,
impenetrable trees. The songs of the mocking birds rang from the
cedars in the distance in his ear and startled him.
He stopped in alarm and looked distractedly around him. Where was
he? He could not make out. In the marshy places the fireflies were
seen, wandering about and looking in the distance like malicious
eyes of wicked sprites.
There was no longer any doubt, he had taken an entirely wrong
direction.
Trembling with excitement, fearing delay, he rushed back to look for
the right path, while his hot breath grated audibly on his weak lungs.
A fearful storm was gathering, whispering and sobbing like
complaining, frightened witches now whirling the leaves into the air
vehemently as if driven by the furies of Hades.
A cold shudder ran through his fevered frame. He gazed in helpless
despair up and down, not knowing where to turn, while the rain
poured down in torrents, soaking him from head to foot, and the
centuries old tree-tops groaned and moaned like lost souls in
Dante's Inferno. Now everything began to swim around him. Nature
was in an uproar and bluster. Every little glowworm seemed to his
frightened eyes to grow to gigantic proportions dancing wildly about.
Sharp flashes of lightning lit up the Traunstein ever and anon and
seemed to come nearer and nearer, as if trying to march straight
down upon him. He wanted to retreat, but could not move; there
was a dark mist before his eyes. Uttering a piercing cry, he fell to the
ground in a heap because the big monster kept on advancing.
With a tremendous crash, the great mountain burst apart and a
whole troop of tiny, little mountain gnomes came out, dancing
grotesquely like sprites of another world.
They were garbed in white vestments, like fleecy vapors, with
brazen girdles which seemed to be sunbeams, and a cloudy stuff
supposed to be mantles hung loosely around their diminutive forms.
With bare feet they pattered down upon him. As soon as they
caught sight of him they commenced to giggle, swarming around
him in great merriment. And then they put their ludicrous little heads
together and pointed at him with contempt, whispering tales in
falsetto tones to each other, which he could not understand. But he
saw by the glare of their twinkling little eyes that they meant him,
that they touched on something in his past life.
By and by they became bolder and touched his wet clothes; some of
the older ones bent down to him and whispered malicious tales
about his wife into his ears. He groaned aloud. "It is a lie! I don't
believe a word of it!" he screamed, cursing the whole deceitful band.
In his indignation he tried to rise several times in order to drive them
away—down into the foaming stream, or back into their mountain
riff; but he could not move; his feet seemed to be fastened to the
very ground as if paralyzed or chained to earth. They whispered
once more the name of his wife with scornful laughter, and passed
on over hills and valleys dancing merrily.
Suddenly a bright light shone about him, illuminating the marshy
waters; invisible choirs were singing sweetly, as if angels were
descending from heaven. His eyes dilated as he saw a procession of
tiny elves passing him, carrying little lighted tapers in their
diminutive hands. In their midst he saw his dear mother stretching
out her arms longingly towards him.
Tears came to his eyes. The dear face! He wanted to run to her,
embrace her, but could not stir. A cry of horror broke from his
trembling lips when the fair Siren so fatal to his life stood before
him, intervening and trying to ensnare him again with the fascination
of her glittering eyes, her bewitching smile, speaking to him of love
and devotion which he believed again.
He listened to her; and a ray of happiness and delight filled his love-
sick heart. She comes back to him! She loves only him! And
unheeding the beseeching beckoning of his anxious mother, whose
tortured heart writhed and bled for her suffering son, he hastened
on with the enticing Siren,—where to, he did not know.
Suddenly they stood before a deep precipice; darkness surrounded
them, and the old trees commenced to sigh and moan and bend
down upon them. Six shadowy forms with blazing torches appeared
upon the scene carrying a coffin. Just in front of him the lid opened
and the pale waxen face of his dead mother met his frightened eyes.
He screamed aloud with horror. He had broken that noble heart, he
had killed the best of mothers, because he had followed this evil
spirit of his life.
With a loud cry he threw himself upon the lifeless form and wept,
while the fair siren by his side laughed and laughed. Beside himself
with indignation he panted, trying to strike her and hurl words of
hatred in her face; but his hands fell helpless by his side; they had
no power to execute his will. He seemed rooted to the ground.
 V.
"Get up from this wet ground, you fellow! How did you ever come
here in this beastly weather?" He heard a deep sympathetic voice by
his side. Awakened from his swoon, soon he looked amazed around
him. What had happened? He did not know at all. His limbs were
helpless and he lay on the ground where he must have fallen. His
treasured source of income, his precious book, containing all his
humorous lectures, lay rain-soaked near his side. How long he had
been lying there unconscious, he did not know himself. A slim well-
dressed man stood before him, doing his best to help him get up
and trying to comfort him as much as he could, shaking his head
wonderingly, and inquiring how he ever happened to be lost in such
a place.
The lecturer looked about him with great relief. He did not see the
gnomes anywhere. So it was not true what they told him, what they
sneered at—
His heart rejoiced. It was only a hallucination, nothing else. All he
had seen and heard must have been a stupid fancy of his tired brain.
The best proof was, that he found himself lying helplessly on the
ground, just awakening from a swoon.
Yes, the condition of his brain was at fault; that was as clear as
daylight. "Thank God!" he exclaimed, while a feeling of unspeakable
joy surged through his heart, now gladdened with thankfulness.
"I came near believing all that stupid nonsense of those wicked
gnomes about my——"
"Hey! listen to me, poor fellow! What in Heaven's name, are you
doing here on that wet ground?"
It was not until the stranger by his side had repeated his question
that he could pull himself together and answer in a stammering
voice, while a cold shiver shook his emaciated frame.
He looked at the stranger with dilated eyes. "Beg pardon sir. I—I
must have lost my way. I was to give a humorous lecture at a
neighboring hotel, and—and fell down," he said helplessly, picking
up his rain-soaked book, which he had discovered within reach.
"Why, you are wet through and through, my man. What can I do for
you?" asked the stranger with deep sympathy.
A strange look of wonder illuminated the face of the downfallen
man. He stammered: "If you would have the great kindness to help
bring me to the Mountain View Hotel. You see, I am expected there.
I've got to earn some money tonight yet." He paused to cough; his
voice seemed sepulchral.
"I have a motherless child to support." His head was bent to hide his
emotion. "My girlie must have all she needs. I—I couldn't stand it if
they were to let her go hungry. God!" Again a vehement cough
shook his wasted frame.
"Well, well, this turns out all right. I'll bring you there as we are
staying in the same hotel."
"He's got fever, sir—better let's get him on the box," he heard the
coachman say who stood by his side looking with obvious pity at the
man before him.
A few paces away, a closed carriage was standing with two lighted
lanterns in front of it.
The storm had relented for a while, and mysterious silence fell upon
the scene.
"Ogden!" now called out an excited woman's voice from within the
carriage. "To miss the table d'hote on account of that wretched
beggar. Why it's just unpardonable!"
"That voice!... God have mercy!"
The man on the ground stammered as if struck by lightning. His
eyes dilated, starting out of their sockets and staring horrified at the
carriage.
"That voice," he repeated. "Could it be possible? Could she be there?
Am I still under the influence of that horrible hallucination?" he
moaned piteously. He could not and would not believe a word of all
they told him.
Again he seemed to hear the revolting chuckle of the insolent
gnomes, from the Traunstein, repeating their malignant tales of the
outrageous conduct of his—
"Up with you quickly, for we'll have more rain within a short time!"
said Mr. Ogden, now in a sympathetic voice, and at the same time
heeding the woman's command in the carriage, which he would not
have ignored for any consideration.
The coachman assisted the stranger to his seat on the box, and then
Mr. Ogden entered the carriage, closing the door carefully.
Then the splendid team of horses set off like the wind. "God have
pity on me! that voice!"
He could never forget the voice of that alluring siren who had
goaded him on, until he saw nothing but her seductive face, listened
to nothing but her deceitful declarations of love, without thinking of
his mother's grief and her death!
Could it be possible? She here in that closed carriage with another
man? No, no! It was another hallucination of his feverish brain.
How could she ever have attained such wealth? "Nonsense!" he
murmured smilingly to himself, drawing a long breath of relief. Ah!
how he had adored that faithless woman!
The smiling expression died out of his face, and a mournful
compassion for his deserted child stole into his troubled
countenance. Why did she bring so much misery into his life? Every
fibre of his noble heart had been throbbing with uncontrollable love
for her! And now——the light of life, the hope of future years, was
blotted out, clouds of despair and a grim night of an unbroken
desolation fell like a pall on his heart and brain. Nothing to look
forward to but misery!
 VI.
He had wandered about like a soul condemned and lost to eternity.
But the one hope to meet her again possessed him, kept him alive.
And then—she'll come back to him—he was convinced of that; to his
lonely little Mary. And after all she might be touched by his devoted
love that knows how to pardon and overlook certain occurrences in
the life of a giddy-headed woman!
Unfortunately the cold, calculating coquette had never felt a tinge of
anything like love, and had only an observing eye for the monthly
allowances he received from his well-to-do parents.
He had come to Dresden a young, inexperienced student to pursue a
course in literature and jurisprudence. The handsome, dashing
woman, somewhere in the twenties, soon allured him with her well
tried arts. Within a short time he was her devoted slave and did not
see nor hear anything else but her alluring voice, and after six
months' acquaintance he led her to the altar without the knowledge
of his parents.
When they found it out, through a friend living in Dresden, they
were in despair, in their helpless anger. His mother never recovered
from the rude shock her ambition had received. She did not know
the woman, but when she heard that she belonged to a different
faith, she was crushed, although the noble catholicity of spirit that
distinguished her character did not allow her to show it. Her
proudest hope to see that beloved son some day a respected citizen
and lawyer in that little provincial town where his cradle stood, was
gone forever!
Years of wrestling with life's sorrows had set upon her noble,
benignant countenance, almost a seal of holiness, and shed over her
placid features the mild, sweet life of a pure heart. Her white hair,
the snowy mass prematurely white, wonderfully softened the
outlines of her face.
Now deep lines commenced to furrow her sweet, indulgent features,
and she grieved so deeply over the disgrace that she began to lose
her health. Silently, without a word to her husband she performed
her household duties, until one day her enfeebled constitution gave
way and she died, praying for the only child she had ever had.
Her husband, Mr. Burge, under the double stress of the sorrow,
refused to hear anything of the ungrateful son, for whom he had
slaved and worked all his life, and whose grievous mistake in
marrying an adventuress, had cost the mother's life.
He had a large estate to look after, but he was alone now. He
needed the son, but what could he do? He was ashamed of the
daughter-in-law! "No, not a cent of my money can she have," he
murmured constantly to himself with a flushed face and dry lips,
looking at his imposing estate, where the beautiful Rhine rushed by
and the tumbled down castles of long-forgotten races were seen in
the distance.
The irate father dissolved all connection with the son and stopped all
payments, denying him any assistance whatsoever in the future.
After the regular allowance from home had entirely ceased, it was
necessary for the young husband to go and seek some profitable
employment to support his expensive wife.
He had never earned a cent, and racked his brain now how to get
money. The tantalizing condition pressed upon him that he might not
be able to support his family. Finally, he got a position with a meagre
salary in a newspaper office, but he was scarcely able to provide the
barest necessaries of life.
He commenced to write short stories. Although he had no ambition
to climb to such a lofty niche in the temple of fame, he thought he
might at least earn a modest income. Short stories and humorous
lectures—that must make a hit. Everybody said that he had a
humorous vein. Now the time had come to show his mettle, but the
short stories were generally returned. The irate father had ceased to
send money and no other help was discoverable. And then—after all
that—she, his loving wife, dropped her mask and showed herself in
her true colors.
"I have had enough of this," she said with a disgusted shrug of her
white shoulders to her horrified husband. "I don't intend to starve
here."
In vain he begged her to have a little patience for the sake of their
child. The last short story must turn out to be a great success; he
felt it and was really convinced of it.
"Convinced," she sneered contemptuously and turned away. No use
of losing any breath about it, she thought. I am through with him
anyway. Oh! How she longed to be rich, wear stylish clothes and be
admired.
The beautiful coquette became restless in her little home; she looked
about sick at heart, unable to tolerate it any longer, only wishing to
get the opportunity to leave it forever. Her eyes were full of scorn
when looking at her husband, who could not supply her with all that
she longed for just now, and for which she would have pledged the
salvation of her very soul. She commenced to frequent public places
in the absence of her husband.
How she loathed poverty! "Anything but that," she murmured to
herself, her face white with disgust as she walked on, gazing in all
directions to see one of her former acquaintances, with a strange
unrest in her large eyes. Her opportunity would come; she was sure
of that, and it came in meeting one day the rich Englishman who
was introduced to her by one of her former friends and boon
companions.
Shortly after this encounter, she received a letter from the
Englishman telling her of the deep and lasting impression she had
made on him and how he longed to see her again. Her face flushed
with pleasure as she read all these, and then perused an invitation
to take an automobile ride through the beautiful mountains.
For some time she sat dazzled, and then she looked at the poorly
furnished rooms; at her own wretched outfit, and her eyes flashed
indignantly.
"I am through with all this. Here is the opportunity I was longing
for," she said with a contemptuous smile. "I'll show him—the young
inexperienced fool I have married—that beauty counts for a whole
lot and ... boldness even more."
She stopped at the window and looked down at the Englishman's
automobile before her door.
"The opportunity—my opportunity has come." These words rang
ceaselessly in her ears and filled her being with a strange endeavor
to avenge herself on the man who could not supply her with all the
luxuries she craved for, and according to her ethics, was entitled to.

VII.
It was on Christmas eve, her husband had come home with a
radiant face. His short story had been accepted, and the money was
in his pocket. Now he could buy a fitting present for his wife. Of
course it could not be too expensive, but she certainly would enjoy it
all the same; he was sure of that, feeling that the opening of a
successful career was inaugurated.
On his way home he had also bought a little fir tree to set up for the
first Christmas celebration in his own home. The recollections of
similar holidays in the house of his parents stirred him to the depths.
How his heart quivered when he thought of his dear mother he
loved so dearly. If she only were alive how different everything
would be! He, who was brought up in luxury, mother's pet, and now
—
With deep emotion he entered the house. With a brisk step he
opened the door, looked around and found it empty, the wife and all
her belongings gone!
The horror of that night was something he could never forget as
long as he lived. Holding his ten months' old child in his trembling
arms, he wept burning tears for her, the mother of his child. Could it
be possible? A mother deserting her child on this holiest of
evenings? He could not believe his eyes, but all she possessed went
with her. No, no, she was giddy-headed, but not cruel. Motherhood
must assert itself and surely would. How he loved her, how he
longed to take her in his arms and feed his poor, famished heart with
a touch of her lips!
He sat there in the dark listening and waiting for her to come back,
to see the presents he had bought for her, and the money he
wanted to give her. But one hour after another passed and nobody
came. In the streets a joyous throng of merry makers pushed and
jostled about wishing each other a merry Christmas. His heart was
shaken to its depths by maddening grief; by bitter disappointment.
The room was icy cold, there was no fire in the stove, and the child
half starved, screamed weakly in his arms. In wild desperation he
trampled on the little Christmas tree he had brought along to
celebrate his first Christmas in his own home! He could see nothing
but falsehood and treachery in this world. What meaning was there
for him in this life-redeeming symbol?
Sick of everything he longed for death to come and take him and his
little child away. Throughout that dreary night of agony he lay in bed
holding the child in his arms, pressing his lips against her tender
little hands, without being able to close an eye.
The bell in the neighboring churches rang out in the ears of the
deserted man, sounding dismally through his lonely house. But they
brought back pictures to his mind of his childhood's happy days,
when he went to church on similar Christmas eves with his parents.
One tear after another stole into his desperate eyes.
"God have mercy on me and my child," he murmured stammeringly.
"I must, I will live for her sake. I cannot leave her altogether an
orphan," though the gaping wound in his own heart kept on
bleeding, bleeding incessantly.
 VIII.
"There! Here we are at last, no weather for a dog to be out,"
growled the angry coachman sulkily, jumping down from the box
and opening the carriage door with a respectful bow, hat in hand.
Mr. Ogden staggered quickly out and lifted tenderly and carefully a
woman's form to the wet ground. Young Burge, the deserted
husband, had just come down with the help of the coachman who
growled something he could not understand.
He looked at the woman in the darkness and a mist swam before his
eyes; he leaned against the coach and his knees shook so that he
could not make a single step. The night was black and the wind
sobbed down the street, while the rain still fell in torrents.
He could not see clearly—but that voice—that voice! God! "Could
they have been right—these wicked, malicious gnomes? Did they
know all about her and now, how?" he asked himself while his hands
clutched the book convulsively in his helpless agony.
He thought he heard them again whispering, with a derisive chuckle,
the whole story of her downfall into his terrified ears.
"How could she ever come to such magnificent clothes?" he thought.
"Nonsense! It is simply a hallucination of a morbid, disordered brain.
I am sick and miserable and see things where there is nothing to
see." This he murmured half aloud to himself, gazing at the
retreating form of the woman incredulously. He could not distinguish
her features and he made up his mind forcibly, in order to quiet
down his excited nerves, that it was nothing else but a foolish trick
of his imagination, and the fever which shook him now again was
the obvious cause of it all. "Anyway, how could she have obtained all
this luxurious outfit? His wife wealthy? Nonsense!"
He tried to laugh cheerfully about this foolishness, but suddenly he
felt as though a knife were plunged into his heart. "The gnomes! the
gnomes! If that which they had said were true!" He moaned to
himself, leaning against the wall in a faint condition. "Oh, anything
but that ... anything but that!" His whole frame shook as from palsy.
That voice haunted him. He knew he had to go and look at her in
order to convince himself, otherwise he could not find any rest.

IX.
"Come, come! You must not lose your courage, my good fellow,"
said Mr. Ogden good-naturedly, coming out of the house at the same
time. "But before you do anything else, you should go inside and get
those wet clothes off; yes, that you must do, my man, you look pale
enough indeed, and...."
"The deuce! If that is not our expected entertainer, the humorous
lecturer from Ishle!" cried the stout, dignified hotelier, with a laugh
as he caught sight of the dripping form of the poor, dazed lecturer.
"Lord, what a state he is in! Why he isn't able to lecture!"
"Never mind, a hot grog, some dry clothes from my wardrobe, and
the rest will soon be managed," said Mr. Ogden good-naturedly with
a sign to his valet, greatly gratified in being able to help the poor,
miserable looking man with the pallor of death on his emaciated
face.
"And as for your entertainment being a great success, well—leave
that to me, my dear fellow and don't worry; it will be all right," he
went on, clapping the dazed humorist on the shoulder with an
encouraging smile.
He bowed, without being able to utter a word of thanks; he bit his
trembling lips and followed the valet with stumbling, shivering feet.
"Who could this benevolent stranger be? And what was he to that
woman? Was he mistaken or not? If, after all she should be his—his
—"
A hot wave flushed his face, distorted with shame as he thought of
the possibility; his sorely tried heart was hammering mightily within
him.
He could not get rid of this thought. "If she should really be the
mother of his poor child ... what, in the name of Heaven, was she
then to this man? God have mercy on me and come to my aid!" he
cried aloud, in great misery, his teeth once more chattering audibly
in a fresh attack. "No, no! I can't and won't believe it! She can't be
so shameless as to disgrace me and her innocent child!"
"Come, come quickly, sir," urged the valet impatiently, "I'll help you
as much as I can."
After he had provided him with all the necessary clothes from the
elaborately assorted wardrobe of the rich Englishman, who was
about the same size, he made as careful a toilet as possible, under
the prevailing circumstances and under the careful inspection of the
helpful valet.

X.
The supper bell now rang through the vast corridors of the Mountain
View Hotel, crowded with tourists from all parts of the continent.
Ladies, gorgeously dressed, commenced to take their seats at the
supper tables in the dining room, escorted by elegantly garbed
gentlemen; some of them in full evening dress, others again in black
cutaway. The clatter of knives and forks had already begun. The
spacious dining room was brightly illuminated. At the further end a
carpet-covered platform was visible, whose edges were a bank of
flowers. Everything was tastefully arranged. A pianist was already
hammering away at a waltz of one of the latest operatic successes,
with frightful execution, as an introduction to the interesting
program of the evening, anxiously awaited by the patrons of the
house.
The clatter, the bustling noise, had suddenly stopped and all eyes
were riveted expectantly on the man who had just entered. Our
humorist, suffering in mind and body alike, pale and haggard, with
restless eyes, made his appearance in the borrowed clothes which
hung loosely about his emaciated form, tossing back his long locks
with his right hand, while holding the cherished book tightly in the
other, he came down to the very edge of the platform and smiled
and bowed in all directions.
He looked exhausted and weary, as he was. But the room was
crowded and he had to go on, whether he wanted or not, so he
commenced: "Ladies and gentlemen."
He got no further. A mist swam suddenly before his eyes. A shiver
shook his emaciated frame, his face became flushed and bloated and
he stared and stared.
A side door had been opened a few minutes before and Mr. Ogden
entered with the much admired Cleopatra on his arm.
They passed through the crowded dining room, close to the
speaker's platform. She had changed her dazzling costume for a
simpler, but an extremely stylish dress of blue silk. She still wore
some of the lilies in the marvelous golden hair, which was now
fastened with a gold comb into a plain Greek knot. She was all aglow
with excitement. The triumph of the afternoon was still lingering on
her handsome face. She felt like shouting it out to everybody. Such
conquest does not come often to a woman in the ordinary walks of
life.
She walked proudly, with a queenly step to her seat, nodding to
some casual acquaintances with a charming smile. And then she
took her seat and turned a glance of curiosity upon the famished
face of the entertainer. Their eyes met—and for a few seconds sank
into each others' like sharp daggers. A red tinge covered her startled
face, then she turned away, whiter than the lilies on her breast. She
trembled visibly and looked frightened, casting down her eyes.
Welcome to our website – the perfect destination for book lovers and
knowledge seekers. We believe that every book holds a new world,
offering opportunities for learning, discovery, and personal growth.
That’s why we are dedicated to bringing you a diverse collection of
books, ranging from classic literature and specialized publications to
self-development guides and children's books.

More than just a book-buying platform, we strive to be a bridge

connecting you with timeless cultural and intellectual values. With an
elegant, user-friendly interface and a smart search system, you can
quickly find the books that best suit your interests. Additionally,
our special promotions and home delivery services help you save time
and fully enjoy the joy of reading.

Join us on a journey of knowledge exploration, passion nurturing, and

personal growth every day!

ebookbell.com