The people to whom I went were Jews. The mistress with her dark hair and dark eyes seemed beautiful to me. The four children—three boys and one girl—had all rather reddish hair and freckles, except one of the boys, who was seven years old and idiotic. I had to take the three elder children to school and fetch them home again, to tidy the rooms and to keep the kitchen in order. The lady did the cooking herself. As the idiotic boy did not go to school, he was constantly around me and chattered to me all day long in unintelligible sentences. Often he tore off his clothes and ran about naked. In the beginning I was afraid of him, but I soon noticed that with the exception of a few disagreeable things, to which onehad to get used, he was perfectly harmless. Many times during the day he would come and spit into my face. At first I could hardly bear this, but by-and-by I got to know his movements, and quickly turned away when I saw him coming. But worse still than this poor boy was his brother, a boy of twelve years, who had a horrible way of speaking to me, and made me feel as much as possible that I had to obey him. The girl I liked the best.
I had not been in this family for two months when I noticed that the circumstances of the manager were no better than those of my parents. People frequently came to the door and asked me if they could see the manager. But as soon as I announced such a visitor the manager became furious, and told me to tell the people to go to hell. I soon got to know that these were all creditors asking for their money. It had been decided that I should receive eight shillings each month, and I could scarcely wait the day on which my wages fell due. When I left home I only possessed one pair of shoes, and these were almost in shreds. ThereforeI thought of getting a new pair of strong shoes and also a small notebook into which I could copy my verses, which, although my work was plentiful, I did not stop writing. But yet I felt as lonely as before. I could easily have made acquaintances, but I did not wish to. The cook at the next house often spoke to me, and told me once that every second Sunday she went out with her sweetheart, who was a corporal; after which she asked me how many times I went out. I told her that I did not go out at all, and at this she looked at me with suspicion.
"Well, I never! then madam very likely allows your sweetheart into her drawing-room to visit you, eh?"
"You impudent person, I have no sweetheart!"
At these words she gave a jeering laugh.
"So it is as far as that already. You are sick of men; I expect one of them has left you in the lurch."
Without answering I turned my back on her, and afterwards we saw each other as little as possible.
I began to hate everybody with whom I came in contact: the baker because he had always some nasty words ready, which made me cast down my eyes and caused the blood to rush to my head; the milkman for the same reason; and the family itself because it was plain that the man was a liar. To my great disappointment I had not received my wages, and so I wrote my verses, which were even more frequent now, on paper bags that had previously contained such things as rice, tea or sugar; and these verses I carefully kept and put away.
One day I had just come back from a walk with the children, and after I had put the youngest child into the cot I went into the kitchen to warm his milk; on entering the kitchen whom should I see but Madam standing calmly in front of the drawer in which I kept my belongings. The drawer was open and my mistress held in her hands one of those paper bags that I knew so well. I was frightened and furious at the same time, but the respect which, at least outwardly, I had for that very indiscreet person prevented me from utteringany angry exclamation. With an amused and astonished face she turned towards me and held up the bag, "You have never told me about these things," she said, seeming not at all troubled at being detected in that mean action. "If you please," I answered, trying to get hold of the bag, "it would not have been worth the while." She still wore the amused smile on her face. "No, let me have it, I am going to show it to my husband."
"For God's sake, no!" I cried in dismay.
"Why not? I like the verses very well."
The whole of my indignation and feelings of revolt immediately vanished. I felt like kneeling down and kissing the hem of her dress; her words had made me very happy, and from that day forward I recognized in her my guardian angel.
The fact that I as yet had not received my wages made me, it is true, feel very sad; but I told myself that this must be the manager's fault, for he ought to have provided her with the money to pay her servant. But she, and ofthis I was perfectly sure, never even caught sight of a single penny.
My mistress had shown the manager some of the verses discovered in the drawer, but he had laughed and responded that she had better not turn my head altogether since I was a good, hard-working girl, and that there were a far greater number of good poets than good servants in existence. The manager had to go away to Vienna nearly every week. One day when he had gone there as usual and the children were put to bed, Madam came down into the kitchen where I was busily washing up, and said: "Anna, I want to speak to you."
I thought that she was going to pay me my wages at last, and my heart beat faster. She sat down on a kitchen chair, and watched me silently for a while. Suddenly she began again:
"Tell me why you have not been truthful with me?"
I was startled and looked at her in surprise, but my conscience was clear, and so I answered quietly:
"I don't know what you mean, Madam."
She tapped the floor impatiently with her feet, and said:
"No pretences, please. You remember that you told me once that you had no sweetheart, but that poem"—and oh, horror and dismay! she held up a paper bag on which I had written only the day before, and which I had never intended to show to anybody—"that poem does not say the same. Where is he? What profession is he in? Have you got his photo?"
I took my hands out of the hot dish-water, and covered my face.
"Don't be so silly," she continued. "I am a married woman, and you may trust me. Now, come, out with it," and while she said that she looked at me half commandingly, half lovingly. My hands dropped, and I noticed how very red and ugly they were. A new shame overcame me.
"It is true," I said at last.
"That you have got a sweetheart?"
"No; I mean that I have not got one."
"But this poem?" and, greatly puzzled, shelooked down at the bag that was smelling of coffee.
"I don't know who he is, nor where he is;" and with sudden courage: "all I know is that he does exist."
"But, pray, where have you seen him, then?"
"I have never seen him at all, except in my thoughts."
"Oh" she exclaimed, and rising with a yawn, she began to leave the kitchen; but at the doorway she turned round once more and said: "As long as you know him only in your thoughts he can do you no harm."
Scarcely had the door closed behind her, when I flew at the drawer, pulled out the bags, and threw them into the fire. I watched until the flickering flames had destroyed every bit of them, then I leaned against the grey wall of the kitchen and wept bitterly.
Oh, for those tears in that grey kitchen! Oh, for those dreams in that grey kitchen! Every moment my heart yearned in incomprehensible longing for him. When would he come? Oh, when? When would he cometo take me away, like the princes came in the fairy tales to woo a shepherdess or a kitchen-maid? I felt so sure that we were destined to meet some day, but it seemed a long, long way off. Sometimes a doubting fear would overcome me. How if the picture of my dreams—that picture so proud, so far away—should never turn into a form of flesh and blood, but ever be a dream! At such moments I was weak and foolish. I looked down at my hands, which were so red and ugly from washing-up and scrubbing. If no man would ever love me because of my red and ugly hands, what then? At that question my soul trembled, and tears thronged into my eyes. The next second, however, I smiled at my fears; a line or two out of my poems had fallen into my thoughts. What did it matter that my hands were red and ugly? What did hands matter at all? What had the heart, the mind, the soul of a man or woman in common with his or her hands? The man of my dreams was not a man who would love a girl only for her beauty. No; he would love me for the purity of mythoughts, the chastity of my longing, and for that wonderful part of my being that made me write my poems and dream all day.
Once on washing-day I was standing at the tub, when the door opened and my mother came in.
"Mother!" I cried, "why did you not write that you were coming?"
"We have not heard from you for so long, and when no letter arrived yesterday I became worried, and walked over," she said.
Only then I noticed her tired face and the dust that covered her rough shoes.
"Do you mean to say you walked all that distance?"
"Yes, I did;" and after a little pause; "we must be very careful with our pennies, business is so bad now."
I tried hard to keep back my tears.
"If I only had some money I would gladly give it to you," I said.
My mother shook her head.
"Don't be silly. You need your money yourself. Have you managed to save a little?"
"No," I answered very slowly.
"Let me see, you have been here for a year now"—she began to count by the aid of her fingers—"and your wages are eight shillings a month." She counted again. "That ought to have left you something. I am afraid you are careless, my dear."
Seeing that she looked at me with tender but reproachful eyes I cuddled down beside her.
"No," I said, "I am not careless; but—"
And then I told her that I had never received my real wages; only just enough to buy some very necessary articles of clothing, or to have a pair of shoes mended when it was urgently required. I felt very much ashamed to tell her this, since my own stubbornness was the cause of it all. My mother sat still, and after a long while she said:
"I am glad I have come. I have never been quite at my ease, and wanted to see for myself whether you are happy or not. I have heard of a very good situation, which would be suitable for you. You would have to look after threechildren, and to help the cook with the scrubbing. The household there is kept on a big scale, and you would learn a great deal."
I remembered the mad boy, who still managed to spit at me occasionally, and the sneers of the older boy.
"I would like to take that place," I said at last.
My mother got up from the linen-basket on which she had been sitting.
"It is easy enough," she replied. "I have arranged for a fortnight's notice with the manager, and if I give it to-day, you are free to go in two weeks' time. I have seen the lady of the other post; she is very kind, and does not mind waiting another three weeks. You might just as well come home for a week. Does that suit you?"
I nodded in silence, and we parted.
When I went into the kitchen later on, my mistress was sitting near the fire as if she had been waiting for me.
"I am sorry your mother wants you to leave me, but I have always said that this was toorough work for you. I hope you will like your new situation."
After the fortnight had passed I again packed up my things into brown paper, but the parcel seemed to be smaller than it had been a year ago. When I took my leave my mistress handed me ten shillings, and promised to send on the rest of the money due to me. Although I knew for a certainty that she would never do it, I thanked her very much for the ten shillings, which seemed to be an enormous sum.
I noticed slight changes when I arrived home. The lodging was the same, but I missed several pieces of furniture, which I knew had formerly been there. At first I wanted to ask for them, but a strange sensation of fear and cowardice closed my lips. There was also a pipe lying on one of the shelves.
"Who smokes a pipe?" I remarked.
My mother threw a quick glance at it.
"Father, of course; he thinks a pipe comes cheaper."
There were also other things that I thought surprising, but I would ask no more.
"I dare say you know that Charlie has left his master," said my mother.
"How should I know? Nobody has told me; where is he?"
"With father; I expect they will come in soon."
Although I felt pleased to see my brother again, of whom I had heard nothing all the time he had been away, I was not pleased that he had broken off his apprenticeship and had to begin afresh.
My mother had started to put the children to bed and to lay the table. When it was dark my father came in with my brother, and after the simple greetings were exchanged we sat down to supper. I noticed now how handsome my brother had become. Although he was only sixteen years of age, he was much taller than my father, and of such gracefulness that I could hardly take my eyes from him. His face was very beautiful. His eyes blue and large, and shadowed by most exquisite lashes. On his upper lip a fair, downy moustache showed, but his under-lip was, I thought, just a little too full.
"What are you going to do now?" I asked him once during the meal. "Speaking frankly, you are too big (and too handsome I had almost added) to be an apprentice."
"You are right, my beloved sister," he answered with a touch of scorn in his voice; "for that sort of position I have grown too big and, to tell the truth, too superior."
"Too superior?" I asked in amazement, and noticed how white and beautiful his hands were. He looked at his well-kept nails thoughtfully for awhile.
"Yes, too big and too superior to have my ears boxed."
"Did they?" I gasped, not daring to complete my sentence.
"Yes, and that's why I ran away."
"Perhaps you ought to have stayed there, after all," remarked my mother somewhat timidly. "What will you do now?"
He gave my mother a look that alarmed me. It was an ugly, almost threatening look, which robbed his face of all its beauty. But as ifconscious of the impression produced upon me, he calmly leant back on the wooden chair and smiled self-contentedly.
"There is no need for you to lament," he said, addressing my mother; "I shall not be a burden to you.... I am going to Vienna," he finished, turning to me.
"To Vienna?" I asked. "What are you going to do there?"
He smiled again, and on this occasion contemptuously.
"I don't know yet; but there is no need to worry about such a fellow as I am; it is true that I have no money, but here (he pointed at his forehead) I have got something that is worth more than money," and after this introduction he started to picture his future.
"To begin with," he said, "it is undoubtedly a great misfortune to be born in the country. Think of the vast possibilities that are open to you in town. There are the well-managed schools, the places of historic importance, the innumerable means of earning a living, and the very air of culture and refinement that envelopeseverybody. There is no real work in the country, and there never will be. It is true that the people get up in the mornings and try to do what there is to be done; but where is, I ask you, that race of all the different brain and bodily powers that is so characteristic of life in town, where the clever man is superseded by the cleverest man, and everybody tries to reach the top in consequence?... If I were silly enough to stay at a little country-place, what would become of me? Nothing but a mere loafer, who drags about quite uselessly the great gift of intelligence that fortune (my dear, I am above that nonsense of God and Church) has bestowed upon his cradle or rather upon his brain. I have therefore decided to throw in my lot with the quickest and cleverest of my age, and it must be hell itself playing against me if I do not succeed in getting enough money to enable me to buy a few hundreds of such dens"—he looked round the room contemptuously—"in a couple of years."
With my hands folded almost devoutly I sat silent during the whole of this speech, and didnot quite know what to make of it. I greatly admired the graceful flow of his words, as well as his thoughts which were entirely new to me. Nevertheless there was something within me that warned me not to surrender the views and ideas I had so far held.
"I hope you will have good luck," I said at last when he made a little pause; "but I should like to know what you are going to be."
"Alas!" he replied, "I can see for myself now that you are not much better than these folks"—he pointed with his thumb at my parents—"and that you have never, not even in the least, raised yourself above the level of your birth. Your way of thinking is the way these folks think"—he pointed at my parents again—"and they think as their grandparents did. Progress is to all of you as foreign as China. How can you be so silly," he continued, somewhat more gently, "to ask me what I am going to be? How can I tell to-day? At the present I have not the faintest notion of the conditions and circumstances of Vienna, and how am I to know which of my capacities is likely to be themost eminent? Let me have the choice of a profession, the possibility of a trial, and I will tell you what I am made of."
Greatly ashamed of my ignorance, I was silent again.
"If you possessed brain," my brother continued—"a thing which I am sorry to say I do not suspect you of after I have had the pleasure of exchanging these few words"—he bowed ironically—"you might have perceived by now that I am no ordinary person, but of an artistic turn of mind. These people"—he pointed again at my parents—"have, unfortunately, little or no understanding of that, and will in all probability fail to comprehend the greatness that the future holds in store for me. That is, however, of little consequence; it is you whom I expect to escape from your present station in life"—I admired the delicate way in which he referred to my station—"as soon as possible. It is true that you will never succeed in reaching the height destined for me, but you may, nevertheless, go on to perfect yourself in every way possible, in order to spare me thedistress of blushing for your ignorance and social standing later on."
My father had got up from the table some time before, and with his hands crossed on his back nervously paced the room. He coughed now and again, as if something irritated his throat, and it was plain that he was angry. All at once he stopped in front of my brother.
"Don't you think," he asked, "that it would be best for you to mix with your own class of people as soon as possible?"
"Why, of course," my brother replied with utter coolness, "I have already decided to leave for Vienna to-morrow; all that I must ask you is to let me have the money for the journey, a sum so trivial that I can repay it to you multiplied a hundred times in a few months."
They looked quite calmly at each other, but it was a calm that seemed to be loaded with thunder and lightning. My mother must have felt the same, for she got up rather hastily, and her voice trembled as she said: "There isplenty of time to settle that to-morrow. You had better go to bed now."
The thunderstorm, however, broke next day. My brother insisted on a certain sum of money, which my father thought too great and refused to let him have the whole of it.
"Do you want me to reach Vienna without a single penny in my pockets?"
"I will give you as much as I can spare; there are the little ones to be thought of; I cannot let them starve."
"Then you wish rather that I should starve?"
"I don't think that it would come to that. You are old enough to earn your living."
"Old enough! Do you really mean to say that a fellow sixteen years of age is old enough to earn his living?"
"Why not? I myself had to leave home when I was only a child of eleven, and have worked for my living ever since."
"Worked for your living!" my brother cried scornfully. "Wasting money and getting into debt to such an extent that no dog will take thetrouble to look at us. Do you call that working for your living?"
The veins showed thickly on my father's forehead.
"You wretch!" he cried, and flew at my brother's throat, "is that what I get for having taken endless trouble to bring you up?"
It was evident that my brother had not expected so violent an outburst on the part of my habitually gentle father. He grew deadly pale and tried to free himself from my father's clutch.
After he had succeeded in doing so, he reached for his hat and turned to the door. But, before he closed it behind him, he said: "You will find me in the Kamp, if you should happen to look for me to-morrow."
What he called the Kamp was a river of considerable depth. After he had left, the room looked a picture of misery and grief. My mother was leaning against the wall weeping violently; my father was pacing the room, his face rigidly set and breathing rapidly; thesmallest of the children, roused by the noise, had started to cry; and I trembled in every limb with excitement.
It was my brother's last words that worried me beyond expression—"You will find me in the Kamp, if you should happen to look for me to-morrow."
I imagined him plunging into the dark green water, sinking slowly and being found entangled in the tall reeds near the banks. "Mother," I said, speaking incoherently and almost inaudibly, "do you think that he will?"
"Don't ask me anything," she replied; "I am the most unfortunate woman under the sun."
During the whole day I hoped that he might still come back. He did not return, however, and when evening drew near I dismissed all hope of ever seeing him again. The next day I could not remain indoors any longer, so I went out and walked towards the river without actually knowing or wishing it. Every time I saw a group of people coming towards meI stopped in terror, for I believed that they had found him. Nobody, however, seemed to be on so terrible a mission.
The people looked gaily at me, and passed on to their work in the vineyards. When I reached the church square, the very sight of which was enough to arouse such sad and sweet memories that I felt more wretched, my brother appeared on the scene. Giving a joyous exclamation, I hastened towards him.
"Where did you spend the night, Charlie?"
But this question did not seem to please him.
"I certainly expected more tact on your part," he replied, stepping over to my side, "than even to allude to that distressing scene at which you were unfortunate enough to be present."
I did not dare to ask another question, and walked along in silence. Secretly I was surprised at his composure.
"I am extremely sorry for your misfortune," my brother said after a pause. According to my opinion it was he who was the more unfortunate of the two.
"Why are you sorry for me?" I asked him, and regretted the question the next moment, because his face flushed with anger.
"How can you ask why, when you yourself were present at this miserable occurrence, which must have taught you of what low descent you are."
"I?"
"Well, of course I mean we, but as I have ceased to belong to these folks any longer, I cannot help feeling extremely sorry at the thought that you will have to spend the whole of your life amongst these narrow-minded people, who are little better than savages. Ever since yesterday I have thought how I could help you."
According to my opinion he needed help far more than I did; but he did not seem to think so.
"What I have decided to do is this: I will take you down to Vienna, where I shall watch over you, cultivate any abilities that you may show—in short, educate you. As soon as I have shaken my boots free from the dust of this placeand reached Vienna, I am going to work day and night in order to save enough money to enable me to write for you, and to let you learn all the important branches of art and science, such as languages, music, etc. Do you agree to it?"
I felt mightily touched at his generosity and could not speak for a while.
"As a matter of course," he continued hurriedly, "that cannot be done right away; you will have to wait a little, and in the meantime there is nothing to prevent you from accepting the place that mother has found for you. Your leisure time, however, I want you to fill up usefully, so that I shall not be ashamed of you when I introduce you to my friends. I strongly advise you to read Schiller. There is everything in his dramas that you may need to appear clever and witty in whatever situation you find yourself. It would be an excellent thing if you could quote from his works at every possible opportunity. I also advise you to read Goethe's works. Be careful, however, not to quote from them, as your mind is not yet ready to fathom theprofound depth of his thoughts, and you might fall into the evil habit of quoting passages at quite inappropriate moments. Perhaps it is better for you to refrain altogether from reading his deeper works, until I myself shall be able to expound them to you. But," and a very winning smile parted his lips, "it is now time for me to say good-bye."
"Good-bye!" I exclaimed; "where do you want to go to?"
"I am travelling down to Vienna."
"But you have got no money!"
His lips closed, and the winning smile vanished.
"I can see," he retorted, "that you are backward in every way. The thing you most lack, and that you need to acquire first, is tactfulness. Because, alas! one of our family happens to have no feeling at all, do you really expect everybody to be in the same miserable state? Always be careful, I tell you, about mentioning anything that might recall occurrences or situations of a distressing character. A certain pride exists, which is alive even withinthe most pitiable wretch ... take care never to rouse that," and holding out his hand, he said good-bye.
I did not take his hand, but stared at his beautiful fingers.
"I don't mean to hurt your feelings," I said almost crying, "but how can you get to Vienna without a single penny?"
He frowned, and his handsome face darkened.
"It seems that I cannot expect from you that delicacy of feeling which you must possess if you are ever to deserve my affection. But since you are my sister, and really not to blame for your imperfections—because it is the duty of parents to attend to their children's education, and yours, I mean ours, have neglected that important thing entirely—I will answer your question about the money. You are perfectly right in suspecting that I have not a single penny, but let me tell you that I would much rather walk all the distance from here to Vienna than bring myself to accept another sou from the man who, on account of a strange accident, is entitled to call himself my father.I have tried to find out when the goods-train leaves for Vienna, and have decided to hide myself in it."
I shook my head in horror.
"No, never!" I cried; "you must not do that. I have got some money," and I pressed the rest of my ten shillings, which I had carefully wrapped up in a piece of white paper, into his hand; whereupon I detected signs of both anger and pity on his face.
"Surely," he said, "I should be a scoundrel of the meanest order if I touched this small sum of yours. Far be it from me to do such a thing;" and he put the money back into my hand. "It is true," he added, "that you have shown great tactlessness again, but I will forgive you this time."
Almost immediately he was gone, and although I was standing in the street, I began to cry most piteously, regretting my poverty, my lack of nobleness, even my very existence. I felt convinced that my brother was not only an artist, but also a hero and a martyr.
The situation in which I started soon after these events differed somewhat from my first one. There were only three children, a second maid—the cook—and instead of eight shillings I was promised ten shillings a month. My duties were the same as before. I had to wash up the dishes, to scrub the floor, and to take out the children as soon as I had finished the housework. My new charges behaved much better than the children of the manager, and I liked them all very much. The cook, too, was nice. Neither in speech nor in manner was she objectionable, and sometimes I used to read out my poems to her. She seemed to be very fond of the verses, and often asked to hear them again. That made me very happy.
But after some months had passed away, and I became used to the change, I was conscious again of the old well-known feeling of dissatisfaction and loneliness. Frequently I used to sit down in a corner and sob without knowing what was the matter. I was careful not to let the mistress see my tears, but could not always hide them from the cook, who was nearly always with me. She had asked me already what I was crying for, but I could give no explanation.
One Saturday afternoon, when we were busily scrubbing the floor and all the different meat-boards in the kitchen, the cook noticed my swollen eyelids again.
"What is the matter with you, I should like to know," she said. "You are home-sick perhaps."
I shook my head slowly and thoughtfully.
"I don't think I am home-sick, but I believe I am unhappy because I can't go and learn anything."
"Can't go and learn anything!" she repeated. "What on earth do you want to learn?"
I hesitated a little.
"I am sure I don't know. All I know is that I am frightfully silly."
"Well, I shouldn't say that," she replied good-naturedly. "I quite like the way you help me in the kitchen."
"Oh well, yes; but I mean that I don't know how to play the piano, nor how to speak French."
"But you do not need such things in service."
"Quite so; but I don't want to be in service."
"Oh!" she exclaimed, and then there was a long silence.
After we had done our work we took off our wet overalls, and put on clean pinafores. The cook reached down one of the shining saucepans hanging on the walls, and began to make the coffee, while I went into the dining-room to lay the table. After I had taken in the tray with the hot milk, the steaming coffee, and the cups of white porcelain, the cook and I sat down in the kitchen to take our coffee also. The cook poured out the coffee, and I noticedthat her hands trembled a little. She did not speak, and I was silent too, but I could feel that our previous conversation occupied her thoughts. When her cup was empty she put her head into her hands, and looked me straight in the face.
"Then you want to know French?" she asked abruptly.
"Well, it need not be exactly French."
"What else, then?"
"I don't know."
"That's silly. You must know your own mind, to be sure."
"I believe that I should like to learn English," I confessed, much embarrassed and ashamed.
"I have never heard of a person learning English. Why would you not rather learn French?"
"No," I said slowly but decisively, "I would much rather learn English."
"I have thought of everything," she continued after a pause; "the mistress must not know about it. She herself has never learntanything of that sort, and would consider it to be nothing but pride on your part. But it might be managed, nevertheless, if you would learn only in the evening after you have put the children to bed."
"Of course," I cried delightedly; "I would not dream of doing it during the daytime. There is only one thing," I added thoughtfully: "where shall I be able to find a teacher in the evening?"
"A teacher!" cook exclaimed in utter surprise; "do you mean to say that you want a teacher?"
I lost heart considerably at her question.
"Of course, I am sure it is impossible without a teacher."
"But won't that be too expensive?"
I assumed great indifference at her remark.
"I don't think that it could cost much," I said.
"How much do you think he would charge you?"
"I don't know exactly, but it won't be above a shilling or two."
"But, my dear, you can't afford that."
"Well, let me see. My wages are ten shillings a month, and I do not need all the money."
"Of course not But you have to think of the future."
"Well, that's just what I am doing."
The cook did not understand what I meant by these words, and as the bell rang to show that I was wanted, we dropped the subject, and I did not dare to touch upon it again in spite of the growing impatience and longing within me.
A few days later, however, it happened that the cook spoke of it again quite abruptly.
"Do you think that you would get some benefit from it?"
"From what?" I asked, and looked as if I had no notion of her thoughts.
"From the English language, of course."
"Well, if I knew how to speak it correctly I am certain that I could make a lot of money with it."
"Where?"
"Not here, of course," I replied, and turned my head guiltily away from her gaze. We had to do the scrubbing again, and the cook devoted herself to the work almost savagely; but when the kitchen glittered and shone, and we were once more sitting down to drink our coffee, she continued:
"You must try to take your lessons on a Friday evening. The mistress as well as the master are at the club, and won't be back before eleven. Do you think you could be back before then?"
I was happy beyond expression, and would have liked to put my arms round the neck of that dear simple creature.
"What do you think!" I exclaimed, wild with joy, and with my hands folded as if in prayer; "I shall be in much earlier than that." But in a moment I grew worried again. "Are you sure that the porter won't tell about it?"
"Never mind about the porter. I will have a talk with him."
After that we decided that I should look out for a teacher, and the matter was settled. Onthe following days when I took out the children, I looked up and down the houses most carefully, and found at last what I was searching for. "Languages and Music taught here," stood out clearly from a black board of granite, and the black board was fastened on to a stately house. In spite of the shyness caused by the grandeur of the house I longed to go in right away, but the presence of the children kept me from carrying out my wish. They were old enough to understand everything, and there was not the slightest doubt that they would go and repeat my conversation with a teacher of "languages and music" to their mother. It is true that my mistress was always most kind to me, but, as cook remarked, she would never have understood.
When I arrived home I told my friend about my success, and asked her how I could manage to go there without letting anybody know.
"The only thing you can do," she said, "is to peep in when you go to fetch the milk."
I thought how very ridiculous it would look for me to go into a room with a large milk-canin my hands, and did not like her proposal. There was, however, no other way if I did not want to arouse suspicion, so next day I pulled the bell of the imposing house. I could hear it ring from within, and the sound made me still more uncomfortable. I wished the milk-can at the bottom of the sea, and while I stood there waiting I thought for a moment of hiding that disgraceful thing. I looked round for a suitable corner, but then I was afraid that it might be stolen, so I kept it in my hand, and only tried to hide it as much as possible behind me when the door opened and a maid asked what I wanted. Colouring deeply, I told her why I had come, and she begged me to step in. She led the way into a room, which I thought was the most magnificent room I had ever seen. There was a very large looking-glass, and the very first thing I saw in it was myself. The second thing I saw was the milk-can, and I looked away quickly; never before had it seemed to me so big and ugly. A few minutes passed, and still I was left alone. Just when I was beginning to regret that I had come at all, thedoor opened, and a slender, sweet-looking woman entered the room. The lady was Risa de Vall, the teacher of music and languages. As soon as she saw me she smiled a very faint little smile, which I thought was due to the milk-can, and in my heart of hearts I reproached that article bitterly.
"I am told that you wish to take lessons in the English language; is that so?"
"If you would be so very kind."
"Do you live with your parents?"
I blushed with shame, but answered truthfully:
"No; I am in service."
She was silent for awhile, and looked at me with keen, searching eyes.
"Very well then, my hours are from eight o'clock in the morning till six o'clock in the evening. When do you want to have your lesson?"
"Oh, I am so very sorry, but I cannot come before eight in the evening."
And, after I had said that, tears filled my eyes.
She smiled again, but that time so kindly thatI felt certain the milk-can had no part in it, and to my greatest delight I heard her say:
"I suppose I must make an exception for once, and give you your lesson at a time convenient to you."
With some hesitation I asked for her terms, secretly fearing that it might not be possible after all.
But I was soon relieved. After looking at me once more very keenly, she named a price that even I considered ridiculously small.
When I repeated this conversation to the cook, she looked very grave. After a long silence she asked me whether I thought that English would be a difficult language to learn.
I replied that I did not know, since I had never heard anyone talk English.
My life now began to be entirely different. All the week I worked gaily for that one glorious day on which my lessons took place. I had bought a grammar of the English language, and studied it whenever I could spare a minute. My teacher seemed much pleased with my zeal, but I soon found out that she had made up her mind to give me lessons in more things than English.
One day when I sat with her in her room, that had never lost its charm for me, she asked me quite abruptly why a button was missing from my jacket, and why my nails were always dirty. I felt exceedingly ashamed at the two questions, and stammered some silly reply. At first I thought she did not like me, but she wasso sweet during the rest of that lesson that I felt sure she had grown fond of me. When I got home that evening the cook was already in bed. She looked at me in surprise because I did not go to bed at once, as I was in the habit of doing, but took my sewing-basket and searched its contents.
"What are you looking for?" she asked.
"For a pair of scissors."
"What on earth do you want them for now?"
"Oh, only for my nails."
"Which nails?"
But by that time I had discovered what I wanted, and having sat down on the edge of my bed, I started to clean one finger after the other.
"Well," my friend exclaimed, "something has got into your head to be sure."
"Nothing at all—but don't you think my hands are simply horrid?"
"I believe you are really a proud one," she said, and looked at me with great displeasure.
During the time that I took my lessons, Miss Risa de Vall was always zealous to point out tome the many great and little things that make for beauty, order, and usefulness, and never for a moment did she waver in her noble task. Gently, yet sternly, she checked my often wild behaviour, dealing firmly and persistently with whatsoever fault she found with me. After she had known me for about six months she asked me one evening whether I had no other friend besides the cook. I said "No," and then she told me that she had had a young lady as pupil in the town where she used to teach a few years ago. Would I like to write to her and ask her whether she cared to make friends with me? I was, of course, eager to get to know the girl so tenderly spoken of by my beloved mistress, and agreed with all my heart. I wrote to her on the following day, and received an answer by return of post. Her letter was brief, but sweet. When I showed the note to the cook, she said: "That is a real lady, to be sure." I had, of course, no doubt about that. By the flickering light of the candle, I sat down a few days later to write to my new friend, but found it extremely difficult to begin. But after I hadmanaged to start I never stopped until I had filled at least four to six pages. What I wrote about were all things of which I thought constantly, but never confided to anybody—nay, not even to the cook.
During all this time I had heard nothing from my brother, and nobody knew of his whereabouts. One day I got a note from my father in which he told me that he had received a letter from Charlie. He wrote that he was very well off, and made quite a lot of money. When I read that, my heart beat faster. It is true that I never quite believed what he had said to me at our parting; but now I recalled every word of it, and wondered in a vague sense whether he was going to take me to Vienna. I remembered his advice about reading Schiller and Goethe, and felt a little alarmed because I had not yet done so.
"There is no doubt," I said to myself, "that he is moving in society by now, and my utter ignorance of Schiller's dramas would be a source of constant humiliation to him." The fact that he had not written to me since he went away didnot surprise me in the least. I thought that he had been obliged to work very hard, and had no time to spare. In order to be prepared for him in case he should really come for me, I made it my serious business to get a book by Schiller. But where was I to get it from? I had no money to spare for books, and could not think of buying one. In the dining-room there was a book-case, but it was always locked up. The books there seemed to be regarded more for an ornament than for use, since nobody ever took one out to read.
But after another five or six months had elapsed, and no further news was heard of my brother, I gradually forgot those glowing pictures of an easy future, and finally thought no more about them.
When I had been at my place for about two years, I happened to make the acquaintance of a young lady whom I met occasionally in the woods when walking with the children. She used to sit down on the bench beside me, and while the children ran about and played among the trees, she would sometimes start a conversation.
"Why do you always stay at the same place?" she asked me one day.
"Where else should I go?"
"I could not answer that question offhand, but a girl like you ought to try what luck she can have in the world."
"What do you mean?"
"What do I mean? I mean that a girl like you ought to have quite a different position from the one you have at present."
"But why do you say a girl like I am?"
"No nonsense, if you please; you must know as well as I do, that you are as clever as you are pretty."
I thought about what my brother had told me, and then looked down at my hands.
"I always thought that I was very silly and very ugly."
"Fiddlesticks! you are neither the one nor the other, and if I were in your place I should go to a town and try to get on."
"To Vienna?"
"No," she said thoughtfully, and then as ifa new idea had just occurred to her: "Why don't you go to Buda-Pesth?"
"To Buda-Pesth? But that is in Hungary: what am I to do there?"
"The same thing that you do here, but with this difference, that there you will be regarded as a governess and not as a servant, and you will receive thrice the wages you receive here."
I folded my hands slowly and devoutly as I always did when I was moved by some great emotion. "But," I said at last, "am I ladylike enough for such a situation?"
"Of course; if you were not, do you think that I should advise you to take it?"
As she said this she stood up, and made preparations to go. She held out her hand to me and stroked my cheeks.
"Good-bye then, and think about what I have told you; I am fond of you and should like to see you happy."
After she had gone I repeated her words over and over again. It was chiefly the one sentence that haunted me. "You will be regarded as a governess and not as a servant, andyou will receive thrice the wages that you receive here...." Thrice the wages!... I began to reckon in my thoughts. Three times ten shillings make thirty shillings every month ... that would be an enormous sum which I could never want all for myself. No, of course not. But I would send home half of it. My father's letters told me that business was no better, and a little help from somebody would be very convenient.
"Oh, most gracious Lord," I prayed in my heart of hearts, "thirty shillings every month would mean all the world to us."
I got home rather late that evening, and my mistress reproached me gently for not being punctual. For the first time I did not mind what she said. I had intended to tell the cook of my conversation with the girl in the woods, but then I thought it better to keep silence about it, and to wait events. During the following days I looked out eagerly for my new friend; but a fortnight elapsed before I saw her again. I hurried towards her, hardly taking notice of her cheerful salute.
"Where have you been all the time?" I asked.
"I have been busy at home," she replied, looking in astonishment at my face that was flushed with excitement. I tried to control myself and sat down beside her. Although very impatient and very anxious to continue our last conversation, I did not like to start the subject myself. She, however, did not seem to have given it another thought. Not a single word did she say about it.
When at last it grew dark and I knew that I had to start home, I took my courage in my hands, and said with as much indifference as I could assume: "Oh yes, I wanted to tell you that I have thought about everything you told me the last time, and that I shouldn't mind taking your advice and going to Buda-Pesth." I noticed that she was embarrassed, and the next words confirmed my suspicion.
"My dear," she said, "I am truly sorry to have aroused thoughts within you that might endanger the peace of your present life."
All the happiness that I had felt went out of my heart, and with a voice that was almost asob, I said: "I really don't understand you.... You yourself said——"
"Quite so," she interrupted; "I have told you about things which, however, I regret to have mentioned now that I can see that my mother is perfectly right."
"Your mother ... you told your mother about it?"
"Well, yes, I have often mentioned you to her, and I told her of our last conversation. She thought it very unwise on my part to have made you discontented with the safe peaceful run"—she emphasized "safe"—"of your life."
"I understand. Your mother does not think that I am ladylike, and that it might not be quite safe to assume that I should keep my situation."
But after these weary words the girl put her arms round my neck.
"You little silly," she said, "don't you know that you are far too good to go into a situation at all? But since you happen to be poor and have got to earn your living, it is far better that you should stay at a place like our dear oldKrems, where you are less likely to encounter the dangers that lurk for young people in a big city."
I had by now grasped the meaning of her words, and felt greatly moved.
"I understand you, but you need not be afraid.... I am no flirt."
"Hush," she replied in that soft, soothing voice that mothers use when quieting their babies; "I know that; but don't you see that it is hardly ever the flirt, but always the nice decent girl, who is taken in?"
"No, no," I answered blushingly; "I am sure that nothing will happen to me."
After these words my friend held me a little away from her, and gazed into my eyes long and earnestly.
"No, I don't think that anything will happen to you." Then she opened her little hand-bag and took out an envelope, which she pressed into my hands very hurriedly as if she was doing something wrong.
"There," she said, "I have brought it along after all, in case you wanted to go very much."After that she left me quickly, as if afraid that she might regret what she had done. Then I smoothed out the envelope and read the few words:
"Miklosch Sandor, Registry Office, Buda-Pesth."
I called the children together, and went home as if I was in a dream.
The parting from the family in which I had been so kindly treated for more than two years; the parting from the cook, who had been a friend to me in her simple, unspoiled fashion; the parting from my dear teacher, Miss Risa de Vall; and the parting from home—none of them were easy to me. Lightest to bear of all these partings was perhaps the last-named one. My parents had grown so poor during the two years I had been away that I more than ever longed to help them. When they knew what I was about to do, and when I further showed to them the letter from Buda-Pesth confirming my engagement to three children with a salary of thirty-five shillings a month, they, too, thought in their homely way that I had at last made my fortune. Out of the little money I possessedI bought a small trunk, covered with brown, strong canvas, such as are used as hand-bags for travelling. But after I had packed my things, the trunk, small though it was, was only half filled, so few worldly goods could I call my own. That, however, troubled me but little. While I was packing the cheap things, one after the other, into the bag, I was dreaming all the time of thirty-five shillings, and of the wonderful things I could buy with them.
On the very day before my departure a letter arrived from my brother. There had never been an address upon his former letters, but on this occasion there was one. He told us that he was making quite a lot of money, but he did not say how he made it. I was not surprised at this omission, for I simply thought that he had really become an artist, and did not mention his work because he took it for granted that nobody at home would understand it. But I longed to know what he really was—a painter, a sculptor, or a poet. The last thought made me blush with embarrassment and pride. Yes, a poet—that was very likely, since I was writingpoems too; but then, of course, my poems would never be as good as his!
The address given in his letter was the name of a café. During the time that I had still to spend at home I thought of my brother, and at last I had such a very bold and daring idea that I was surprised at my own courage. I would go and visit him. On my way to Buda-Pesth I had to pass Vienna, and I determined to break my journey there in order to look him up. I told my mother about it before leaving home the next day, and she thought that he might certainly be very pleased to see me.
I had put on my very best dress for the journey. It was made out of a cheap blue woollen material. To match this dress I had bought a light blue straw hat that had cost two shillings, and I felt convinced that I looked exceptionally smart. My parents went to see me off, and to make it easier for all of us I kept on talking about the thirty-five shillings every month, and about the miraculous things one could do with them. We arrived at the station early, and paced up and down theplatform. When the train at last came steaming in, I suppressed my tears as bravely as I could, took my seat by the window of the compartment, and nodded to my people with a smile on my face. A few minutes later the horn was sounded to signal the departure; my father waved his hat to me, my mother wiped her eyes, and I looked quickly away from the window with a sob in my throat that could no longer be suppressed.
The journey to Vienna lasted four hours, during which time I thought much of my brother. I felt absolutely certain that I had gained a great deal during the last two years, and pictured to myself his joy and surprise when he heard that I had also a little knowledge of the English language. When I had travelled about half the journey it occurred to me to write down a few of my poems, and to ask his opinion about them. I found some white paper in my bag, and started at once.
In Vienna I showed my brother's address to a policeman, and begged him to direct me. A little later I walked up and down in front ofa café, carrying my trunk in my hands. So far I had not encountered any difficulties, but now I was not quite sure how to proceed. It is true that the most simple thing to do would have been to enter the café, but I did not dare to do so because of all the smartly-dressed people who sat round the gilded tables. Perhaps, I said to myself, he will come out, or, should he be away from home, go in, and then there might be a chance for me to speak to him. However, after a whole hour had passed, and my little trunk had become heavy in my hands, I stepped quite close to one of the tall windows, and looked boldly at the fashionable crowd, hoping to see him seated at one of the gilded tables. But the faces were all strange to me, and making a last desperate appeal to my courage, I had just decided to go in, when I saw a waiter whose gait and carriage seemed familiar to me. He was standing with his back against the window and I could not see his face, but I had the impression that I had met him somewhere before. I stared at him, and had almost forgotten why I wasthere when a guest seated near the window tapped the table with his spoon, and the waiter, who had aroused my interest, immediately turned round and hurried towards him. I was so surprised that I nearly dropped my trunk. The waiter was my brother. Without hesitating another minute I went in. He caught sight of me directly, and looking round him carefully in order to ascertain whether he was watched or not, told me in a low voice to leave the café at once, and to wait for him at the corner of the street, where he would join me in half an hour. I did as he told me, but while I stood at the corner waiting for him I could hardly get over my surprise. The whole thing seemed to be a dream. I doubted whether I had really seen my brother, and whether it was true that he was only a waiter and not an artist, as I had firmly believed him to be. When the half-hour was over a young man dressed in the height of fashion came up to me. I felt a new surprise; the smart young man was my brother. I thought that he had his day off, and admired the cut and colour of his suit.
"Do you get tipped so well?" I, pursuing my own thoughts, asked him after we had shaken hands.
"Incredible!" he cried scornfully. "How can you be so utterly tactless as to remind me in such a manner of the miserable profession I am in?"
"Why do you call it a miserable profession?"
"Why do I call it a miserable profession?" he repeated very angrily. "Do you really think that I find a great pleasure in hobbling round fellows who are not fit to hold a candle to me?"
"I thought," I remarked, after a little silence, "that you had become an artist."
He laughed so terribly that all the passers-by stopped and looked at us.
"An artist, indeed! That is more than I have ever expected from you. Do you believe that artists drop from heaven during the night?"
"Oh no," I replied hurriedly, in order to appease his temper; "I quite know that it takes many years sometimes before they make a name for themselves."
"Then, if you know it, why do you demand that I should be an artist, when there was never the slightest chance for me to educate myself?"
"No, of course not. What I thought was that by now you might have found out which of your capacities is the most eminent."
"Oh," he answered, with an air of absolute ease and conviction, "there can be little doubt as to the nature of my abilities. It is quite certain that I should have made an excellent painter if I had ever had the chance to learn the different ways of mixing the colours and using the brush; it is also quite certain that I should have become a great composer if I had been able to study music; and it is also beyond all doubt that I should be a pioneer in the field of literature if my profession permitted the depth of thought and feeling that is necessary to write in grand style."
I thought of my own poems, and could not understand him.
"Why can't you feel and think exactly as other people do?" I asked.
"Lord!" he cried, and laughed again asterribly as before, "how can you imagine such a thing? To be locked in between four walls, to have to carry trays, and to bow and scrape all day long! Can't you understand that by leading such a miserable life as mine, the soul degenerates, the brain decays, and the whole being goes down to the level of a working animal?"
He had perfectly convinced me now, and although I said nothing he must have felt his victory. His face grew calm, and pointing at my trunk, he said:
"Then you have at last grasped what I meant at our parting, and have freed yourself from the narrow ways of country life and are willing to look out for a situation here?"
I told him quickly what I was about to do.
"That beats everything," he said, when I had finished. "Have you gone mad?"
"Why should I have gone mad? Didn't you tell me yourself that I must try to get on?"
"Are you really so silly that you do not understand that you have no right whatever to go in for such a situation as you have described to me?"
"What do you mean?"
"Are you really ignorant of the fact," he continued, without paying any attention to my question, "that people like that do not need a servant, but a ladylike person, somebody who knows how to behave, and possesses good manners, and can teach them to the children in her charge? Furthermore, do you not know that you have not a grain of what is called 'polish'?"
I gave a little sob, and after hearing that he continued quickly: "That is, of course, not your fault. Your intercourse with nothing but country-folk cannot have taught you witty, amiable, and smart behaviour; cannot have given you that indefinable something which makes all the difference between an educated and an uneducated person; cannot have imparted that knowledge to you, without which one is nothing, a nobody, a mere cipher?"
I believed every word of it and cried softly.
"What am I to do?" I asked at last.
"If I were in your place I should not traveldown to Buda-Pesth, but stay here. I will use whatever influence I have with my friends, and try to find you a situation. Perhaps you could get a post as cashier somewhere in a café."
"No," I said, controlling my tears all in a moment, "I won't do that."
"Why not? They generally make a lot of money, and a good match at the end."
"No," I said again, and shook my head decisively, "I would rather go to Buda-Pesth."
He shrugged his shoulders indifferently.
"He that will not be counselled cannot be helped. What train do you go by?"
"By the evening train at eight o'clock."
"I am sorry to say that I can't see you off then. I have got arendezvousat eight o'clock."
"A randewau?"
"Arendezvous," he corrected. "There you are again; you know nothing."
After that statement he pulled out his pocket-book and began to write down something. When he had finished, he tore off the leaf and handed it to me.
"There, I have put down for you the mostimportant of adopted words, which you ought to know because all smart people express themselves nowadays only in adopted words. Good luck and a pleasant journey to you." He held out his hand, which I took mechanically, and when I looked up he had gone.
I inquired for the station, and went the way indicated by a friendly policeman. After I had taken my ticket I got into the train which was standing by the platform, and by the dim light of the compartment I tried to decipher the slip of paper that my brother had given to me. It ran as follows: