After I had finished reading the paper I folded it up very carefully and put it into my pocket. At the same time the train began to move and started slowly onwards.
Mr. Sandor, the owner of the registry-office in Buda-Pesth, had told me in his last letter that he was going to meet me at the station, and asked me to carry a handkerchief in my hand. I had passed a perfectly sleepless night, and when we arrived in Buda-Pesth in the morning I felt quite stiff, and got out from the compartment rather clumsily, with my brown canvas trunk in one hand, and a handkerchief in the other. I looked up and down the platform, and soon observed an elderly gentleman who hurried up to me.
"Have you come from Langenau?"
"Yes," I said, and would have given a world to know what he thought of me.
"Do you want a taxi?" he asked, throwing a quick glance at my trunk.
All the money I possessed did not amount to more than sixpence, and I shook my head violently at his question.
"No, no; I would rather walk."
"Just as you like."
A few minutes later he asked me whether he might be permitted to carry my trunk, but again I shook my head. After rather a long way he stopped at one of the tall, beautiful houses, and I thought it was the house of the family who had engaged me.
"Are we there?" I asked, with my heart beating to my very throat.
"No," he answered smilingly; "here is my own lodging. I have taken you here first so that you can make yourself a little more tidy before you are presented to your new mistress. My wife will certainly be pleased to help you."
He had opened a door and we entered a pretty-looking room. A lady came in. She nodded at me very pleasantly, and Mr. Sandor said something to her in the Hungarian language, which of course I did not understand. After that he turned again to me: "I leave youwith my wife now; as soon as you are ready I shall be ready too."
Not until the door had closed behind him, did I understand the ridiculous position I was in. He expected me to change my clothes, never suspecting that they were my best.
"Don't be shy," the lady said; "do just as if you were at home."
But even if I had been really at home, I could not have done much more. I stammered that I did not want to change my dress, but should like to have a clothes-brush, if there was one handy.
"Of course," Mrs. Sandor replied, "here is one;" and with a smile she handed to me the desired brush. I used it with clumsy haste and gave it back.
"Is that really everything?" she asked me in the same pleasant way as before.
"Yes, everything."
After that she called her husband in.
"Ready then?"
"Quite," I replied, and stooping down to lift up my trunk, I said "Good-day" to Mrs.Sandor, and followed her husband out into the street.
We did not go far on this occasion. He stopped at the corner of the road and told me to follow him into the tram-car, a command which I found great difficulty in obeying. However, I got in at last, and Mr. Sandor sat down beside me.
"I dare say," he commenced after a little while, "my letters were quite clear to you, and that you are in no doubt as to your future duties. With regard to your mistress, I do not think that there can be found a more kind and gentle creature, and I am sure that you will feel very comfortable in her house. As far as the three boys are concerned, you will have to find out for yourself the best way to get on with them, and I hope that you will remain there for a long time."
He kept on talking in this strain, and in my heart of hearts I wondered whether I really looked so silly and common a girl as my brother had thought me. The house to which Mr. Sandor took me was a very fine-lookingbuilding. There was a broad marble staircase, covered with a costly carpet, which was kept in its place by rods of shining brass. A smart-looking parlour-maid led the way into a roomy hall, bidding us to wait. I put my trunk on the floor, and with my heart beating fast sat down on the edge of a chair. Mr. Sandor seated himself too, but his heart did not seem to beat any faster. We had to wait for rather a long time, and I was almost wishing that we might be left there to wait for ever. But in the very midst of that thought fell the mellowed sound of footsteps, and a lady entered. I felt so embarrassed that I could not speak, and stood up terribly ashamed. But she never looked at me. She spoke to Mr. Sandor in Hungarian, and I grew doubtful whether she knew that there was anyone else in the room. All at once she turned her head and looked at me with searching eyes.
"Are you quite sure that you will like to stay in Buda-Pesth?" she asked me. I did not quite know what she meant and only bowed my head in silence. "I am afraid that you mightgrow home-sick, and I should so hate to change again."
"No," I said; "I am sure I shall like it very much."
Mr. Sandor then said "Good-morning" to the lady, and as he shook hands with me he begged me not to forget what he had told me. After he had gone, the lady bade me follow her and led the way into a room that was furnished completely in white. A table stood in the centre and around it three boys, whom I guessed to be my charges, were sitting. They got up as we entered and looked rather shyly at me.
"Your new governess," the lady said to the children. "Won't you say 'Good-morning' to her?"
Once alone with the children, my shyness left me. I shook hands with them and asked a few simple questions which they answered in broken German. After I had taken off my things, I busied myself at once in amusing the children, tired though I was. I built houses of paper on the table, and did various little things to help me to gain some courage.
After a few days I grew more reassured, and dropped my shyness even towards the mistress. I could see that she was satisfied with me, and since the children also were very fond of me, I no longer felt afraid of being sent away.
I had plenty to do. To take the children to school and to fetch them back again. Also to take them for walks when the weather was fine enough. The darning and sewing I did when they lay asleep.
Apart from a burning home-sickness that had taken hold of me and tortured me especially in the evenings I felt quite happy there, and no doubt believed that I had found at last what I had been longing for all my life. There was one thing, however, that darkened the clear horizon of my days: I had not a single decent dress to wear. It would hardly have troubled me, but I knew that my mistress wanted me to be dressed smartly. She had made little remarks sometimes, which, although never addressed directly to me, gave me to understand that she was ashamed for her friends—whose governesses looked so smart that I hadmistaken them for mistresses at the beginning—to see me.
One day my mistress came into the nursery, and, looking around somewhat discontentedly, said:
"The children have been invited to tea, but who shall accompany them?"
I looked at her in surprise.
"Why, I, of course."
"Impossible; you can't go there in that blue dress of yours."
I remembered my brother and what he had told me, and started to fret again about being sent away. I had not been there for a whole month, and had not yet received my wages. But my mind was made up that I would buy a dress as soon as I had my money, and I had already looked in all the shop-windows in order to choose one. There were several dresses that I should have liked to buy, but on looking at the price I was so horrified that I avoided the shop-windows for days afterwards.
My shoes were wearing out too, and when the thirty-five shillings at last fell due, therewere so many great and little things needed that the wonderful thirty-five shillings melted down to a few small coppers before I had been able to think of buying a new dress.
One evening, when I was busily putting the children to bed, the master came into the nursery and, after having exchanged a few words with each of the boys, stepped over to where I was standing and touching my blouse he said:
"Don't you feel cold in it?"
It was a very simple remark, and quite justified too, because it was cold and the blouse was thin, but the look that he threw at me reminded me of coarse and ugly words I had often heard before.
I said that I did not feel cold, and when he reached out his hand again I stepped back quickly.
He came in earlier from that day onwards, and spent much time in the nursery. He talked chiefly with the children, but all the while his eyes wandered over me, and I felt that each look he gave me was like a new offense. Oneafternoon when my mistress was out, the children at school, and I was sitting in the nursery busy over some mending, the door opened and the master came in. It was not his wont to leave his office during the daytime, and bowing my head a little I looked at him with some surprise. He closed the door very carefully and leaned against the table. I had taken up my work again, but my fingers trembled. He did not speak, and the silence became unbearable to me.
"Why," he said at last, "why don't you look at me?"
"Because the children need the things," I replied, bending my face still closer over my darning.
"Quite so; but if I want to speak to you, you ought to have a little time."
I thought that I had been rude, perhaps, since after all he was the master, so I got up from the chair and looked at him submissively.
"You know," he said very slowly and with a peculiar inflection in his voice—"you know that I mean to be kind to you, that your welfareinterests me, and that I would not mind a little sacrifice on my part if you would only appreciate it."
I opened my mouth to make some clumsy reply, but with his hand he waved to me to be silent, and continued:
"You must know yourself that you are in somewhat pressed circumstances, and I am quite willing to give you a large advance. There is, of course, no need that you should mention that to my wife...." And while he finished the last sentence he produced a small bundle of bank-notes and put it on the table.
At that I lost my head and flew into a terrible rage.
"Take that money away," I shouted, "or I will tear it up!" and because he did not take it away at once, I flung it at his feet. He stooped to pick it up, but his eyes as he turned them to me were shining with anger.
"I am going to tell my wife at once," he said, "to get a lady and no servant-girl for my children."
After that he went.
I was determined to leave the house immediately, and could scarcely wait for the evening when the mistress would come in. But before she came in I received a letter from home that contained most pitiable news about the financial side of their circumstances. "Could not I send a little money, just to keep the little ones from starving?" was their humble yet urgent request. I had received my salary a few days ago and not spent it yet. I took every penny of it and hurried to a post-office. After the receipt was handed to me I felt somewhat relieved, and having hidden it in my pocket very carefully I hastened home.
It was getting late and I started to put the children to bed, inwardly troubled and disturbed because it had occurred to me that I had no money and could not very well leave my place before another month. I would not think of looking out for another situation in Buda-Pesth itself. I had suffered so much from humiliations and home-sickness that I hated the very sight of the houses and streets. I remembered the threat of my master, but it left me cold. Ifthey were really going to send me away it was quite a different thing from casting away the shelter above my head.
My mistress returned with her husband at about eight in the evening. She came into the nursery with her hat and veil on and asked whether the boys had been good. I answered in the affirmative, whereupon she left again. I used to take my supper in the nursery. The dining-room was not far away, and I could hear the clicking of the forks and knives quite plainly. That evening I listened to every sound, anxious to know whether they spoke about me. But they never mentioned my name. My mistress laughed several times, and told her husband about something in her highly-pitched voice. She always talked loudly, and I was constantly afraid that she might wake the children when they lay asleep.
The next morning my mistress treated me quite in the usual manner, and I felt certain that her husband had said nothing against me. After I had taken the children to school I tidied the nursery. When I was about to do the littlebeds the door opened and the cook came in with a pair of boots in her hands. I had picked up a little Hungarian by now, and could make myself understood quite well. The boots were a pair of mine which I had taken to be repaired a few days before. She told me that the shoemaker was waiting in the kitchen, and named the price that was owing for the mending. With a sudden terror I remembered that I had sent away all my money, and had not a penny left to pay for the shoes. After thinking for a few moments I told her to give him back the shoes.
"But," she insisted, looking down at my feet which were in shoes that certainly were not new, "don't you want them?"
"Oh yes; but what am I to do? If the lady were in I could ask her to advance me a little money."
"What nonsense!" she replied. "It is such a trifle I will let you have the money with pleasure."
I wanted the shoes badly, and felt sincerely grateful for her offer.
"Thank you so much," I said. "You shall have the money back by to-night."
"That is not at all necessary. She does not like to advance us money. I can wait until you get your wages."
When the lady had returned I did not ask her for money as I had intended to do. In addition to the remark that the cook had made about it, I had another reason. I was ashamed to confess that I had sent my last wages home.
During the next few weeks I did something that I have never ceased to regret, and probably never shall. I borrowed more money from the cook. I certainly never asked her for a large sum, but whenever I told her that I was in need of twopence, she insisted on giving me ten shillings, and I spent them as quickly as I received them. In that way I owed her twenty-five shillings before half of the month was over. It did not, however, really trouble me. Twenty-five shillings, I reckoned, still left ten shillings to go home with. However, something happened which altered my position completely.
The lady was going to give an evening entertainment, and had invited about forty people. All sorts of preparations went on all day long, and the evening promised to be a success. As a matter of course, I was excluded from the proud assembly in the drawing-room, and stayed in the nursery as usual. I was sitting on a low chair reading a book, when I suddenly heard very soft footsteps, and looking up I saw the master. Without saying a single word he bent over my chair and, taking my head tightly into both of his hands, he kissed me. After that he released me, and went out as softly and hurriedly as he had come in. My book dropped, giving a low, dull sound as it fell on the carpet, and I sat motionless for a while. Trembling in every limb, I got up at last, and stepping to my little washstand took a brush, and scrubbed my face until the skin was rubbed through and the blood showed. Having done that, I threw myself dressed as I was on my bed, and remained there till long after midnight. What I had felt during those hours was no hatred, no anger, but agreat inexpressible grief. I awoke in the morning like one stunned, and did my work mechanically. When I took the children to school I paid little heed to their talk, but tormented my brain to find out how to leave that house at once. I remembered the twenty-five shillings which I owed the cook, and the horrible fact that my wages were not due for a fortnight. If I was going to leave right away the money due to me would not even have covered my debt. Where was I to get the money from that I needed to travel home with? When I thought of my return to my parents a hot wave of shame swept over me. I had dreamed of it often and often—how I would come home some day with many beautiful dresses and costly finery; but as things had now turned out I was no better off than I was when I had left home. After a few minutes' thought, however, I felt less concerned about that, and finally grew utterly indifferent as to my appearance. All I desired was to have enough money to enable me to pay the cook and to travel to Vienna. Once there, perhaps my brothermight help me to go home. Yet, much as I reckoned and much as I thought, there was left no other way out except to earn the money wanted—that is to say, to stay for another fortnight at that hated place.
Sick at heart, but calm and composed, I said "Good-morning" to my mistress an hour later. She yawned as she returned my salute, and told me how much she had enjoyed the evening, but that she was feeling tired to-day.
Once during the morning I went into the kitchen to fill a jug with water. The cook and the parlourmaid stood together and whispered to each other. When they saw me they stopped abruptly, and gave me a disdainful look. They had never looked at me like that, and I grew uneasy. After I had filled the jug I went back into my nursery, but the uncomfortable feeling that was roused within me would not be quelled.
When I returned with the children from school that day, the cook informed me that her ladyship wished to see me at once. I wanted to take off the children's coats first, but whileI was wrestling with the arm of the youngest she told me to go at once.
With mingled feelings of surprise and anger I obeyed. The door leading to my mistress's room was ajar, and I entered without knocking. As if she had been waiting for me, my mistress stood in the centre of the room, fully erect, her dark eyes flashing at me angrily.
"Must I be told by the servants," she shouted, without returning my salute, "what a miserable creature I have taken into my house?" And getting into a terrible rage, she yelled: "Out of my sight, and do not poison the air here more than you have done already. I give you ten minutes, after that I will throw you down the stairs if you have not disappeared."
I said nothing and asked nothing. I went back into the nursery and packed up the few things that belonged to me. The children were puzzled and picked up what had dropped from my trembling hands. When I had almost finished I stopped and listened. Someone had set up a terrible noise of crying and lamenting in thekitchen, and a few seconds later the cook rushed in.
"My money!" she screamed; "how am I to get my money now?"
"I am sure I don't know," I replied; whereupon she began to howl like a hungry beast, and to run like a madwoman up and down the room. But all at once she grew as quiet as a mouse, and looking up from my trunk I saw my mistress in the room.
"What is the matter?" she asked, without giving me a single look.
The cook explained, and began to howl anew. When she had finished, the lady turned towards me.
"You wretch!" she said; "you miserable wretch! And I have suffered you to sit at my table and breathe the same air with my children for nine months, you dirty, dirty thing! You——"; and then she said something which I do not care to repeat.
I could feel the blood leave my cheeks when I heard the last words, but I set my teeth and did not speak. Without paying any furtherattention to either the lady or the cook I continued to pack my trunk, and when I had finished I went towards the door. But the lady stopped me.
"The trunk you leave here," she thundered, "and it is to remain until you have paid the cook."
"I have a claim on a fortnight's money," I said; "that she may have, and I will send her the rest as soon as I get a situation."
They began to consider the matter, and I heard the lady say that she would much rather give me the money, in order to enable me to travel home, since she hated to know that I was in Buda-Pesth. The only thing to do was to keep my trunk back. After that talk she turned to me, and threw seventeen shillings on the table.
"There," she said, in a terrible voice, "out with you, but the trunk is to remain here."
I took the money and looked round for the children, but they had left the room. In the kitchen I met the parlourmaid, who had listened the whole time. She opened the frontdoor for me, and mockingly bowed me out. When I had reached the street I ran as fast as I could to the station, inquired for the next train to Vienna, and, two hours later, sat in one of its compartments. Pressing myself hard into a corner, I looked round now and again very shyly and very carefully, because I thought that I had heard someone call: "You wretch! you miserable wretch! You dirty, dirty thing! You——."
I trembled all over with excitement, and closed my eyes; but although utterly sad at heart, I shed no tears that night. We reached Vienna the next morning, and for a few moments I thought of calling upon my brother. But I gave up the idea. Would he not only scorn and despise me? So I travelled on to Langenau. It was dark when the train steamed into the well-known little station, and I hastened home. The children were all fast asleep, but my parents were still up. Both of them were startled to see me, and besieged me with anxious questions. I said that the whole family with whom I had been had died. Later on myfather also went to bed, and I was alone with my mother.
"Where is your trunk?" she asked me.
I replied that it was going to be sent on to me.
There was a lengthy pause, during which my mother stared at me thoughtfully.
"I believe you have got no luck," she said at last.
"I am sure I haven't," I said, watching a great black spider that crept slowly along the wooden floor.
I stayed at home now, and as I did not care to meet any of my old acquaintances I never left the house. There was hardly anybody who knew that I had come back. It is true that I longed to see Miss Risa de Vall, but since I had no decent clothes in which to visit her I would not write to her. My mother kept on asking when my trunk would come, and I answered always, "I expect to-morrow."
To my great surprise the trunk really arrived about three weeks after. As a matter of course I was very pleased to have my things back, butto what kind circumstances I owed it I never knew. The very first thing I wanted to do now was to obtain a situation. The circumstances of my parents were no better than their letters had led me to expect. The rent especially proved to be a burning and everlasting question. But where was I to take a situation again? At Langenau?—I would not hear of it. At Krems?—that did not suit me either. I decided to write to my brother, and to ask him to find something suitable for me. The letter, however, was never answered, and things grew no better. I earned nothing, and consequently could buy nothing. A new pair of boots was once more a tempting suggestion. Not wishing to lose more time, I had decided to look out for a situation at Krems after all, when the postman called one day and delivered a letter for me. I recognized at once the Hungarian stamp, showing the sloping cross and above it the flying eagle.
But the handwriting did not seem familiar to me, and fearing that I was going to be reminded of my debt to the cook, I opened theletter with some alarm. After I had read it I did not quite know what to think of it. It was written by Mr. Sandor; mentioning nothing about my last place he told me of a situation which he had vacant, and which he thought would suit me excellently. There were only two children—a boy and a girl, aged between three and five years. The wages were the same. My parents tried hard to persuade me to accept the offer at once, but I had my own thoughts about it and could not make up my mind. Another letter, coming from the same place, was handed to me the next day. Mr. Sandor wrote that as the matter was very urgent, would I be good enough to let him know my decision by return of post.
I put all my things together now, and examined them thoroughly. If that blouse, I thought, received a new pair of sleeves it might do quite well at home; and if I sewed a new belt on that skirt, it would not look so bad. I put aside piece after piece, and decided to start with the mending at once; but before I sat down to take up the needle, I wrote to Mr. Sandorthat I should certainly feel very pleased to obtain the situation in question.
On the day before my departure I could not stay indoors, but went out. It was evening, and under cover of the growing darkness I visited all the places that I knew so well and loved so dearly. I passed the house which we had inhabited after our very first removal, and looked in at the open gate. The brooklet there flowed through the yard as it had done at the time when I was a little child; but in the corner, where my flowers had closed and opened themselves so generously for me, there stood a kennel, and a large bushy dog darted at me distrustfully. Very sadly I moved on. The church square had not altered. The church stood in its centre, dark and quiet as of old, and opposite to it there loomed up the house of my former friend Leopoldine. All the windows were illuminated, and the whole building suggested comfort and ease. I walked on again down to the very end of the street, leaving behind me all the well-known cottages, together with the dyer's house, until I reached thegraveyard. I used to be afraid of that place when I was a child, and always avoided it as much as I could, but to-day my heart was filled with such sadness that all other feelings were overcome by it.
Leaning myself against the low grey wall, my thoughts went on freely. What had life been to me so far? Scorned and avoided ever since I was a child, with nothing for my own but the quiet thoughts and the secret dreams. How different this might have been if "he" had come, my prince out of the fairyland! But he had failed me too.
And as I stood there staring into the darkness above and beyond the graves, I saw a vision—a circle of flames, growing into enormous size, embracing all the world except myself, leaving me outside and alone.
My parents went to see me off again the next day. On this occasion, however, I did not speak, and walked to the station almost reluctantly. When I was seated in the train I neither smiled nor cried, being utterly indifferent. I did not know that fate was ready for me.
Mr. Sandor did not come to meet me this time. He told me in his letter that I would find my way easily now that I knew Buda-Pesth, and, furthermore, the house of the family who had engaged me was situated close to the station. I found it to be exactly as he said; after having crossed the street I reached my destination.
I had grown very indifferent of late, and mounted the broad staircase without the slightest trace of my usual embarrassment and fear.
After I had pressed the button at the door, a maid appeared and asked me whether I was the new hair-dresser. I thought this was owing to my shabby dress, my shabby gloves, and my shoes; so assuming an air of great dignity,I corrected her mistake. She led the way into the hall, and told me to wait. After a little time she came again and ordered me into another room. It had green curtains on the windows, and a green table-cover spread over the table. I expect it was the sight of the green table-cover that reminded me of my mother's former drawing-room. In order to make a good impression, I had held myself very straight and upright on entering the room, but with my thoughts reverting to a time far away, I forgot my purpose and my shoulders shrank a little, as is their wont.
"Are you the new governess?"
A little confused, I took my eyes from the table-cover, nodded "yes" to the question, and then looked directly at the gentleman in front of me.
"You said in your letter that you were twenty-one years of age?"
"Well, yes, I am twenty-one."
"You don't look it."
I told him it was not my fault, and then we smiled at each other.
He asked me a few other questions, and soon afterwards a tall handsome woman entered. She was my mistress, and took me into the nursery. It was early, and the children were not yet dressed; but they looked so sweet in their nightgowns that I liked them at once.
My life again became the same as it had been at my other situation. I occupied myself entirely with the children, played with them, took them out for walks, and later on to school. Our usual walk was along the wide and stately Danube, which represented a magnificent picture with the King's palace and other grand buildings upon its banks. If the weather was not fine, I used to send the children out on the balcony that ran all round the square courtyard at the same height as our apartments. On account of its smoothness it was a wonderful place for mechanical toys, such as engines, motor-cars, and so on.
One afternoon I had sent the children out there again, and promised to join them soon. When, however, I followed, the children had disappeared. I called their names aloud,whereupon they responded at once, but still I did not know where they were.
"Where are you?"
"Here," they repeated, and while I still stood and listened, a door that had not so far interested me opened, and my little girl put out her sweet dark head.
"Here we are!" she said once more; "do come in."
I did not know the people who lived there, but thinking that they were friends of the family I went in.
The room into which the little one had taken me was occupied by a gentleman about thirty years old, who was amusing the children with stamps and pictures. I thought he was alone at home. He saluted me in fluent German, and with more politeness than anyone had ever shown to me.
I controlled my embarrassment, and took the seat he offered me. The children had entered into an argument as to the possible value of foreign stamps, and the owner of the room turned to me in conversation. At first he onlyspoke commonplaces with a faint touch of irony in his voice, but he grew grave and interested after I had made a few remarks. Then we began a discussion, but how we started upon it I could never remember. Smoking a cigar and leaning back in his chair with easy elegance, he asked:
"Intoxication or regret—which is the greater of the two?... Is it worth the while?..."
I understood only half of what he meant, and answered that I did not know.
Then I told him about my poems, and he listened and smiled, an odd ironical smile that also I could not understand. At last when I departed with the children he asked me what books I was reading.
"None at all," I replied, whereupon he looked surprised.
"May I get you some from the library?"
I thought it was very kind of him, and said that I should be pleased.
A few days later the porter handed me a parcel containing books, and a slip of paper.
"I have chosen the books in a great hurry,"he had written, "but trust that you will like them."
As soon as I could find time I opened one of the books. It was a volume of novels by Jacobsen, and one of them was called "Morgan."
I read it all through.... A man—a dreamer, who loves madly a girl to-day and has forgotten her by to-morrow; and round that man there moved pictures full of glowing colour and sparkling light. I liked it, but did not really understand it.
"Have you read some of the books?" my new friend asked me as soon as we met.
"Yes."
"That novel too about Morgan?"
"Yes."
"Did you like it?"
"I don't know."
"One of the most beautiful passages is that in which he walks through the waving corn-field with his young wife."
"Yes, but I believe he must have been a horrible man."
"Why that?"
"So wilful, so restless, so faithless."
He pulled his soft hat over his forehead, gave me a strange look and smiled.
We met almost every day, generally in the morning when I took the children to school and he went to his office. We rode a little way together in the tram-car, then I got out with the children and he went on. During these few minutes we carried on jumpy conversations, based upon an incident, an idea, or a poem of mine. We talked on dispassionately as it seemed, until we stopped abruptly as if afraid that we had said too much.
By-and-by I began to think of him whether I saw him or not; his face, his figure rose like a blazing question from the midst of the strange, wistful dreams that I had dreamt all my life, and something that had lain within me, dull and senseless like a trance, woke, wondered, and trembled into joy.
Once I did not see him for two whole days, and my heart grew so filled with longing that I wrote a letter to him. Not that I wished to see him or anything like it. No. What I putdown on the paper were thoughts that had fallen into my soul, rich, like the raindrops that fall down into a field—visions of such rare, exquisite beauty, that I longed to share them with someone.
I was most anxious to see him next day, but did not meet him, nor the next day, nor the next; on the fourth day, at last.... My first impulse was to run and meet him, but it was arrested by a sweet bewilderment that took hold of me whenever I knew him to be near. It seemed as if he wished to hurry on without taking any notice of me, but then he hesitated, stopped, and lifted his hat. I was struck by the strange coolness of his behaviour, and my heart ached within me.
"How is it," I asked him, "that we see so little of each other?"
He drew a deep breath and looked away from me.
"Because it would be very unwise to see more of each other."
"Why?"
He did not answer at once.
"Because," he said at last, "there are wolves in sheep's clothing."
"I don't understand that."
"Don't you?"
"No."
"I want to caution you."
"What of?"
"Of a wolf that runs about in sheep's clothing and whom you trust."
"Whom do you mean?"
"Myself."
The meaning of his words dawned on me at last, but, filled with a happy, deep-felt trust, I shook my head.
"You are no wolf in sheep's clothing."
He drew a deep breath again, just as he had done before, and looked hard in front of him.
"You are mistaken. I am a wolf—a heartless, terrible wolf; one that would never hesitate a second to devour a sheep that comes his way without a shepherd and a hound."
I glanced at him, and it seemed to me that his face looked haggard and worn. I grew very quiet and very sad. The whole worldlooked dark all at once, and the joyous song that, like a glorious promise, had filled my brain and soul ceased with a dissonance.
But then a minute later it rose again, shy and soft, at first no more than a quiver, but gaining force and power until it grew into a thrill of notes so sweet and persuasive that I could and would not check them.
True that there was something crying within me, but the thing that had rejoiced before was rejoicing still.
"Did you get my letter?" I asked him after a while.
"Yes, and many thanks for it."
"May I write to you again?"
He hesitated.
"May I?" I repeated.
"Yes."
It seemed to be wrung from him.
"And you will write back?"
He hesitated again, much longer than before.
"I hardly think so; I mean to say sometimes, perhaps, but never very much."
"Only sometimes and never very much!"
"Yes; and that only on one condition."
"On what condition?"
"That nobody shall know of our correspondence."
"And why?"
"Because it is best for you."
"Why for me?"
And before he could reply a great anger rose within me.
"You are a coward!"
He shrugged his shoulders.
"If it gives you pleasure to think that, I will certainly not prevent you from doing so; an explanation, however, might be useful to you. It is not on my account that I do not wish to make our correspondence known, but solely for your sake. A single man is free to do as he chooses, he can go and turn a girl's head and nobody will blame him; but you must know that there are different ideas about the conduct of women."
"But I don't care."
"Quite so, but others do care."
"But I don't mind it."
"But I do."
"Then it is for your sake after all?"
"No, for your sake."
He stopped and looked at me with stern, decisive eyes. I felt so low and mean that I was ashamed of myself. What did all of this mean? There stood a man, and I pleaded and begged for permission to write to him. And he would let me, graciously let me, if I was content with his conditions. A wave of bitter anger swept over me. Would he dare to speak like that to another girl? To the daughter of his superior or of his friend? Or what else could it be but that he was ashamed of me—ashamed of the shabby dress I wore and the situation I was in? Quick as lightning a vision rose before me, a row of girls all dressed in costly gowns ... and for the first time I felt envious.... Was he not right after all? What was I? What were my people?... Poor, wretchedly poor!
"Leave me," I said, and the torture that I suffered leapt into my throat; "I will not write to you."
"You can't do that."
My sadness turned into wrath.
"Why can't I?"
"Because you want me."
His eyes had lost their stern expression, without, however, losing their firm, decisive look, and from that look streamed forth a power more irresistible than any I had ever felt. But I was very proud, very strong, very free of will, and would not submit, so I turned my back upon him.
"I hate you!" I said, and went away.
When it was late and dark and the children lay asleep, I sat at the window and looked down the street where hundreds of lamps shed their gloomy light, and countless people streamed gaily to and fro. They looked all so different in appearance and manner, and yet so alike because of the instinct of pleasure that governed them. Their eyes flashed, their cheeks glowed. They all hurried towards the theatre that was close by, and their haste and anticipation vibrated in the air like an electric current. I felt it all and shuddered, and then thought that Isaw a monster of gigantic size with a malicious smile on its lips, and a malicious light in its eyes, kicking onward and onward the coil of carriage-horses and people, laughing madly all the while. To get rid of that horrid picture I closed my eyes and thought of home. There the children would be lying asleep. Two or three in each bed, so they would lie ... and mother would be sitting at the table in a cotton-dress that was mended and patched.... I could almost smell the oil of the little lamp and see the red flame trembling behind the crooked screen. And then I saw myself among the children, restless and discontented, full of a vague longing for somebody to whom I could confide all the wonderful thoughts and dreams that I constantly conceived, and to which mother would have responded with a little tortured smile, and father with a shake of his head, had they known, ... and suddenly I was once more bound in the spell of those eyes that had looked at me so calmly and firmly to-day.
"Because you want me," I heard him say again; and the words that had seemed so hard—almostbrutal—a few hours ago, had now such a soft, quiet, reassuring touch that I stretched out my arms as if to cling to them.
I had written to him, enclosed my latest poems, and he had asked me in a short note to arrange for a few minutes' quiet talk. I had never yet met him without the children, and the thought of seeing him alone and undisturbed made me tremble with a strange delight. On a very clumsy pretext I asked for an hour off the next day, and arrived punctually. His salute was very polite, his face very grave. "I have only a quarter of an hour to spare," he said, "and must tell you at once what I intended to tell you." His remark that he had no more than fifteen minutes, whilst I had a whole hour at my disposal disappointed me, and I hardly answered his opening remark. He, however, took no notice of my anger and continued: "Many thanks for the letter as well as for the poems, and it is on account of the poems that I wanted to talk to you. You had the kindness to let me read some of your poems before, and I was struck by the talentthey revealed to me, but your versification is as bad as your thoughts and feelings are exquisite. There"—he took my letter out of his pocket—"you may see for yourself what I mean."
I looked perplexed at the letter in his hands, but could see nothing, and asked him to make himself understood more clearly. At that request he smiled—not, however, the malicious smile of old—and said:
"The verses lack all shape."
"Shape?" I asked, astonished and a little hurt. "What shape are they to have?"
"Proper shape; the whole versification is wrong. Look here."
After that he began to read aloud and very slowly, making remarks in between the lines—such as: "There is a foot short in that line; and one foot too many in that one; in that other line the time goes too quick, and here again it goes too slow; the proper metre of the whole ought to be something like this." He read the poem over again, but put in the missing feet by syllables of his own invention, and left out what he thought too much. I hadnever in all my life heard anything like it, and listened to every word most attentively. After the quarter of an hour and a few minutes more had passed we parted, and I walked home filled with new ideas. As soon as I could find time I examined more of my verses and discovered the same unevenness in their construction.
When I met my friend out on the balcony (I am not sure whether accidentally or otherwise) a few days later, he handed me two books, a large one and a small one. "This one here is a grammar of the German language because—"and now he smiled a kind indulgent smile—"you can't spell your own language yet ... and this is a book on the construction of poems. It will tell you more clearly than I am able what you have to do, and what you must not do in writing your poems."
I thanked him very much for the books, but when I looked them through in the evening, I thought the German grammar most tedious, and the book on the "construction of verses" hopelessly unintelligible.
"It is impossible," I said to myself, "towrite in accordance with these books; if I had to do it I simply could write no more." I put the books away, and wrote my poems in the same style as before. A whole week passed before I saw my friend again, and he asked me at once how I liked the books. I was rather ashamed to tell the truth about them and answered that they were all right.
"Did you write anything?"
I showed him my last poem. He read it very carefully and then returned it.
"The thoughts expressed in it are beautiful as they are always, and it is such a pity that you don't study the two books a little more."
"How do you know that?"
"Well, I can see it; if you had taken the slightest trouble with them you could not very well have made such great mistakes."
At first I felt ashamed, but then I grew sulky.
"The books are both very silly," I said, "and I do not think that I shall use them."
"Then you mean to remain a nursery-maid all your life?"
I dropped my eyes and was annoyed at theway he spoke to me, but in the evening I studied the books. The theory of poetry I treated with special attention, and after I had acquainted myself a little more closely with its many rules and ways, I found out soon enough what was the matter with my poems. I kept on studying it most diligently, and a few weeks afterwards I wrote a new poem, for which I got much credit from my friend.
"Let me congratulate you on your 'very first' poem," he said.
His praise had made me boundlessly happy and proud. With terrible certainty I had comprehended that I was socially far removed from him; that I could never hold the balance against him; that I was a girl so poor, so meaningless, whose dreams—nay, not even whose boldest dreams—were permitted to soar so high. But it was different now. A feeling of bewildering sweetness told me that this aristocratic man, to my ideas like a foreign bird with glittering wings, had deigned to rest himself in the quiet woodlands of my soul, ready to fly away again as soon as my flowers had fadedand my larks had gone away to die. Realizing the last, I felt a bitter pang. No; that mystic stranger who by a sweet whim of fate had, as it were, come to stay with me for a while, must go away no more. No, never. All splendour would vanish, all brightness would fade, and the heart would forget how to sing. All and everything would go with him: that glorious expectation, never owned and all unconscious, telling me softly, softly, a wondrous, wondrous tale; that strange, delightful embarrassment, that at the sight of him had often, often set my feet and heart a-tremble; those waves of infinite tenderness, gushing up suddenly from depths unfathomable—all and everything would go. Something was roused within me, uplifting itself against that desolation, growing and growing until it towered above all anxiety and fear—a new self-consciousness together with a new strength. Thus I commenced to fight the battle that each woman is called upon to fight once at least, and which is more formidable than all the battles of war that have ever been fought by man.
There was, however, no outward manifestation, deep and passionate though that struggle may have been. It is true that we met each other almost every day, but nearly always in the company of the children, and if it happened that we arranged to meet alone, we had never more time to spare than perhaps half an hour. By this time his attitude towards me had entirely changed. The touch of scorn and sarcasm that had confused and irritated me at the beginning of our acquaintance had turned into gravity and thoughtfulness. I on my part displayed much pride and coolness, since his politeness and reserve made me afraid to betray my feelings, which, after all, were not reciprocated. What he really thought of meI never knew. He was always so kind, so concerned, and yet was unmercifully stern and strict whenever my obstinacy revolted against his will.
One day I was with the children on the balcony, and my mistress had also come out for a moment. I sat busy with some mending, when all at once I felt somebody else was present. Without looking up I recognized the voice that I knew so well, and my heart beat faster. I thought that he would come and speak to me. He, however, did not do so, but spoke to my mistress. At that the blood mounted to my cheeks. "The coward," I said to myself; "he does not even dare to speak to me." I trembled with shame and rage, and nothing on earth could have induced me to look up. Their conversation was short and meaningless, and after a little while he prepared to go. He departed with a polite phrase from my mistress, and with a joke from the children; then I heard a door bang, and knew that he had gone.
I felt like crying with anger and sadness.Could it be that such a man was my friend? As soon as I had put the children to bed, I wrote a note asking him to return all my poems and letters, since I wished to discontinue our friendship, which I had only now found out had never been real friendship. I thought he would do at once as I wished, and was surprised not to hear from him. The days passed by, and after a whole week had passed the porter at last handed me a note.
"I should like to speak to you. Pray decide on time and place."
At first I was determined to send no reply whatever, and kept silent for two days; then I could stand it no longer, and wrote saying "when and where."
"What's the meaning of that?" he asked, producing my letter from his pocket; whereupon I began bitterly to reproach him. He did not interrupt me with a single syllable, and so I spoke on and on until I could say no more. "You are a child," he said at last, looking at me half sadly, half amused. His apparent indifference angered me anew.
"Pray," I said with great dignity, "when will you return my letters?"
His eyes blazed all of a sudden and his lips closed tightly.
"Never!"
"But they are my own letters."
"You are mistaken. The letters belong to me."
He had stopped in front of me, and his face wore the grave, decisive look that I knew so well. All my anger melted, and with a little sob I clung to him. He suffered it for a second only, then pulled himself together, and looked at his watch.
"It is time that you should go."
He spoke as coolly and politely as ever, but the look he gave me was a wondrous look, and when I went home, stunned as it were, my heart pondered on a new revelation, half sweetness and half sorrow.
Later on, I also made the acquaintance of his mother. She was such a gentle and ladylike woman that I should have adored her even if she had not been the mother of the man Iloved. She spoke to me with great kindness whenever I met her, and told me one day that she had come across a lovely book, which she would be pleased to let me have if I cared for it. A little timid, but all the more determined, I pressed the button at her door next day. A smart-looking parlourmaid ushered me into the drawing-room. There the arrangement of the furniture and other things showed much taste and elegance, and I thought involuntarily of our own poor lodging at home, of the one room, wherein they all ate, slept, and wept together. The sound of footsteps made me forget that doleful picture. My lady smiled at me, asked a few simple questions, and soon we began to talk.
"I am rather ashamed," she said, pulling open a drawer, and taking out some pieces of paper, yellow from age, "but I can't help it. There are lots of things dating even from my girlhood, and I cannot make up my mind to throw them away."
After that she showed me newspaper cuttings of poems, dried flowers, and many other things,which she stroked softly while pointing out to me their value and meaning. When at length I prepared to go, she handed me the book which I had come for; it was a volume of poems by Mirza Schaffy.
That visit did not remain the only one. Many and many a time I sat with her in the cosily black-furnished drawing-room, and when she gazed at me with that singular, ambiguous look of hers, I often felt like burying my head in the dark silk robe on her lap and confiding to her all my sorrow and grief.
One day I received a letter from home, telling me that they were unable to find the money for the rent which fell due on January 1 (that was in a few days), and that all their things would be put out in the street. The letter worried me terribly; I had sent home small and large sums of money during the two years I had been at my post, but just then I did not possess any money worth mentioning. In my imagination I beheld my parents, sisters, and brothers, shelterless, in a dirty, stormy street, and so great was my despair that I cried all night.
In the morning an idea occurred to me that at first I found horrible and shameful. But it came again and again, grew stronger and stronger, and when it was time to take the children to school I hoped most devoutly to see my friend. Nor did I hope in vain.
"I must speak to you," I said, as soon as I caught sight of him.
He looked at me apprehensively.
"I am at your disposal."
"Not now," I answered, glancing at the children; "I must speak to you alone. Can you spare time on Sunday?"
"If there is anything the matter. Why not earlier?"
I felt immensely relieved.
"Then to-day?" I asked.
"Of course, whenever you like."
After that we appointed the time and place, and parted. But scarcely had he gone than I began to regret what I was about to do. The whole thing seemed to me almost madness.
What right had I to ask him for money? I felt so tortured, so miserable, and when thetime of our appointment drew near, I decided not to go. Nor did I. Instead, I read that fatal letter over and over again. It was written by my father, and there was one passage that ran: "Mother is worn out with crying and fretting, and is not feeling well of late. What we are to do if we really have to move out into the street, I do not know. They would never take us into the alms-house, because we do not belong to Langenau at all."
I put my face on the table and wept bitterly. All at once I decided to do what I had meant to do, and looked at the clock. It was a whole hour late for the meeting we had arranged, and I could not expect to find him still waiting. Controlling my sorrows as well as I could, I went about my duty. That evening I was alone, my mistress having gone to the theatre, and after I had put the children to bed I grew so terribly anxious again—chiefly about my mother—that I decided to wait no longer. But what could I do? Surely he was not at home; and even if he happened to be in, could I go and ask for him? Though almost certain that it wasperfectly useless to look for him, I went out on the balcony and noticed, half-mad with delight, a light burning in a little room situated one floor higher, where he used to develop photographs, to mend watches, and so forth. I walked upstairs, hardly conscious of what I was doing, and knocked at his door as softly as if I did not wish to be heard. He had heard me, however, and called "Come in," whereupon I pushed the door open and entered hesitatingly. Inside the room I pressed myself hard against the wall, and could not speak. He had laid aside his work at once, and looked at me with questioning eyes.
"Will you not speak?" he at length urged softly.
After that I told him my little tale in great haste, though sobs interrupted me. While telling him all, it occurred to me that after knowing my people's history so well he might not wish to be my friend any longer, and I gazed at him anxiously when I had finished. His face, however, relieved my fears. His eyes wore the thoughtful, apprehensive look that Ihad noticed several times before, and his lips smiled the kind, well-known smile.
"How much do you want?"
"Very, very much," I said blushingly.
"How much?" he urged.
"About a hundred shillings," I confessed, thinking that a hundred shillings was an enormous sum.
He put his hand on the handle of the door, and looked at me entreatingly.
"They might be looking for you, and you must go; the porter will hand you all you want to-morrow."
But I did not go. Pressing myself still harder against the wall, I looked up at him, and my lips trembled as I said:
"Are you cross with me for having asked you?"
"You are a child," he said with great decision; "let me tell you once and for all that I am your friend, to whom you not onlymay, butmust, confide all your troubles"—his face wore the entreating look again—"but go now, please."
I obeyed as if I was in a dream.
The porter handed me an envelope the next morning, and when I tore it open I saw that it contained neatly folded bank-notes.
From that day onward I felt boundlessly grateful towards my friend, loved him, if such was possible, more than I had done before, and could hardly control my affection whenever we met. He, however, remained the same.
To him my poems were the sole and constant source of conversation, and perfect though I thought them, he was far from being satisfied.
Now and again he would acknowledge the beauty of a thought or verse, and the slightest praise from him was sweet reward to me.
There were, of course, still times when our opinions differed, when I grew sulky and obstinate, and even went so far as to behave with the rudeness of a naughty child. But he never lost his composure; it was generally his calmness and silence that made me conscious of my fault, and I never failed to beg his pardon as soon as I had realized that I was in the wrong.
He on his part was always ready to forgiveme, and our friendship was established firmly once more.
But in my heart of hearts I was discontented.
"Why," I said to myself, "does he not tell me the one thing that alone is able to make a woman truly happy? Why does he not give me the slightest sign of his love? Or does he not love me?" That question made my limbs shake as if I had received a terrible shock, and many times I sat up in my bed at night staring, with my hands crossed tightly in the darkness around me.
Was there, perhaps, another girl of whom he thought, as I thought of him every hour of the day?
I shuddered at the inexpressible loneliness that would fall to my lot if such were the case, recalled every word, every look of his, and lay, testing, weighing, wondering, until all thoughts had merged into confusion and my eyelids closed.
One day we had arranged to meet alone. I was so impatient that I arrived half an hour before the time fixed for the appointment, buthe was already waiting for me. Both of us had more time to spare on this day, and I hoped secretly that he might at last speak.
He did speak, but what he said was not what I had expected to hear. He told me of his boyhood, of his more mature years, and of a first love that had left him disappointed with life.
I listened to all without really realizing what he said, my head throbbed, my heart ached, recognizing one wish only.
"There is no need for him to change his manner towards me; all I want him to do is to let me know," said something within me. I stopped and, laying one hand on his arm, looked up at him in anguish.
"Tell me why you do so much for me?"
It seemed that his face grew pale and stern.
"Because I am your friend."
"And is that everything?" I asked again.
"Everything," he replied, shaking my hand off his arm.
After that I remained so still that I thought that I heard the beating of his heart and mine.But all at once a voice roused me, a voice that revealed to me new depths of his soul, a voice composed of torture and pain, which bridged the way back to happiness and joy.
"Do you really want to hear that phrase?" he said. "You are too good for it; I have made a vow never to remember that you are a woman."
I stood in silence by his side. My eyes looked into the far distance and my thoughts measured years to come—years during which we would give each other all the treasures of heart and soul without ever getting any the poorer—years during which neither of us would know the pangs of remorse, the blushing with shame—years during which I would suffer all that a woman may suffer.
"Do you trust me?" he asked.
"Yes," I answered simply; and we grasped each other's hands in silence....
The time that followed now I can never describe. Our meetings, short though they were, were so filled with embarrassed happiness, with timid tenderness, that no colour, no brush, no pen, could ever do them full justice.
But there were hours of quite a different nature too. Hours when strange moods got hold of us—hours when he pulled himself up, just as if to shake off something—hours when his eyes lost their tranquil light, and looked dark and gloomy—hours when the beast was roused within him. Then I felt and understood vaguely the strength of his passion, and grew almost afraid of him. If he forgot his vow for a single moment only, then woe to our friendship and woe to me!