Next day his one thought was to get back to work. He arrived at the
studio in the afternoon, and, laying in provisions, barricaded the lower
door. For three days he did not go out; on the fourth day he went to
Villa Rubein....
Schloss Runkelstein—grey, blind, strengthless—still keeps the valley.
The windows which once, like eyes, watched men and horses creeping
through the snow, braved the splutter of guns and the gleam of torches,
are now holes for the birds to nest in. Tangled creepers have spread
to the very summits of the walls. In the keep, instead of grim men in
armour, there is a wooden board recording the history of the castle and
instructing visitors on the subject of refreshments. Only at night, when
the cold moon blanches everything, the castle stands like the grim ghost
of its old self, high above the river.
After a long morning's sitting the girls had started forth with Harz and
Dawney to spend the afternoon at the ruin; Miss Naylor, kept at home by
headache, watched them depart with words of caution against sunstroke,
stinging nettles, and strange dogs.
Since the painter's return Christian and he had hardly spoken to each
other. Below the battlement on which they sat, in a railed gallery with
little tables, Dawney and Greta were playing dominoes, two soldiers
drinking beer, and at the top of a flight of stairs the Custodian's
wife sewing at a garment. Christian said suddenly: “I thought we were
friends.”
“Well, Fraulein Christian, aren't we?”
“You went away without a word; friends don't do that.”
Harz bit his lips.
“I don't think you care,” she went on with a sort of desperate haste,
“whether you hurt people or not. You have been here all this time
without even going to see your father and mother.”
“Do you think they would want to see me?”
Christian looked up.
“It's all been so soft for you,” he said bitterly; “you don't
understand.”
He turned his head away, and then burst out: “I'm proud to come straight
from the soil—I wouldn't have it otherwise; but they are of 'the
people,' everything is narrow with them—they only understand what they
can see and touch.”
“I'm sorry I spoke like that,” said Christian softly; “you've never told
me about yourself.”
There was something just a little cruel in the way the painter looked
at her, then seeming to feel compunction, he said quickly: “I always
hated—the peasant life—I wanted to get away into the world; I had a
feeling in here—I wanted—I don't know what I wanted! I did run away at
last to a house-painter at Meran. The priest wrote me a letter from my
father—they threw me off; that's all.”
Christian's eyes were very bright, her lips moved, like the lips of a
child listening to a story.
“Go on,” she said.
“I stayed at Meran two years, till I'd learnt all I could there, then a
brother of my mother's helped me to get to Vienna; I was lucky enough
to find work with a man who used to decorate churches. We went about the
country together. Once when he was ill I painted the roof of a church
entirely by myself; I lay on my back on the scaffold boards all day for
a week—I was proud of that roof.” He paused.
“When did you begin painting pictures?”
“A friend asked me why I didn't try for the Academie. That started me
going to the night schools; I worked every minute—I had to get my living
as well, of course, so I worked at night.
“Then when the examination came, I thought I could do nothing—it was
just as if I had never had a brush or pencil in my hand. But the second
day a professor in passing me said, 'Good! Quite good!' That gave me
courage. I was sure I had failed though; but I was second out of sixty.”
Christian nodded.
“To work in the schools after that I had to give up my business, of
course. There was only one teacher who ever taught me anything; the
others all seemed fools. This man would come and rub out what you'd done
with his sleeve. I used to cry with rage—but I told him I could only
learn from him, and he was so astonished that he got me into his class.”
“But how did you live without money?” asked Christian.
His face burned with a dark flush. “I don't know how I lived; you must
have been through these things to know, you would never understand.”
“But I want to understand, please.”
“What do you want me to tell you? How I went twice a week to eat free
dinners! How I took charity! How I was hungry! There was a rich cousin
of my mother's—I used to go to him. I didn't like it. But if you're
starving in the winter.”
Christian put out her hand.
“I used to borrow apronsful of coals from other students who were as
poor—but I never went to the rich students.”
The flush had died out of his face.
“That sort of thing makes you hate the world! You work till you stagger;
you're cold and hungry; you see rich people in their carriages, wrapped
in furs, and all the time you want to do something great. You pray for
a chance, any chance; nothing comes to the poor! It makes you hate the
world.”
Christian's eyes filled with tears. He went on:
“But I wasn't the only one in that condition; we used to meet. Garin,
a Russian with a brown beard and patches of cheek showing through, and
yellow teeth, who always looked hungry. Paunitz, who came from sympathy!
He had fat cheeks and little eyes, and a big gold chain—the swine! And
little Misek. It was in his room we met, with the paper peeling off the
walls, and two doors with cracks in them, so that there was always a
draught. We used to sit on his bed, and pull the dirty blankets over us
for warmth; and smoke—tobacco was the last thing we ever went without.
Over the bed was a Virgin and Child—Misek was a very devout Catholic;
but one day when he had had no dinner and a dealer had kept his picture
without paying him, he took the image and threw it on the floor before
our eyes; it broke, and he trampled on the bits. Lendorf was another,
a heavy fellow who was always puffing out his white cheeks and smiting
himself, and saying: 'Cursed society!' And Schonborn, an aristocrat who
had quarrelled with his family. He was the poorest of us all; but only
he and I would ever have dared to do anything—they all knew that!”
Christian listened with awe. “Do you mean?” she said, “do you mean, that
you—?”
“You see! you're afraid of me at once. It's impossible even for you to
understand. It only makes you afraid. A hungry man living on charity,
sick with rage and shame, is a wolf even to you!”
Christian looked straight into his eyes.
“That's not true. If I can't understand, I can feel. Would you be the
same now if it were to come again?”
“Yes, it drives me mad even now to think of people fatted with
prosperity, sneering and holding up their hands at poor devils who have
suffered ten times more than the most those soft animals could bear. I'm
older; I've lived—I know things can't be put right by violence—nothing
will put things right, but that doesn't stop my feeling.”
“Did you do anything? You must tell me all now.”
“We talked—we were always talking.”
“No, tell me everything!”
Unconsciously she claimed, and he seemed unconsciously to admit her
right to this knowledge.
“There's not much to tell. One day we began talking in low voices—Garin
began it; he had been in some affair in Russia. We took an oath; after
that we never raised our voices. We had a plan. It was all new to me,
and I hated the whole thing—but I was always hungry, or sick from taking
charity, and I would have done anything. They knew that; they used to
look at me and Schonborn; we knew that no one else had any courage. He
and I were great friends, but we never talked of that; we tried to keep
our minds away from the thought of it. If we had a good day and were not
so hungry, it seemed unnatural; but when the day had not been good—then
it seemed natural enough. I wasn't afraid, but I used to wake up in
the night; I hated the oath we had taken, I hated every one of those
fellows; the thing was not what I was made for, it wasn't my work, it
wasn't my nature, it was forced on me—I hated it, but sometimes I was
like a madman.”
“Yes, yes,” she murmured.
“All this time I was working at the Academie, and learning all I
could.... One evening that we met, Paunitz was not there. Misek was
telling us how the thing had been arranged. Schonborn and I looked at
each other—it was warm—perhaps we were not hungry—it was springtime,
too, and in the Spring it's different. There is something.”
Christian nodded.
“While we were talking there came a knock at the door. Lendorf put his
eye to the keyhole, and made a sign. The police were there. Nobody said
anything, but Misek crawled under the bed; we all followed; and the
knocking grew louder and louder. In the wall at the back of the bed
was a little door into an empty cellar. We crept through. There was
a trap-door behind some cases, where they used to roll barrels in. We
crawled through that into the back street. We went different ways.”
He paused, and Christian gasped.
“I thought I would get my money, but there was a policeman before my
door. They had us finely. It was Paunitz; if I met him even now I should
wring his neck. I swore I wouldn't be caught, but I had no idea where to
go. Then I thought of a little Italian barber who used to shave me
when I had money for a shave; I knew he would help. He belonged to some
Italian Society; he often talked to me, under his breath, of course. I
went to him. He was shaving himself before going to a ball. I told him
what had happened; it was funny to see him put his back against the
door. He was very frightened, understanding this sort of thing better
than I did—for I was only twenty then. He shaved my head and moustache
and put me on a fair wig. Then he brought me macaroni, and some meat, to
eat. He gave me a big fair moustache, and a cap, and hid the moustache
in the lining. He brought me a cloak of his own, and four gulden. All
the time he was extremely frightened, and kept listening, and saying:
'Eat!'
“When I had done, he just said: 'Go away, I refuse to know anything more
of you.'
“I thanked him and went out. I walked about all that night; for I
couldn't think of anything to do or anywhere to go. In the morning I
slept on a seat in one of the squares. Then I thought I would go to the
Gallerien; and I spent the whole day looking at the pictures. When the
Galleries were shut I was very tired, so I went into a cafe, and had
some beer. When I came out I sat on the same seat in the Square. I meant
to wait till dark and then walk out of the city and take the train at
some little station, but while I was sitting there I went to sleep. A
policeman woke me. He had my wig in his hand.
“'Why do you wear a wig?' he said.
“I answered: 'Because I am bald.'
“'No,' he said, 'you're not bald, you've been shaved. I can feel the
hair coming.'
“He put his finger on my head. I felt reckless and laughed.
“'Ah!' he said, 'you'll come with me and explain all this; your nose and
eyes are looked for.'
“I went with him quietly to the police-station....”
Harz seemed carried away by his story. His quick dark face worked, his
steel-grey eyes stared as though he were again passing through all these
long-past emotions.
The hot sun struck down; Christian drew herself together, sitting with
her hands clasped round her knees.
X
“I didn't care by then what came of it. I didn't even think what I was
going to say. He led me down a passage to a room with bars across the
windows and long seats, and maps on the walls. We sat and waited.
He kept his eye on me all the time; and I saw no hope. Presently the
Inspector came. 'Bring him in here,' he said; I remember feeling I could
kill him for ordering me about! We went into the next room. It had a
large clock, a writing-table, and a window, without bars, looking on a
courtyard. Long policemen's coats and caps were hanging from some pegs.
The Inspector told me to take off my cap. I took it off, wig and all. He
asked me who I was, but I refused to answer. Just then there was a loud
sound of voices in the room we had come from. The Inspector told the
policeman to look after me, and went to see what it was. I could hear
him talking. He called out: 'Come here, Becker!' I stood very quiet, and
Becker went towards the door. I heard the Inspector say: 'Go and find
Schwartz, I will see after this fellow.' The policeman went, and the
Inspector stood with his back to me in the half-open door, and began
again to talk to the man in the other room. Once or twice he looked
round at me, but I stood quiet all the time. They began to disagree,
and their voices got angry. The Inspector moved a little into the
other room. 'Now!' I thought, and slipped off my cloak. I hooked off
a policeman's coat and cap, and put them on. My heart beat till I felt
sick. I went on tiptoe to the window. There was no one outside, but at
the entrance a man was holding some horses. I opened the window a little
and held my breath. I heard the Inspector say: 'I will report you for
impertinence!' and slipped through the window. The coat came down nearly
to my heels, and the cap over my eyes. I walked up to the man with the
horses, and said: 'Good-evening.' One of the horses had begun to kick,
and he only grunted at me. I got into a passing tram; it was five
minutes to the West Bahnhof; I got out there. There was a train
starting; they were shouting 'Einsteigen!' I ran. The collector tried to
stop me. I shouted: 'Business—important!' He let me by. I jumped into a
carriage. The train started.”
He paused, and Christian heaved a sigh.
Harz went on, twisting a twig of ivy in his hands: “There was another
man in the carriage reading a paper. Presently I said to him, 'Where do
we stop first?' 'St. Polten.' Then I knew it was the Munich express—St.
Polten, Amstetten, Linz, and Salzburg—four stops before the frontier.
The man put down his paper and looked at me; he had a big fair moustache
and rather shabby clothes. His looking at me disturbed me, for I thought
every minute he would say: 'You're no policeman!' And suddenly it came
into my mind that if they looked for me in this train, it would be as a
policeman!—they would know, of course, at the station that a policeman
had run past at the last minute. I wanted to get rid of the coat
and cap, but the man was there, and I didn't like to move out of the
carriage for other people to notice. So I sat on. We came to St. Polten
at last. The man in my carriage took his bag, got out, and left his
paper on the seat. We started again; I breathed at last, and as soon as
I could took the cap and coat and threw them out into the darkness. I
thought: 'I shall get across the frontier now.' I took my own cap out
and found the moustache Luigi gave me; rubbed my clothes as clean as
possible; stuck on the moustache, and with some little ends of chalk
in my pocket made my eyebrows light; then drew some lines in my face to
make it older, and pulled my cap well down above my wig. I did it pretty
well—I was quite like the man who had got out. I sat in his corner, took
up his newspaper, and waited for Amstetten. It seemed a tremendous
time before we got there. From behind my paper I could see five or six
policemen on the platform, one quite close. He opened the door, looked
at me, and walked through the carriage into the corridor. I took some
tobacco and rolled up a cigarette, but it shook, Harz lifted the ivy
twig, like this. In a minute the conductor and two more policemen came.
'He was here,' said the conductor, 'with this gentleman.' One of them
looked at me, and asked: 'Have you seen a policeman travelling on
this train?' 'Yes,' I said. 'Where?' 'He got out at St. Polten.' The
policeman asked the conductor: 'Did you see him get out there?' The
conductor shook his head. I said: 'He got out as the train was moving.'
'Ah!' said the policeman, 'what was he like?' 'Rather short, and no
moustache. Why?' 'Did you notice anything unusual?' 'No,' I said, 'only
that he wore coloured trousers. What's the matter?' One policeman said
to the other: 'That's our man! Send a telegram to St. Polten; he has
more than an hour's start.' He asked me where I was going. I told him:
'Linz.' 'Ah!' he said, 'you'll have to give evidence; your name and
address please?' 'Josef Reinhardt, 17 Donau Strasse.' He wrote it down.
The conductor said: 'We are late, can we start?' They shut the door. I
heard them say to the conductor: 'Search again at Linz, and report to
the Inspector there.' They hurried on to the platform, and we started.
At first I thought I would get out as soon as the train had left the
station. Then, that I should be too far from the frontier; better to go
on to Linz and take my chance there. I sat still and tried not to think.
“After a long time, we began to run more slowly. I put my head out and
could see in the distance a ring of lights hanging in the blackness. I
loosened the carriage door and waited for the train to run slower still;
I didn't mean to go into Linz like a rat into a trap. At last I could
wait no longer; I opened the door, jumped and fell into some bushes.
I was not much hurt, but bruised, and the breath knocked out of me. As
soon as I could, I crawled out. It was very dark. I felt heavy and sore,
and for some time went stumbling in and out amongst trees. Presently I
came to a clear space; on one side I could see the town's shape drawn in
lighted lamps, and on the other a dark mass, which I think was forest;
in the distance too was a thin chain of lights. I thought: 'They must
be the lights of a bridge.' Just then the moon came out, and I could see
the river shining below. It was cold and damp, and I walked quickly.
At last I came out on a road, past houses and barking dogs, down to the
river bank; there I sat against a shed and went to sleep. I woke very
stiff. It was darker than before; the moon was gone. I could just see
the river. I stumbled on, to get through the town before dawn. It was
all black shapes-houses and sheds, and the smell of the river, the smell
of rotting hay, apples, tar, mud, fish; and here and there on a wharf a
lantern. I stumbled over casks and ropes and boxes; I saw I should never
get clear—the dawn had begun already on the other side. Some men came
from a house behind me. I bent, and crept behind some barrels. They
passed along the wharf; they seemed to drop into the river. I heard one
of them say: 'Passau before night.' I stood up and saw they had walked
on board a steamer which was lying head up-stream, with some barges in
tow. There was a plank laid to the steamer, and a lantern at the other
end. I could hear the fellows moving below deck, getting up steam. I ran
across the plank and crept to the end of the steamer. I meant to go with
them to Passau! The rope which towed the barges was nearly taut; and I
knew if I could get on to the barges I should be safe. I climbed down
on this rope and crawled along. I was desperate, I knew they'd soon be
coming up, and it was getting light. I thought I should fall into the
water several times, but I got to the barge at last. It was laden with
straw. There was nobody on board. I was hungry and thirsty—I looked for
something to eat; there was nothing but the ashes of a fire and a man's
coat. I crept into the straw. Soon a boat brought men, one for each
barge, and there were sounds of steam. As soon as we began moving
through the water, I fell asleep. When I woke we were creeping through
a heavy mist. I made a little hole in the straw and saw the bargeman. He
was sitting by a fire at the barge's edge, so that the sparks and smoke
blew away over the water. He ate and drank with both hands, and funny
enough he looked in the mist, like a big bird flapping its wings; there
was a good smell of coffee, and I sneezed. How the fellow started! But
presently he took a pitchfork and prodded the straw. Then I stood up.
I couldn't help laughing, he was so surprised—a huge, dark man, with
a great black beard. I pointed to the fire and said 'Give me some,
brother!' He pulled me out of the straw; I was so stiff, I couldn't
move. I sat by the fire, and ate black bread and turnips, and drank
coffee; while he stood by, watching me and muttering. I couldn't
understand him well—he spoke a dialect from Hungary. He asked me: How
I got there—who I was—where I was from? I looked up in his face, and he
looked down at me, sucking his pipe. He was a big man, he lived alone
on the river, and I was tired of telling lies, so I told him the whole
thing. When I had done he just grunted. I can see him now standing over
me, with the mist hanging in his beard, and his great naked arms. He
drew me some water, and I washed and showed him my wig and moustache,
and threw them overboard. All that day we lay out on the barge in the
mist, with our feet to the fire, smoking; now and then he would spit
into the ashes and mutter into his beard. I shall never forget that day.
The steamer was like a monster with fiery nostrils, and the other barges
were dumb creatures with eyes, where the fires were; we couldn't see the
bank, but now and then a bluff and high trees, or a castle, showed in
the mist. If I had only had paint and canvas that day!” He sighed.
“It was early Spring, and the river was in flood; they were going to
Regensburg to unload there, take fresh cargo, and back to Linz. As soon
as the mist began to clear, the bargeman hid me in the straw. At Passau
was the frontier; they lay there for the night, but nothing happened,
and I slept in the straw. The next day I lay out on the barge deck;
there was no mist, but I was free—the sun shone gold on the straw and
the green sacking; the water seemed to dance, and I laughed—I laughed
all the time, and the barge man laughed with me. A fine fellow he was!
At Regensburg I helped them to unload; for more than a week we worked;
they nicknamed me baldhead, and when it was all over I gave the money
I earned for the unloading to the big bargeman. We kissed each other at
parting. I had still three of the gulden that Luigi gave me, and I went
to a house-painter and got work with him. For six months I stayed there
to save money; then I wrote to my mother's cousin in Vienna, and told
him I was going to London. He gave me an introduction to some friends
there. I went to Hamburg, and from there to London in a cargo steamer,
and I've never been back till now.”