It was a spring-like evening in March, with bright sunshine. The last
grimy heaps of snow lying along the gutters had melted into radiant
paddles, and a shower of silvery drops fell from the icicles clinging
to the roofs. The glow of sunset lay on the houses facing south like
brilliant decorative carpets, sharply divided from the shadows on the
opposite side of the street. The window lattices shone as if they
themselves were suns reflecting their own light, and sparrows twittered
on the dripping eaves. But most welcome feature of all in this early
spring of city streets was the peculiar spicy fragrance of the melting
snows, rising in vapour from the gutter with promise of meadows growing
green and of boughs bursting into bud. Lilly, who had hardly been out
more than two or three times during the winter, sat at the counter
gazing wistfully into space.
Everywhere windows and doors were wide open. Everywhere lungs thirsty
for fresh air inhaled the zephyrs of coming spring. At last she too
pushed open the casements, and gave the hall door a kick, which made it
swing back and knock down the broom that stood in the corner behind it.
She saw through the opening of the door into the rooms of the opposite
tenant, who had also thrown his door wide to greet the spring.
There was a cherry-coloured sofa with embroidered chair-backs stretched
over its old-fashioned scroll-shaped arms; there were wreaths of dried
flowers with inscriptions framed on the walls; the helmet of a cavalry
officer with swords crossed; china lions used as cigar-holders; ballet
girls supporting tallow candles; photograph groups with peacock's
feathers stuck between them; a glass bowl of goldfish; a goatskin rug.
In the midst of all this wilderness of knick-knacks a youth paced up
and down with a book in his hand, conning something diligently; one
minute he vanished from view, only to reappear the next. At the first
glance, this young man attracted Lilly's sympathetic notice. His wavy
fair hair was brushed carelessly back from his forehead, the carriage
of his head was erect and nonchalant, and he wore a mauve and brown
striped necktie, which Lilly thought the height of refined taste.
She tried to think which of her favourite heroes he resembled most, and
came to the conclusion that it was Finck in "Debit and Credit." The
young man did not observe her, so she had every opportunity of studying
him. When he was in sight, a warm thrill ran through her, directly he
disappeared and remained hidden from view for the fraction of a second
she felt a sick sensation as if someone were robbing her of her dearest
possession. So it continued till he glanced up from his book, and,
seeing the young lady who watched him through the door, withdrew
hastily to the invisible part of his room. When he next disclosed
himself he had adopted a much stiffer and more self-conscious air. He
bent over his book with a studiousness that was hardly natural, moved
his lips too obviously, and frowned heavily. Lilly, too, thought it
necessary to improve slightly the picture she presented. She smoothed
the hair that was parted Madonna fashion on her forehead, and let
her arm fall carelessly over the side of the chair. A couple of
maid-servants who came to change books for their mistresses put an end
to this silent duet by shutting the door as they went out. Lilly did
not dare to open it again. But from that evening the new hero became
part of her dreams.
It was hopeless to think of asking Frau Asmussen questions so late,
because she was now in the habit of preparing her medicine before the
evening meal; but the next morning, as she seemed in a fairly good
temper, Lilly ventured to make a few inquiries about the neighbour of
whose existence till now she had been ignorant.
"What do the neighbours matter to you, you inquisitive thing!" retorted
Frau Asmussen, in that tone of polished urbanity with which she had
addressed Lilly after the raptures of the first night were over.
Lilly plucked up courage to invent a tale of a regular subscriber who
had asked her the day before for information about their neighbours,
which she had been unable to give him. Frau Asmussen's esteem for this
subscriber was so great that she instantly became communicative.
They were respectable enough people over the way, but of low birth, and
she, as a woman of a more highly-cultured mind, could not associate
with them. She believed the husband was a pensioned-off sergeant-major,
now working as a clerk, and that his wife made cravattes for a living.
Lilly flushed, remembering the mauve and brown tie which had so dazzled
her eyes the day before. How vulgarly these common people lived might
be gathered from the fact that on high-days and festivals they indulged
in potato soup with slices of sausage in it, which made anyone with a
delicate palate like Frau Asmussen's shudder to think of.
Like the erring daughters, Lilly had long ago got tired of the eternal
milk pudding, and found herself unable to agree that potato soup was
vulgar. Indeed, her mouth began to water at the mere mention of it, and
she changed the subject by asking if anyone else lived next door.
"I believe there's a son," replied Frau Asmussen. "He goes to the
Gymnasium, though why people in that class of life should have their
sons educated I don't know."
"I know why," Lilly said to herself. "I know why: it is because he is
great, and genius looks forth from his eyes, because he must succeed
and become a ruler of men."
The same afternoon she pushed open the swing-door again, but the
weather was raw and cold, and there was no friendly face opposite to
cheer her eyes. After she had gazed longingly for an hour or more at
the door-plate bearing the inscription:
L. Redlich,
_Kindly ring and knock_
she was forced to close the door, her legs feeling like icicles, and
with a feeling of humiliation that she had been snubbed. Henceforth she
looked out for one o'clock, the hour when the Gymnasium students came
home from school. With her nose pressed against the window-panes, she
could recognise at an almost incredible distance the blue and white
college caps. When he flew up the steps, she slipped behind the
curtains, trembling with joy at the bashful glances he cast at her. But
if he looked straight in front of him she was extremely unhappy, and
hoped that she had done nothing to hurt his feelings.
There were other wearers of blue and white caps who came up the steps
to the house, friends who came to cram for their examination with him.
Lilly adored them all. She felt that a bond existed between her and the
little circle, who had the world all before them, and intended to
conquer it. In spirit she sat in their midst.
Some of them passed so quickly that she distinguished them by their
caps more than by their faces. There was the forlorn-looking cap, the
faded, the smart, the limp. Each of the youths too had his
characteristic way of walking and knocking at the door. She could tell,
even when she was busy giving out books, and without looking, how many
of young Redlich's chums had come or had not come to work with him.
Meanwhile, the days grew longer and spring was advancing. The tenants
of the house began to sit on the terrace in front, where there were
chairs and tables.
The boys often lingered there chatting with their friend before going
in to their studies, and when they were gone he leaned over the
balustrade in the twilight alone, dreaming doubtless of his great
future.
Then Lilly, with beating heart, stationed herself behind a book-rack,
from which she had artfully cleared away enough volumes to form a
peep-hole, whence she could admire to her heart's content the leonine
brow so full of thought and profound intellect.
The seats on the terrace in front of the library windows were mostly
unoccupied, as they belonged to Frau Asmussen, who preferred taking her
medicine indoors, and Lilly could not screw up courage to ask
permission to sit there.
One May evening, however, when showery spring clouds sailed over the
dark blue sky, more alluring than threatening, when it was all so still
that you could hear the splashing of the market-place fountain, and the
swallows were the only passers-by, Lilly simply could not contain
herself any longer in the library atmosphere, smelling of old leather
and parchment; and taking her embroidery, more for show than because
she was industriously inclined, she went out, determined to sit on the
terrace. She knew that he was out, and that he always came in before
ten. He would have to pass her whatever happened. Half an hour, another
half-hour, than a quarter went by, and she saw a blue and white cap
coming jauntily down the street. Her first thought was to run back into
the library, but she was ashamed to do this, and sat where she was. He
came, saw her, raised his cap, and went in.
"He has at least bowed to me," she thought blissfully.
Scarcely ten minutes had elapsed before he appeared again. He seated
himself on a bench belonging to his side of the house, played with
pebbles, whistled to himself softly, and seemed altogether oblivious of
her presence.
Lilly sat on in her corner rolling and unrolling her embroidery, and
now and then giving vent to her tender feelings toward him by a sigh,
though she told herself she only sighed because it was so hot. Half an
hour sped away thus, and Lilly began to abandon hope of anything more
happening, when all of a sudden he addressed her, with his cap in his
hand:
"They will soon be closing the front door, Fraeulein," he said.
"Not already, surely!" she exclaimed, feigning consternation. Then,
reflecting that to act on his hint would be to put an end to their
acquaintance making any progress, she added in a more indifferent tone:
"It doesn't matter; the window isn't shut."
"The window!" he repeated.
She could not make out whether in approval or blame. The conversation
would have certainly come to a standstill here if she had not made a
gigantic effort to keep the ball rolling.
"We are neighbours, I think," she remarked.
He sprang up from his bench, sweeping his cap down as low as his
trouser pockets, and answered:
"Allow me to introduce myself. I am Fritz Redlich, prefect."
Lilly felt the old thrill of reverence with which the very word
"prefect" had inspired her in the Selecta when her class companions had
uttered it. Then she burned with shame to think that she was now
nothing better than a shopgirl. But she was determined to impress him
by alluding to her more distinguished past.
"Up till last autumn," she said, "I was a Selecta pupil. I used to know
some of you fellows."
"Which of us?" he asked in excitement.
She mentioned the names of two young men who had once fluttered round
her at the skating-rink, and asked if they were friends of his.
"Rather not," he answered with a contempt that didn't seem quite
genuine. "They are slackers, and loaf about too much. They intend to
join a corps, too, I believe. That's not in our line."
There was a pause. Lilly could only discern the outline of his figure
as he leaned against the balustrade, it had grown so dark. Drops of
soft rain fell on her hair. She would have liked to stay there for
ever, watching the dark young figure before her, and with the gentle
moisture of spring anointing her head.
"You are engaged now in the Circulating Library?" he asked.
Lilly assented, and was grateful to him for the nice word "engaged,"
which seemed a little to ameliorate her lowly position.
"And you are going in for your examination?" she inquired.
"In the autumn--if all goes well," he replied with a sigh.
"And afterwards you will go out into the world," she gushed in
copy-book language, "and fight your way in life? Ah, how I wish I were
in your shoes."
"Why do you wish that, Fraeulein?" he asked in surprise. "You are
fighting your way in life now, are you not?"
Lilly laughed shrilly. "Oh, but if only I were you!" she exclaimed.
"What wouldn't I--oh!"
She felt exultant; her limbs seemed to stretch, so that she scarcely
knew how to sit still; the light of conquest flashed from her eyes, but
there was no conquest really, for it remained unseen in the darkness.
She was so overcome, so mad with happiness, that she positively could
not stay there, uttering stilted phrases, while within her something
shouted: "You standing there with your arms on the balustrade, I love
you."
She bade him a hurried good-night, and ran in, bolting the door
behind her. She paced up and down the narrow gangways between the
books, laughing and sighing. She stretched forth her arms like a
high-priestess at prayer, knocking and bruising her elbows against the
shelves.
"I sought him whom my soul loveth, but I could not find him; I called
him, but he gave me no answer. The watchmen that went about the city
found me, they smote me, they wounded me; the keepers of the walls took
away my veil from me."
She sang the familiar words in a sweet, uncertain voice, not too
subdued to be heard through the window. But when she looked through her
peep-hole, to assure herself that he was listening, he had gone. Now
she sang louder and leaned out, tearing open her tight-fitting bodice,
and letting the raindrops fall on her bare breast.
An unspeakable wretchedness suddenly took possession of her. She could
not account for it, but she felt as if she must die. It was she whom
the cruel watchmen were seizing; the wounds their rough hands made on
her soft skin smarted; she could feel how they tore off the garments
which veiled her nakedness from the world. In shameless nakedness, yet
weeping tears of blood from bitter shame, she tottered through the
streets, seeking and seeking her Soul's Beloved; but he was further
off, more unattainable than ever.
She dropped down on her knees at the window, and, burying her face in
the sill, wept bitterly out of sweet compassion for that symbol of
herself wandering through Jerusalem's streets at night. And, after all,
what made her feel like this was happiness--sheer happiness.