The landlady knocked at the door.
“Come in,” said Viola.
“There is a letter for you,” said the landlady, “a special letter”—she
held the green envelope in a corner of her dingy apron.
“Thanks.” Viola, kneeling on the floor, poking at the little dusty
stove, stretched out her hand. “Any answer?”
“No; the messenger has gone.”
“Oh, all right!” She did not look the landlady in the face; she was
ashamed of not having paid her rent, and wondered grimly, without any
hope, if the woman would begin to bluster again.
“About this money owing to me—” said the landlady.
“Oh, the Lord—off she goes!” thought Viola, turning her back on the
woman and making a grimace at the stove.
“It’s settle—or it’s go!” The landlady raised her voice; she began to
bawl. “I’m a landlady, I am, and a respectable woman, I’ll have you
know. I’ll have no lice in my house, sneaking their way into the
furniture and eating up everything. It’s cash—or out you go before
twelve o’clock to-morrow.”
Viola felt rather than saw the woman’s gesture. She shot out her arm in
a stupid helpless way, as though a dirty pigeon had suddenly flown at
her face. “Filthy old beast! Ugh! And the smell of her—like stale
cheese and damp washing.”
“Very well!” she answered shortly; “it’s cash down or I leave
to-morrow. All right: don’t shout.”
It was extraordinary—always before this woman came near her she
trembled in her shoes—even the sound of those flat feet stumping up the
stairs made her feel sick, but once they were face to face she felt
immensely calm and indifferent, and could not understand why she even
worried about money, nor why she sneaked out of the house on tiptoe,
not even daring to shut the door after her in case the landlady should
hear and shout something terrible, nor why she spent nights pacing up
and down her room—drawing up sharply before the mirror and saying to a
tragic reflection: “Money, money, money!” When she was alone her
poverty was like a huge dream-mountain on which her feet were fast
rooted—aching with the ache of the size of the thing—but if it came to
definite action, with no time for imaginings, her dream-mountain
dwindled into a beastly “hold-your-nose” affair, to be passed as
quickly as possible, with anger and a strong sense of superiority.
The landlady bounced out of the room, banging the door, so that it
shook and rattled as though it had listened to the conversation and
fully sympathised with the old hag.
Squatting on her heels, Viola opened the letter. It was from Casimir:
“I shall be with you at three o’clock this afternoon—and must be off
again this evening. All news when we meet. I hope you are happier than
I.—CASIMIR.”
“Huh! how kind!” she sneered; “how condescending. Too good of you,
really!” She sprang to her feet, crumbling the letter in her hands.
“And how are you to know that I shall stick here awaiting your pleasure
until three o’clock this afternoon?” But she knew she would; her rage
was only half sincere. She longed to see Casimir, for she was confident
that this time she would make him understand the situation.... “For, as
it is, it’s intolerable—intolerable!” she muttered.
It was ten o’clock in the morning of a grey day curiously lighted by
pale flashes of sunshine. Searched by these flashes her room looked
tumbled and grimed. She pulled down the window-blinds—but they gave a
persistent, whitish glare which was just as bad. The only thing of life
in the room was a jar of hyacinths given her by the landlady’s
daughter: it stood on the table exuding a sickly perfume from its plump
petals; there were even rich buds unfolding, and the leaves shone like
oil.
Viola went over to the washstand, poured some water into the enamel
basin, and sponged her face and neck. She dipped her face into the
water, opened her eyes, and shook her head from side to side—it was
exhilarating. She did it three times. “I suppose I could drown myself
if I stayed under long enough,” she thought. “I wonder how long it
takes to become unconscious?... Often read of women drowning in a
bucket. I wonder if any air enters by the ears—if the basin would have
to be as deep as a bucket?” She experimented—gripped the washstand with
both hands and slowly sank her head into the water, when again there
was a knock on the door. Not the landlady this time—it must be Casimir.
With her face and hair dripping, with her petticoat bodice unbuttoned,
she ran and opened it.
A strange man stood against the lintel—seeing her, he opened his eyes
very wide and smiled delightfully. “Excuse me—does Fräulein Schäfer
live here?”
“No; never heard of her.” His smile was so infectious, she wanted to
smile too—and the water had made her feel so fresh and rosy.
The strange man appeared overwhelmed with astonishment. “She doesn’t?”
he cried. “She is out, you mean!”
“No, she’s not living here,” answered Viola.
“But—pardon—one moment.” He moved from the door lintel, standing
squarely in front of her. He unbuttoned his greatcoat and drew a slip
of paper from the breast pocket, smoothing it in his gloved fingers
before handing it to her.
“Yes, that’s the address, right enough, but there must be a mistake in
the number. So many lodging-houses in this street, you know, and so
big.”
Drops of water fell from her hair on to the paper. She burst out
laughing. “Oh, _how_ dreadful I must look—one moment!” She ran back to
the washstand and caught up a towel. The door was still open.... After
all, there was nothing more to be said. Why on earth had she asked him
to wait a moment? She folded the towel round her shoulders, and
returned to the door, suddenly grave. “I’m sorry; I know no such name,”
in a sharp voice.
Said the strange man: “Sorry, too. Have you been living here long?”
“Er—yes—a long time.” She began to close the door slowly.
“Well—good-morning, thanks so much. Hope I haven’t been a bother.”
“Good-morning.”
She heard him walk down the passage and then pause—lighting a
cigarette. Yes—a faint scent of delicious cigarette smoke penetrated
her room. She sniffed at it, smiling again. Well, that had been a
fascinating interlude! He looked so amazingly happy: his heavy clothes
and big buttoned gloves; his beautifully brushed hair... and that
smile.... “Jolly” was the word—just a well-fed boy with the world for
his playground. People like that did one good—one felt “made over” at
the sight of them. _Sane_ they were—so sane and solid. You could depend
on them never having one mad impulse from the day they were born until
the day they died. And Life was in league with them—jumped them on her
knee—quite rightly, too. At that moment she noticed Casimir’s letter,
crumpled up on the floor—the smile faded. Staring at the letter she
began braiding her hair—a dull feeling of rage crept through her—she
seemed to be braiding it into her brain, and binding it, tightly, above
her head.... Of course that had been the mistake all along. What had?
Oh, Casimir’s frightful seriousness. If she had been happy when they
first met she never would have looked at him—but they had been like two
patients in the same hospital ward—each finding comfort in the sickness
of the other—sweet foundation for a love episode! Misfortune had
knocked their heads together: they had looked at each other, stunned
with the conflict and sympathised... “I wish I could step outside the
whole affair and just judge it—then I’d find a way out. I certainly was
in love with Casimir.... Oh, be sincere for once.” She flopped down on
the bed and hid her face in the pillow. “I was not in love. I wanted
somebody to look after me—and keep me until my work began to sell—and
he kept bothers with other men away. And what would have happened if he
hadn’t come along? I would have spent my wretched little pittance, and
then—Yes, that was what decided me, thinking about that ‘then.’ He was
the only solution. And I believed in him then. I thought his work had
only to be recognised once, and he’d roll in wealth. I thought perhaps
we might be poor for a month—but he said, if only he could have me, the
stimulus.... Funny, if it wasn’t so damned tragic! Exactly the contrary
has happened—he hasn’t had a thing published for months—neither have
I—but then I didn’t expect to. Yes, the truth is, I’m hard and bitter,
and I have neither faith nor love for unsuccessful men. I always end by
despising them as I despise Casimir. I suppose it’s the savage pride of
the female who likes to think the man to whom she has given herself
must be a very great chief indeed. But to stew in this disgusting house
while Casimir scours the land in the hope of finding one editorial open
door—it’s humiliating. It’s changed my whole nature. I wasn’t born for
poverty—I only flower among really jolly people, and people who never
are worried.”
The figure of the strange man rose before her—would not be dismissed.
“That was the man for me, after all is said and done—a man without a
care—who’d give me everything I want and with whom I’d always feel that
sense of life and of being in touch with the world. I never wanted to
fight—it was thrust on me. Really, there’s a fount of happiness in me,
that is drying up, little by little, in this hateful existence. I’ll be
dead if this goes on—and”—she stirred in the bed and flung out her
arms—“I want passion, and love, and adventure—I yearn for them. Why
should I stay here and rot?—I am rotting!” she cried, comforting
herself with the sound of her breaking voice. “But if I tell Casimir
all this when he comes this afternoon, and he says, ‘Go’—as he
certainly will—that’s another thing I loathe about him—he’s under my
thumb—what should I do then—where should I go to?” There was nowhere.
“I don’t want to work—or carve out my own path. I want ease and any
amount of nursing in the lap of luxury. There is only one thing I’m
fitted for, and that is to be a great courtesan.” But she did not know
how to go about it. She was frightened to go into the streets—she heard
of such awful things happening to those women—men with diseases—or men
who didn’t pay—besides, the idea of a strange man every night—no, that
was out of the question. “If I’d the clothes I would go to a really
good hotel and find some wealthy man... like the strange man this
morning. He would be ideal. Oh, if I only had his address—I am sure I
would fascinate him. I’d keep him laughing all day—I’d make him give me
unlimited money....” At the thought she grew warm and soft. She began
to dream of a wonderful house, and of presses full of clothes and of
perfumes. She saw herself stepping into carriages—looking at the
strange man with a mysterious, voluptuous glance—she practised the
glance, lying on the bed—and never another worry, just drugged with
happiness. That was the life for her. Well, the thing to do was to let
Casimir go on his wild-goose chase that evening, and while he was
away—What! Also—please to remember—there was the rent to be paid before
twelve next morning, and she hadn’t the money for a square meal. At the
thought of food she felt a sharp twinge in her stomach, a sensation as
though there were a hand in her stomach, squeezing it dry. She was
terribly hungry—all Casimir’s fault—and that man had lived on the fat
of the land ever since he was born. He looked as though he could order
a magnificent dinner. Oh, why hadn’t she played her cards better?—he’d
been sent by Providence—and she’d snubbed him. “If I had that time over
again, I’d be safe by now.” And instead of the ordinary man who had
spoken with her at the door her mind created a brilliant, laughing
image, who would treat her like a queen.... “There’s only one thing I
could not stand—that he should be coarse or vulgar. Well, he wasn’t—he
was obviously a man of the world, and the way he apologised... I have
enough faith in my own power and beauty to know I could make a man
treat me just as I wanted to be treated.”... It floated into her
dreams—that sweet scent of cigarette smoke. And then she remembered
that she had heard nobody go down the stone stairs. Was it possible
that the strange man was still there?... The thought was too
absurd—Life didn’t play tricks like that—and yet—she was quite
conscious of his nearness. Very quietly she got up, unhooked from the
back of the door a long white gown, buttoned it on—smiling slyly. She
did not know what was going to happen. She only thought: “Oh, what
fun!” and that they were playing a delicious game—this strange man and
she. Very gently she turned the door-handle, screwing up her face and
biting her lip as the lock snapped back. Of course, there he
was—leaning against the banister rail. He wheeled round as she slipped
into the passage.
“Da,” she muttered, folding her gown tightly around her, “I must go
downstairs and fetch some wood. Brr! the cold!”
“There isn’t any wood,” volunteered the strange man. She gave a little
cry of astonishment, and then tossed her head.
“You again,” she said scornfully, conscious the while of his merry eye,
and the fresh, strong smell of his healthy body.
“The landlady shouted out there was no wood left. I just saw her go out
to buy some.”
“Story—story!” she longed to cry. He came quite close to her, stood
over her and whispered:
“Aren’t you going to ask me to finish my cigarette in your room?”
She nodded. “You may if you want to!”
In that moment together in the passage a miracle had happened. Her room
was quite changed—it was full of sweet light and the scent of hyacinth
flowers. Even the furniture appeared different—exciting. Quick as a
flash she remembered childish parties when they had played charades,
and one side had left the room and come in again to act a word—just
what she was doing now. The strange man went over to the stove and sat
down in her arm-chair. She did not want him to talk or come near her—it
was enough to see him in the room, so secure and happy. How hungry she
had been for the nearness of someone like that—who knew nothing at all
about her—and made no demands—but just lived. Viola ran over to the
table and put her arms round the jar of hyacinths.
“Beautiful! Beautiful!” she cried—burying her head in the flowers—and
sniffing greedily at the scent. Over the leaves she looked at the man
and laughed.
“You are a funny little thing,” said he lazily.
“Why? Because I love flowers?”
“I’d far rather you loved other things,” said the strange man slowly.
She broke off a little pink petal and smiled at it.
“Let me send you some flowers,” said the strange man. “I’ll send you a
roomful if you’d like them.”
His voice frightened her slightly. “Oh no, thanks—this one is quite
enough for me.”
“No, it isn’t”—in a teasing voice.
“What a stupid remark!” thought Viola, and looking at him again he did
not seem quite so jolly. She noticed that his eyes were set too closely
together—and they were too small. Horrible thought, that he should
prove stupid.
“What do you do all day?” she asked hastily.
“Nothing.”
“Nothing at all?”
“Why should I do anything?”
“Oh, don’t imagine for one moment that I condemn such wisdom—only it
sounds too good to be true!”
“What’s that?”—he craned forward. “What sounds too good to be true?”
Yes—there was no denying it—he looked silly.
“I suppose the searching after Fräulein Schäfer doesn’t occupy all your
days.”
“Oh no”—he smiled broadly—“that’s very good! By Jove! no. I drive a
good bit—are you keen on horses?”
She nodded. “Love them.”
“You must come driving with me—I’ve got a fine pair of greys. Will
you?”
“Pretty I’d look perched behind greys in my one and only hat,” thought
she. Aloud: “I’d love to.” Her easy acceptance pleased him.
“How about to-morrow?” he suggested. “Suppose you have lunch with me
to-morrow and I take you driving.”
After all—this was just a game. “Yes, I’m not busy to-morrow,” she
said.
A little pause—then the strange man patted his leg. “Why don’t you come
and sit down?” he said.
She pretended not to see and swung on to the table. “Oh, I’m all right
here.”
“No, you’re not”—again the teasing voice. “Come and sit on my knee.”
“Oh no,” said Viola very heartily, suddenly busy with her hair.
“Why not?”
“I don’t want to.”
“Oh, come along”—impatiently.
She shook her head from side to side. “I wouldn’t dream of such a
thing.”
At that he got up and came over to her. “Funny little puss cat!” He put
up one hand to touch her hair.
“Don’t,” she said—and slipped off the table. “I—I think it’s time you
went now.” She was quite frightened now—thinking only: “This man must
be got rid of as quickly as possible.”
“Oh, but you don’t want me to go?”
“Yes, I do—I’m very busy.”
“Busy. What does the pussy cat do all day?”
“Lots and lots of things!” She wanted to push him out of the room and
slam the door on him—idiot—fool—cruel disappointment.
“What’s she frowning for?” he asked. “Is she worried about anything?”
Suddenly serious: “I say—you know, are you in any financial difficulty?
Do you want money? I’ll give it to you if you like!”
“Money! Steady on the brake—don’t lose your head!”—so she spoke to
herself.
“I’ll give you two hundred marks if you’ll kiss me.”
“Oh, boo! What a condition! And I don’t want to kiss you—I don’t like
kissing. Please go!”
“Yes—you do!—yes, you do.” He caught hold of her arms above the elbows.
She struggled, and was quite amazed to realise how angry she felt.
“Let me go—immediately!” she cried—and he slipped one arm round her
body, and drew her towards him—like a bar of iron across her back—that
arm.
“Leave me alone! I tell you. Don’t be mean! I didn’t want this to
happen when you came into my room. How dare you?”
“Well, kiss me and I’ll go!”
It was too idiotic—dodging that stupid, smiling face.
“I won’t kiss you!—you brute!—I won’t!” Somehow she slipped out of his
arms and ran to the wall—stood back against it—breathing quickly.
“Get out!” she stammered. “Go on now, clear out!”
At that moment, when he was not touching her, she quite enjoyed
herself. She thrilled at her own angry voice. “To think I should talk
to a man like that!” An angry flush spread over his face—his lips
curled back, showing his teeth—just like a dog, thought Viola. He made
a rush at her, and held her against the wall—pressed upon her with all
the weight of his body. This time she could not get free.
“I won’t kiss you. I won’t. Stop doing that! Ugh! you’re like a dog—you
ought to find lovers round lamp-posts—you beast—you fiend!”
He did not answer. With an expression of the most absurd determination
he pressed ever more heavily upon her. He did not even look at her—but
rapped out in a sharp voice: “Keep quiet—keep quiet.”
“Gar-r! Why are men so strong?” She began to cry. “Go away—I don’t want
you, you dirty creature. I want to murder you. Oh, my God! if I had a
knife.”
“Don’t be silly—come and be good!” He dragged her towards the bed.
“Do you suppose I’m a light woman?” she snarled, and swooping over she
fastened her teeth in his glove.
“Ach! don’t do that—you are hurting me!”
She did not let go, but her heart said, “Thank the Lord I thought of
this.”
“Stop this minute—you vixen—you bitch.” He threw her away from him. She
saw with joy that his eyes were full of tears. “You’ve really hurt me,”
he said in a choking voice.
“Of course I have. I meant to. That’s nothing to what I’ll do if you
touch me again.”
The strange man picked up his hat. “No thanks,” he said grimly. “But
I’ll not forget this—I’ll go to your landlady.”
“Pooh!” She shrugged her shoulders and laughed. “I’ll tell her you
forced your way in here and tried to assault me. Who will she
believe?—with your bitten hand. You go and find your Schäfers.”
A sensation of glorious, intoxicating happiness flooded Viola. She
rolled her eyes at him. “If you don’t go away this moment I’ll bite you
again,” she said, and the absurd words started her laughing. Even when
the door was closed, hearing him descending the stairs, she laughed,
and danced about the room.
What a morning! Oh, chalk it up. That was her first fight, and she’d
won—she’d conquered that beast—all by herself. Her hands were still
trembling. She pulled up the sleeve of her gown—great red marks on her
arms. “My ribs will be blue. I’ll be blue all over,” she reflected. “If
only that beloved Casimir could have seen us.” And the feeling of rage
and disgust against Casimir had totally disappeared. How could the poor
darling help not having any money? It was her fault as much as his, and
he, just like her, was apart from the world, fighting it, just as she
had done. If only three o’clock would come. She saw herself running
towards him and putting her arms round his neck. “My blessed one! Of
course we are bound to win. Do you love me still? Oh, I have been
horrible lately.”