Meanwhile another little sister had arrived, and (I believe it was for
that reason) our lodging grew too small. The furniture-van stopped once
more in front of our door, and two men carried everything away. Our
new lodging was most beautiful. At least I thought so. It consisted of
four rooms and a large kitchen. My mother took a maid to help her with
the house-work, and my father employed a young fellow in his shop. The
business did well, better than it had done in the beginning, and my
parents began to be regarded as "well-to-do" people.
The house we now occupied stood almost next to the house of my friend
Hilda, a circumstance deeply appreciated by me. Once when she came
to see me, I showed her all over the place, and directed her special
attention to a few new pieces of furniture which my mother had bought
in order to furnish all the rooms. There was one room that my mother
called the "drawing-room," and of which I was extremely proud,
although it had nothing in it but a table, a few pictures and a cheap
flower-stand.
Whenever I went into this "drawing-room" I felt as if I was entering a
church. The same sensation took hold of me when I showed Hilda in, and
I was not surprised that she left the room immediately, believing her
to be dazzled and overwhelmed.
There was also a courtyard belonging to the house; it was a very large
one with chestnut-trees growing in it. The trees were old and had
wide-spreading branches. We children loved the place and enjoyed it
with all our hearts. In one of the corners there stood a carriage, or
rather a manure-cart, which attracted us greatly. One day we pretended
to have a wedding. Leopoldine's brother was the bridegroom and I the
bride. I twisted a bunch of buttercups into a wreath and took a towel
for a veil. After that we took our seats in the cart and pretended
to drive to church. With the assistance of the bridegroom I got out
again, and the priest (one of the children) performed the ceremony. We
had seen many weddings in the village church and did everything in the
proper way. When the decisive question was put at last, we both looked
very solemn and said gravely, "I will."
On another day I quarrelled with Hilda, I must have said or done
something that she did not like, and it was evident that she wanted
to make me cross. It happened towards sunset. Hilda stood with her
back against the wall of the house opposite to ours and looked at me
scornfully. Her mouth was twisted contemptuously, her whole attitude
expressed deliberate challenge. For one brief moment we looked at each
other like two embittered opponents, but all at once I felt confounded
by her words:
"Your drawing-room looks ridiculous."
Never, never before did I feel so utterly unhappy, and I turned away
with burning cheeks. My mother was about to call me in, so I hastened
towards her. "Mother," I cried, half choked with tears, "Hilda said our
drawing-room looks ridiculous." My mother smiled, and as she took me up
the stairs into the little parlour, she said: "That does not matter,
dear."
Like a child I soon forgot that incident, but afterwards whenever I
entered the room in question, I was struck with its emptiness, and
tried hard to understand how it was that I had ever found it beautiful;
and although my mother had bought a green cover for the table, the
reverential feeling that I had experienced so often returned no more.
After a time I no longer liked to go to school, and I do not think
that I made any progress with my lessons. My exercises were done
only because I was afraid of getting punished. Ambition I had none.
Geography and history I did not care for, and doing sums I positively
hated. Furthermore, my teacher had found out that I had no voice and
consequently excluded me from singing. The only thing that I really
liked was to form sentences. But that subject we had only once a week,
and it was done in the following manner.--The teacher wrote with his
chalk different words on the blackboard, and we had to use them in
simple or compound sentences. There was not one word which I could not
have brought into a sentence somehow, whereas all the other children
sat silent, and never showed any aptitude for the subject. During the
rest of the lessons I was inattentive and tried continually to chat
with my neighbours. Very often I was punished.
We were also taught scripture every Friday. A young priest whom we
called "catechist" came to the school and read the catechism to us. I
do not remember whether I behaved any better during that lesson, the
only thing I know is that I felt strangely moved when the tall figure
of the catechist, clad in a long black gown, entered our schoolroom
and took his seat with an air of dignity. In my opinion the young
catechist was a handsome man. His eyes were blue, his hair was thick
and brown, but his mouth was always shut tightly, and he struck me as
hard and proud. When I think of that time, I can see the schoolroom
again. None of the children were more than ten years old, and while we
sat perfectly still the catechist asked one question after another.
"Who created the world?" Whereupon a young voice answered:
"God created the world."
"What does that mean--to create?" Another voice:
"To create means to produce something out of nothing."
"Must all people die?"
"All people must die."
These last words always occupied my thoughts, and constantly worried
me. Sometimes I woke at nights from my slumber, and imagined that I
heard the question, "Must all people die?" whereupon a voice answered:
"All people must die." After that I felt inexpressibly sad. I sat up
in my bed, listened to the gentle breathing of my sisters, and wondered
which of us would be the first to die. A maddening fear rushed to my
heart when I thought that my father and my mother had also to die some
day. I could not go to sleep again, but thought about what might happen
if such were the case, and suffered so intensely that I screamed aloud.
Then one of my parents came to my bed and tried to comfort me, thinking
that I had a nightmare.
The summer always brought to us a most beautiful event. As soon as the
long school holidays began, my mother took us to relations of hers,
who lived at a distant village. The journey lasted six hours, and we
travelled in the post-coach. In reality one could not even call the
place a village, because there was only one house, the home of our
relations. It was a mill, and all around it stretched the glorious
woods of the lower parts of Austria, sometimes interrupted by lovely
meadows, where the grass used to grow to such a height that it towered
above our heads. Close by the mill flowed a clear, narrow brook, so
narrow in some places that we could quite easily jump over it, in
others so wide that we had to wade through it whenever we wanted to
cross. In front of the house there was a large kitchen-garden that
adjoined a still larger orchard, a spot full of ever new delights.
At one time an apple-tree, as if to tease us, would let a beautiful
apple fall to our feet; at another time the berries of a shrub would
at last begin to show their colouring, and then, again, a wild flower
that had opened overnight. At the very end of the garden there was
also a beehive. Although afraid of the bees we dared to approach them
cautiously, and even advanced to the back of the hive, where little
glass windows enabled us to observe the dear, diligent creatures quite
closely.
Later on, when the children were many and my fathers business slack,
these visits had to cease owing to the fact that my parents could no
longer afford the price of the post-coach. But the memory of that
lovely, quiet spot, connected so closely with a sweet and careless
childhood, still arouses sudden sadness and makes me yearn for it.
My mother used to take my brother and myself to church every Sunday,
and that place so lofty, so dark, so doleful, and always smelling
strongly of incense, made me strangely shy and still. My mother sat
upon one of the benches, but my brother and I had to stand with the
school children. We were right in front of the altar, and the priest,
together with the sacristan, had to pass us when they left the vestry.
The priest was the same priest who taught us scripture at school, and
I thought him even more handsome in his surplice, made of white lace.
As I never managed to remember when we were to kneel during the Mass,
I simply imitated the others; but no matter whether I knelt or stood
up, I always watched the priest, and followed all his movements. With a
feeling of profoundest reverence I looked at him, and saw how he mixed
the wine and drank it, how he swung the censer solemnly, how he prayed,
with folded hands, out of the holy book, and kissed it reverently at
the end....
My brother, as a matter of course, had also started school, and spent
most of the time with his schoolfellows. We were not so much together
now, but had, nevertheless, plenty of opportunity to quarrel; he grew
naughtier from day to day, and my poor mother was unable to manage him.
When my father came home in the evening I, in my little bedroom, could
hear my mother crying and declaring that she could stand it no longer.
Then my father used to grow angry and say that he could not possibly
undertake both the education of the children and his business. So
everything remained as it had been.
When I was twelve years old a great change happened. My father sold
his business, and bought a house (including a business) in a distant
little town. Once more all our furniture was removed, but on this
occasion it was carried to the station. Strange to say we children
were not informed about it until the last hour, so that I had left the
church-square the previous evening in the usual manner and never said
good-bye to anyone.
It was getting dark when we arrived at Hohenburg; a carriage drove us
home from the station, and my father showed us all the rooms of the
first floor. Another floor had been added according to my father's
orders, but he would not let us go upstairs that evening. My mother put
us to bed and told us not to forget our dreams, since dreams dreamt the
first night at a place one has never seen before come true. I listened
attentively to what my mother said, and on the morrow I pondered over
my dream. "Mother," I said, "I dreamt that we had gone back again to
Langenau." My mother smiled, shook her head, and said she did not think
that my dream could come true.
The first days and weeks passed quickly, and were full of sweet
excitement. My brother and my sisters, as well as myself, made new
friends immediately, and I do not think that at this time I thought
much about my old friends. The people who lived in the house beside us
called my mother "landlady," and I believe my mother liked to hear
that. She also took a new maid, whom I thought to be a person of great
importance. Very often she used to tell me stories about men, and
confided in me her approaching marriage. Whenever she mentioned that
coming event she looked exceedingly happy and proud, so I came to the
conclusion that "to marry must be something beautiful," and wished to
marry too. I confessed it to our maid, but she said that I was not old
enough.
"How old, then, must a girl be to be able to marry?"
And to this question she replied:
"I cannot say for certain; some girls marry early, some marry late."
I decided to marry early.
After we had been at the new place for a considerable time, I began
to notice that something was going wrong. I could see that my father
looked thoughtful, even sad, and that my mother cried often. Then my
father went away suddenly, and did not return for many weeks. When he
came back again, he looked pale and troubled, and my mother never
ceased to cry.
One day I went into the little kitchen-garden and wanted to sit down on
an old chair which happened to be there. But another girl of my age,
who was the daughter of one of our tenants and had hitherto treated me
very politely, was already sitting on the chair. She did not get up
as I had expected her to do, but crossed her arms above her head and
looked at me sleepily.
"Get up!" I demanded sullenly.
"Why should I get up?"
"Because I want to sit down."
"Well, sit down on the ground."
That answer made me terribly angry.
"Get up!" I shouted, and stamped with my foot; "that chair belongs to
us!"
The girl laughed, and after a while she said, still laughing:
"Nothing whatever belongs to you; everything has been seized from your
people; all you have left is debts."
Then she sprang to her feet, pushed the chair back with such violence
that it fell to the ground, and ran off.
I stood like one stunned and could not for a while understand what she
had said; but then I remembered how often my mother cried, how sad my
father looked, and all at once my veil of ignorance was lifted. I went
back into the house, but as shyly and softly as if I were a criminal,
and sat down silently on a chair. My mother sat at the table with
the youngest child in her arms, and looked at me in surprise. I was
generally very noisy, and upset a chair three times before I sat down.
"Have you quarrelled with someone?" she asked.
"No; but I should like to know whether what everyone says is true."
My mother trembled a little.
"What nonsense! What does everyone say?"
"That we have nothing left but debts."
My mother got up from the chair and put the child on the bed; then she
pulled the table-cover straight, and stared hard at an empty corner of
the room.
"By-the-by," she said, as if she was really thinking of something quite
different, "who said that?"
When I had told her she sighed deeply. No other sound was heard in the
room.
"Should you like to go back to Langenau?" she asked after a while.
I felt surprised and delighted. Hilda, Leopoldine, the old church, and
lots of other things came into my thoughts and made me long for them
boundlessly.
"Oh, mother," I cried, "it would make me so happy!"
During the following week all our furniture was moved again and sent
away. We were all frightfully excited; only my father was quiet, and
looked grave and pale. We arrived at Langenau late in the evening, and
drove to a new lodging. The whole village seemed to be asleep, and
nobody saw our arrival. We had been away for a year.
I did not like the new lodging; it was underground, and the water
dripped down the walls, leaving trails of a dark brown colour behind. I
could hear my mother say that the lodging was damp and unhealthy, and
that she had never thought one could become so poor. Then my father
answered that she must not lose courage, but have a little patience,
and he would try to find something better as soon as his business
proved to be satisfactory. They spoke for a long time upon this
subject, and I understood that the business in question was a new one,
and that most probably it would take a little while to get customers.
My chief reason for thinking the lodging horrible was that we were a
long way from the house of my friend Hilda. Furthermore there was no
pretty courtyard, nor any other place in which we could run about and
play. Three other tenants lived in the same house, and my mother told
us to keep very quiet, because, if we made too much noise, the people
might complain about us to the landlord.
As soon as breakfast was over, I wanted to run to the church-square,
partly to see whether everything was the same as it had been before,
and partly to speak, if possible, to my friends. Just as I was about to
close the door, my mother called me back.
"Where do you want to go?"
"I am going out."
"That won't do," my mother's troubled voice rang; "the whole place
looks untidy, and you know that I have no maid. If you want to go out,
you must at least take the two little ones with you."
"I will certainly not take them," I said, and tears filled my eyes.
"They are far too small for our games."
"I am very sorry, but you will have to play something that the little
ones can play also."
At first I would not consent, and decided to stay in; but as it was
nearly eleven o'clock, the time when I knew that my friends left the
school, I could resist no longer. I took the two little ones, not very
gently I believe, and went away. My sister was about two years old and
was able to walk, while my brother was still quite small and had to be
carried. My sister clung to my skirt, and so we walked along slowly,
much too slowly for my impatience. A few people, mostly those who were
about to go to their work in the vineyards, looked at me strangely,
spoke to each other, and laughed as they passed. I felt as if they
were laughing at me, and I was terribly ashamed because I thought they
all believed me to be the mother of the two children. It was very
foolish of me to think such a thing, but at that time I did not know
that a girl of my age could never be suspected of being the mother
of children; all I knew was that it was considered a disgrace for an
unmarried girl to have a child. My anger concentrated therefore on the
two innocent little creatures, and I felt very much inclined to beat
them.
We got to the school at last, and I noticed with great satisfaction
that the lessons were not finished, and that I was likely to catch my
friends. After a few minutes I heard the great noise that was made when
the boys were getting ready to go. Then they appeared, pair after
pair, and my heart beat faster. After the boys came the girls. First
the very small ones, then the class I had been in. Hilda and Leopoldine
appeared at the same time, and I trembled with joy and excitement when
I saw them coming along in the gay, careless fashion characteristic of
children. My time seemed to have arrived. I stepped out of the corner
in which I had hidden myself, and called their names aloud. Both of
them turned round at once, and dragging my little sister behind me, I
ran towards them.
"Anna!" they called, but then they looked at each other and kept
silent. I knew at once that something was the matter, and the blood
mounted into my cheeks. In order not to let them see my embarrassment I
controlled myself, and asked with apparent indifference:
"Where shall we go?"
"We are not allowed to speak to you," said Leopoldine at last; "your
father is locked up."
"Was," corrected Hilda softly, and then they ran away before I even
knew what they meant. A little boy, whom I had seen in the company of
my brother many times before, came along, said something very rude as
he passed and put his tongue out at me. But what did that boy matter?
What did the whole world matter now? I stood as if I was dazed, and
might have stood there longer if my little brother had not begun to
cry. That made me conscious of a terrible shame and of a sharp pain in
my arm, and I felt that the child was heavy. I noticed also that it was
nearly dinnertime and knew that my mother was waiting for me. I called
my little sister, who had been ceaselessly picking up stones from the
ground, and, avoiding the crowded streets as much as I could, I made
for home. My mother was standing in front of our gate, and looking
searchingly up and down the street. Having caught sight of us she came
to meet me and took the boy from my arms.
"Where have you been?" she asked; "you look hot."
"I am terribly hungry," I said, and slipped into the house while my
mother followed slowly with the children. Soon afterwards we sat down
to dinner, and my mother was busily preparing the food for the little
ones. I helped her a little, handing her a fork, a spoon, or anything
that was beyond her reach. After a pause of some length my mother said:
"Did you see any of your friends?"
"No," I replied without hesitation, hastily swallowing a large
mouthful. I could feel how the blood rushed back into my cheeks, not
because I had told a lie (I often told lies), but because I heard the
cruel words hum in my head again.
"You are getting quite a big girl now," my mother continued after a
pause, "and you could make yourself very useful at home, if it were not
that you have to go to school again."
A silly, incomprehensible fear immediately gripped me. Until that
moment I had not thought of having to go to school again. "Mother," I
said, and lifted up my arms imploringly, "pray do not send me to school
again."
"You are getting more and more lazy; you ought to be ashamed of
yourself."
"So I am," I answered rudely.
My mother got up from the chair suddenly, and I thought that she was
going to beat me for such an impudent answer. But she did not beat me;
she bent down to one of the little ones and, with her face turned away,
told me to clear the things from the table.
During our stay at Hohenburg I had scarcely learnt anything, and when
my mother took me to school the next day, the headmaster found that
out at once. He declared that I was not by any means able to join the
fourth class, but must take up the third class once more. My mother
never understood why I looked so exceedingly happy when the headmaster
told me that.... I was now at least spared the company of those "two."
The mere thought of them became unbearable to me. I decided never to
go near them again, and to avoid everything that could bring me into
touch with them. But if it happened now and then that we met during
the recreation, which we had all to spend out in the garden, I quickly
looked in another direction. Hilda and Leopoldine were together almost
constantly, and it was only sometimes that I met Hilda by herself. She
passed me then with eyes cast down, but inwardly I felt that she loved
me still and only did not speak because she was forbidden to do so.
At such moments I loved her more than I had ever done before; I even
thought of walking up to her and speaking to her again. But whenever
I wanted to put that thought into action, my feet refused to move; I
stood like one rooted to the ground, and all that I was able to do was
to look after her and watch how she went away slowly, sometimes very
slowly.
One day I heard from a schoolfellow that Hilda had been sent to Krems
in order to join a seminary for school-teachers. After that I felt as
lonely and wretched as a child has ever felt. It is true that she had
never spoken to me again, but her figure was the most vivid picture
in my mind, and to watch her secretly from behind a quiet corner had
filled my heart with a happiness strangely sweet and sad.... "Why,"
I thought angrily--"why was Hilda sent away? why not Leopoldine?"
Whenever we met, her face wore a malicious smile, the very smile it
had worn when she had said those terrible words to me. I began to hate
her, and prayed every night to God that He might cause her mother (she
had no father) to be locked up too. But her mother never got locked up.
One day when I accidentally passed their house I saw a lot of labourers
busying themselves over it, and when I, driven by curiosity, stole by
in the dusk another evening, the house looked more beautiful than ever.
Henceforth Leopoldine was dressed in very pretty clothes, and the smile
on her face grew more and more malicious.
I had no pretty clothes, and my parents had no pretty house. My
father's business went from bad to worse, and he himself grew to be
taciturn and did not speak to us children for weeks. Another little
brother had arrived too, and my mother worked incessantly. I assisted
her by minding the children and carrying about the baby, but I did not
like doing it and felt utterly unhappy.
My brother had been sent to the High School at Krems because my mother
had set her heart upon it. My father used to point out to her that he
was hardly able to afford the expense, but my mother responded that
Charlie was the cleverest boy that could be found, and that it would be
an everlasting pity to bring him up otherwise. After these explanations
my father was silent, but I am perfectly convinced that he would have
much preferred to apprentice my brother to some trade. Charlie came
home every Sunday and left again on the Monday. On these visits he
treated us all in a most conceited manner, and even declared one day
that country-folk were fools. In spite of that I used to see him off
each time he went away, and felt like crying when the train had steamed
out of the little station.