The parting from the family in which I had been so kindly treated for
more than two years; the parting from the cook, who had been a friend
to me in her simple, unspoiled fashion; the parting from my dear
teacher, Miss Risa de Vall; and the parting from home--none of them
were easy to me. Lightest to bear of all these partings was perhaps
the last-named one. My parents had grown so poor during the two years
I had been away that I more than ever longed to help them. When they
knew what I was about to do, and when I further showed to them the
letter from Buda-Pesth confirming my engagement to three children with
a salary of thirty-five shillings a month, they, too, thought in their
homely way that I had at last made my fortune. Out of the little money
I possessed I bought a small trunk, covered with brown, strong canvas,
such as are used as hand-bags for travelling. But after I had packed
my things, the trunk, small though it was, was only half filled, so
few worldly goods could I call my own. That, however, troubled me but
little. While I was packing the cheap things, one after the other, into
the bag, I was dreaming all the time of thirty-five shillings, and of
the wonderful things I could buy with them.
On the very day before my departure a letter arrived from my brother.
There had never been an address upon his former letters, but on this
occasion there was one. He told us that he was making quite a lot of
money, but he did not say how he made it. I was not surprised at this
omission, for I simply thought that he had really become an artist, and
did not mention his work because he took it for granted that nobody at
home would understand it. But I longed to know what he really was--a
painter, a sculptor, or a poet. The last thought made me blush with
embarrassment and pride. Yes, a poet--that was very likely, since I was
writing poems too; but then, of course, my poems would never be as
good as his!
The address given in his letter was the name of a café. During the time
that I had still to spend at home I thought of my brother, and at last
I had such a very bold and daring idea that I was surprised at my own
courage. I would go and visit him. On my way to Buda-Pesth I had to
pass Vienna, and I determined to break my journey there in order to
look him up. I told my mother about it before leaving home the next
day, and she thought that he might certainly be very pleased to see me.
I had put on my very best dress for the journey. It was made out of a
cheap blue woollen material. To match this dress I had bought a light
blue straw hat that had cost two shillings, and I felt convinced that
I looked exceptionally smart. My parents went to see me off, and to
make it easier for all of us I kept on talking about the thirty-five
shillings every month, and about the miraculous things one could do
with them. We arrived at the station early, and paced up and down
the platform. When the train at last came steaming in, I suppressed
my tears as bravely as I could, took my seat by the window of the
compartment, and nodded to my people with a smile on my face. A few
minutes later the horn was sounded to signal the departure; my father
waved his hat to me, my mother wiped her eyes, and I looked quickly
away from the window with a sob in my throat that could no longer be
suppressed.
The journey to Vienna lasted four hours, during which time I thought
much of my brother. I felt absolutely certain that I had gained a
great deal during the last two years, and pictured to myself his joy
and surprise when he heard that I had also a little knowledge of the
English language. When I had travelled about half the journey it
occurred to me to write down a few of my poems, and to ask his opinion
about them. I found some white paper in my bag, and started at once.
In Vienna I showed my brother's address to a policeman, and begged
him to direct me. A little later I walked up and down in front of a
café, carrying my trunk in my hands. So far I had not encountered any
difficulties, but now I was not quite sure how to proceed. It is true
that the most simple thing to do would have been to enter the café, but
I did not dare to do so because of all the smartly-dressed people who
sat round the gilded tables. Perhaps, I said to myself, he will come
out, or, should he be away from home, go in, and then there might be a
chance for me to speak to him. However, after a whole hour had passed,
and my little trunk had become heavy in my hands, I stepped quite
close to one of the tall windows, and looked boldly at the fashionable
crowd, hoping to see him seated at one of the gilded tables. But the
faces were all strange to me, and making a last desperate appeal to
my courage, I had just decided to go in, when I saw a waiter whose
gait and carriage seemed familiar to me. He was standing with his
back against the window and I could not see his face, but I had the
impression that I had met him somewhere before. I stared at him, and
had almost forgotten why I was there when a guest seated near the
window tapped the table with his spoon, and the waiter, who had aroused
my interest, immediately turned round and hurried towards him. I was so
surprised that I nearly dropped my trunk. The waiter was my brother.
Without hesitating another minute I went in. He caught sight of me
directly, and looking round him carefully in order to ascertain whether
he was watched or not, told me in a low voice to leave the café at
once, and to wait for him at the corner of the street, where he would
join me in half an hour. I did as he told me, but while I stood at the
corner waiting for him I could hardly get over my surprise. The whole
thing seemed to be a dream. I doubted whether I had really seen my
brother, and whether it was true that he was only a waiter and not an
artist, as I had firmly believed him to be. When the half-hour was over
a young man dressed in the height of fashion came up to me. I felt a
new surprise; the smart young man was my brother. I thought that he had
his day off, and admired the cut and colour of his suit.
"Do you get tipped so well?" I, pursuing my own thoughts, asked him
after we had shaken hands.
"Incredible!" he cried scornfully. "How can you be so utterly tactless
as to remind me in such a manner of the miserable profession I am in?"
"Why do you call it a miserable profession?"
"Why do I call it a miserable profession?" he repeated very angrily.
"Do you really think that I find a great pleasure in hobbling round
fellows who are not fit to hold a candle to me?"
"I thought," I remarked, after a little silence, "that you had become
an artist."
He laughed so terribly that all the passers-by stopped and looked at us.
"An artist, indeed! That is more than I have ever expected from you. Do
you believe that artists drop from heaven during the night?"
"Oh no," I replied hurriedly, in order to appease his temper; "I quite
know that it takes many years sometimes before they make a name for
themselves."
"Then, if you know it, why do you demand that I should be an artist,
when there was never the slightest chance for me to educate myself?"
"No, of course not. What I thought was that by now you might have found
out which of your capacities is the most eminent."
"Oh," he answered, with an air of absolute ease and conviction, "there
can be little doubt as to the nature of my abilities. It is quite
certain that I should have made an excellent painter if I had ever
had the chance to learn the different ways of mixing the colours and
using the brush; it is also quite certain that I should have become a
great composer if I had been able to study music; and it is also beyond
all doubt that I should be a pioneer in the field of literature if my
profession permitted the depth of thought and feeling that is necessary
to write in grand style."
I thought of my own poems, and could not understand him.
"Why can't you feel and think exactly as other people do?" I asked.
"Lord!" he cried, and laughed again as terribly as before, "how can
you imagine such a thing? To be locked in between four walls, to
have to carry trays, and to bow and scrape all day long! Can't you
understand that by leading such a miserable life as mine, the soul
degenerates, the brain decays, and the whole being goes down to the
level of a working animal?"
He had perfectly convinced me now, and although I said nothing he must
have felt his victory. His face grew calm, and pointing at my trunk, he
said:
"Then you have at last grasped what I meant at our parting, and have
freed yourself from the narrow ways of country life and are willing to
look out for a situation here?"
I told him quickly what I was about to do.
"That beats everything," he said, when I had finished. "Have you gone
mad?"
"Why should I have gone mad? Didn't you tell me yourself that I must
try to get on?"
"Are you really so silly that you do not understand that you have no
right whatever to go in for such a situation as you have described to
me?"
"What do you mean?"
"Are you really ignorant of the fact," he continued, without paying
any attention to my question, "that people like that do not need a
servant, but a ladylike person, somebody who knows how to behave, and
possesses good manners, and can teach them to the children in her
charge? Furthermore, do you not know that you have not a grain of what
is called 'polish'?"
I gave a little sob, and after hearing that he continued quickly:
"That is, of course, not your fault. Your intercourse with nothing
but country-folk cannot have taught you witty, amiable, and smart
behaviour; cannot have given you that indefinable something which makes
all the difference between an educated and an uneducated person; cannot
have imparted that knowledge to you, without which one is nothing, a
nobody, a mere cipher?"
I believed every word of it and cried softly.
"What am I to do?" I asked at last.
"If I were in your place I should not travel down to Buda-Pesth, but
stay here. I will use whatever influence I have with my friends, and
try to find you a situation. Perhaps you could get a post as cashier
somewhere in a café."
"No," I said, controlling my tears all in a moment, "I won't do that."
"Why not? They generally make a lot of money, and a good match at the
end."
"No," I said again, and shook my head decisively, "I would rather go to
Buda-Pesth."
He shrugged his shoulders indifferently.
"He that will not be counselled cannot be helped. What train do you go
by?"
"By the evening train at eight o'clock."
"I am sorry to say that I can't see you off then. I have got a
_rendezvous_ at eight o'clock."
"A randewau?"
"A _rendezvous_," he corrected. "There you are again; you know nothing."
After that statement he pulled out his pocket-book and began to write
down something. When he had finished, he tore off the leaf and handed
it to me.
"There, I have put down for you the most important of adopted words,
which you ought to know because all smart people express themselves
nowadays only in adopted words. Good luck and a pleasant journey to
you." He held out his hand, which I took mechanically, and when I
looked up he had gone.
I inquired for the station, and went the way indicated by a friendly
policeman. After I had taken my ticket I got into the train which was
standing by the platform, and by the dim light of the compartment I
tried to decipher the slip of paper that my brother had given to me. It
ran as follows:
Rendezvous Mélange
Engagement Carrière
Bureau or Comptoir Rouge
Pardon Noir
Toilette Milieu
Banquet Manicure
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.