Mr. Sandor did not come to meet me this time. He told me in his letter
that I would find my way easily now that I knew Buda-Pesth, and,
furthermore, the house of the family who had engaged me was situated
close to the station. I found it to be exactly as he said; after having
crossed the street I reached my destination.
I had grown very indifferent of late, and mounted the broad staircase
without the slightest trace of my usual embarrassment and fear.
After I had pressed the button at the door, a maid appeared and asked
me whether I was the new hair-dresser. I thought this was owing to my
shabby dress, my shabby gloves, and my shoes; so assuming an air of
great dignity, I corrected her mistake. She led the way into the hall,
and told me to wait. After a little time she came again and ordered me
into another room. It had green curtains on the windows, and a green
table-cover spread over the table. I expect it was the sight of the
green table-cover that reminded me of my mother's former drawing-room.
In order to make a good impression, I had held myself very straight and
upright on entering the room, but with my thoughts reverting to a time
far away, I forgot my purpose and my shoulders shrank a little, as is
their wont.
"Are you the new governess?"
A little confused, I took my eyes from the table-cover, nodded "yes" to
the question, and then looked directly at the gentleman in front of me.
"You said in your letter that you were twenty-one years of age?"
"Well, yes, I am twenty-one."
"You don't look it."
I told him it was not my fault, and then we smiled at each other.
He asked me a few other questions, and soon afterwards a tall handsome
woman entered. She was my mistress, and took me into the nursery. It
was early, and the children were not yet dressed; but they looked so
sweet in their nightgowns that I liked them at once.
My life again became the same as it had been at my other situation.
I occupied myself entirely with the children, played with them, took
them out for walks, and later on to school. Our usual walk was along
the wide and stately Danube, which represented a magnificent picture
with the King's palace and other grand buildings upon its banks. If the
weather was not fine, I used to send the children out on the balcony
that ran all round the square courtyard at the same height as our
apartments. On account of its smoothness it was a wonderful place for
mechanical toys, such as engines, motor-cars, and so on.
One afternoon I had sent the children out there again, and promised
to join them soon. When, however, I followed, the children had
disappeared. I called their names aloud, whereupon they responded at
once, but still I did not know where they were.
"Where are you?"
"Here," they repeated, and while I still stood and listened, a door
that had not so far interested me opened, and my little girl put out
her sweet dark head.
"Here we are!" she said once more; "do come in."
I did not know the people who lived there, but thinking that they were
friends of the family I went in.
The room into which the little one had taken me was occupied by a
gentleman about thirty years old, who was amusing the children with
stamps and pictures. I thought he was alone at home. He saluted me in
fluent German, and with more politeness than anyone had ever shown to
me.
I controlled my embarrassment, and took the seat he offered me. The
children had entered into an argument as to the possible value of
foreign stamps, and the owner of the room turned to me in conversation.
At first he only spoke commonplaces with a faint touch of irony in
his voice, but he grew grave and interested after I had made a few
remarks. Then we began a discussion, but how we started upon it I could
never remember. Smoking a cigar and leaning back in his chair with easy
elegance, he asked:
"Intoxication or regret--which is the greater of the two?... Is it
worth the while?..."
I understood only half of what he meant, and answered that I did not
know.
Then I told him about my poems, and he listened and smiled, an odd
ironical smile that also I could not understand. At last when I
departed with the children he asked me what books I was reading.
"None at all," I replied, whereupon he looked surprised.
"May I get you some from the library?"
I thought it was very kind of him, and said that I should be pleased.
A few days later the porter handed me a parcel containing books, and a
slip of paper.
"I have chosen the books in a great hurry," he had written, "but trust
that you will like them."
As soon as I could find time I opened one of the books. It was a volume
of novels by Jacobsen, and one of them was called "Morgan."
I read it all through.... A man--a dreamer, who loves madly a girl
to-day and has forgotten her by to-morrow; and round that man there
moved pictures full of glowing colour and sparkling light. I liked it,
but did not really understand it.
"Have you read some of the books?" my new friend asked me as soon as we
met.
"Yes."
"That novel too about Morgan?"
"Yes."
"Did you like it?"
"I don't know."
"One of the most beautiful passages is that in which he walks through
the waving corn-field with his young wife."
"Yes, but I believe he must have been a horrible man."
"Why that?"
"So wilful, so restless, so faithless."
He pulled his soft hat over his forehead, gave me a strange look and
smiled.
We met almost every day, generally in the morning when I took the
children to school and he went to his office. We rode a little way
together in the tram-car, then I got out with the children and he
went on. During these few minutes we carried on jumpy conversations,
based upon an incident, an idea, or a poem of mine. We talked on
dispassionately as it seemed, until we stopped abruptly as if afraid
that we had said too much.
By-and-by I began to think of him whether I saw him or not; his face,
his figure rose like a blazing question from the midst of the strange,
wistful dreams that I had dreamt all my life, and something that had
lain within me, dull and senseless like a trance, woke, wondered, and
trembled into joy.
Once I did not see him for two whole days, and my heart grew so filled
with longing that I wrote a letter to him. Not that I wished to see him
or anything like it. No. What I put down on the paper were thoughts
that had fallen into my soul, rich, like the raindrops that fall down
into a field--visions of such rare, exquisite beauty, that I longed to
share them with someone.
I was most anxious to see him next day, but did not meet him, nor the
next day, nor the next; on the fourth day, at last.... My first impulse
was to run and meet him, but it was arrested by a sweet bewilderment
that took hold of me whenever I knew him to be near. It seemed as if
he wished to hurry on without taking any notice of me, but then he
hesitated, stopped, and lifted his hat. I was struck by the strange
coolness of his behaviour, and my heart ached within me.
"How is it," I asked him, "that we see so little of each other?"
He drew a deep breath and looked away from me.
"Because it would be very unwise to see more of each other."
"Why?"
He did not answer at once.
"Because," he said at last, "there are wolves in sheep's clothing."
"I don't understand that."
"Don't you?"
"No."
"I want to caution you."
"What of?"
"Of a wolf that runs about in sheep's clothing and whom you trust."
"Whom do you mean?"
"Myself."
The meaning of his words dawned on me at last, but, filled with a
happy, deep-felt trust, I shook my head.
"You are no wolf in sheep's clothing."
He drew a deep breath again, just as he had done before, and looked
hard in front of him.
"You are mistaken. I am a wolf--a heartless, terrible wolf; one that
would never hesitate a second to devour a sheep that comes his way
without a shepherd and a hound."
I glanced at him, and it seemed to me that his face looked haggard and
worn. I grew very quiet and very sad. The whole world looked dark all
at once, and the joyous song that, like a glorious promise, had filled
my brain and soul ceased with a dissonance.
But then a minute later it rose again, shy and soft, at first no more
than a quiver, but gaining force and power until it grew into a thrill
of notes so sweet and persuasive that I could and would not check them.
True that there was something crying within me, but the thing that had
rejoiced before was rejoicing still.
"Did you get my letter?" I asked him after a while.
"Yes, and many thanks for it."
"May I write to you again?"
He hesitated.
"May I?" I repeated.
"Yes."
It seemed to be wrung from him.
"And you will write back?"
He hesitated again, much longer than before.
"I hardly think so; I mean to say sometimes, perhaps, but never very
much."
"Only sometimes and never very much!"
"Yes; and that only on one condition."
"On what condition?"
"That nobody shall know of our correspondence."
"And why?"
"Because it is best for you."
"Why for me?"
And before he could reply a great anger rose within me.
"You are a coward!"
He shrugged his shoulders.
"If it gives you pleasure to think that, I will certainly not prevent
you from doing so; an explanation, however, might be useful to you.
It is not on my account that I do not wish to make our correspondence
known, but solely for your sake. A single man is free to do as he
chooses, he can go and turn a girl's head and nobody will blame him;
but you must know that there are different ideas about the conduct of
women."
"But I don't care."
"Quite so, but others do care."
"But I don't mind it."
"But I do."
"Then it is for your sake after all?"
"No, for your sake."
He stopped and looked at me with stern, decisive eyes. I felt so low
and mean that I was ashamed of myself. What did all of this mean?
There stood a man, and I pleaded and begged for permission to write
to him. And he would let me, graciously let me, if I was content with
his conditions. A wave of bitter anger swept over me. Would he dare
to speak like that to another girl? To the daughter of his superior
or of his friend? Or what else could it be but that he was ashamed
of me--ashamed of the shabby dress I wore and the situation I was
in? Quick as lightning a vision rose before me, a row of girls all
dressed in costly gowns ... and for the first time I felt envious....
Was he not right after all? What was I? What were my people?... Poor,
wretchedly poor!
"Leave me," I said, and the torture that I suffered leapt into my
throat; "I will not write to you."
"You can't do that."
My sadness turned into wrath.
"Why can't I?"
"Because you want me."
His eyes had lost their stern expression, without, however, losing
their firm, decisive look, and from that look streamed forth a power
more irresistible than any I had ever felt. But I was very proud, very
strong, very free of will, and would not submit, so I turned my back
upon him.
"I hate you!" I said, and went away.
When it was late and dark and the children lay asleep, I sat at the
window and looked down the street where hundreds of lamps shed their
gloomy light, and countless people streamed gaily to and fro. They
looked all so different in appearance and manner, and yet so alike
because of the instinct of pleasure that governed them. Their eyes
flashed, their cheeks glowed. They all hurried towards the theatre that
was close by, and their haste and anticipation vibrated in the air like
an electric current. I felt it all and shuddered, and then thought that
I saw a monster of gigantic size with a malicious smile on its lips,
and a malicious light in its eyes, kicking onward and onward the coil
of carriage-horses and people, laughing madly all the while. To get rid
of that horrid picture I closed my eyes and thought of home. There the
children would be lying asleep. Two or three in each bed, so they would
lie ... and mother would be sitting at the table in a cotton-dress
that was mended and patched.... I could almost smell the oil of the
little lamp and see the red flame trembling behind the crooked screen.
And then I saw myself among the children, restless and discontented,
full of a vague longing for somebody to whom I could confide all the
wonderful thoughts and dreams that I constantly conceived, and to which
mother would have responded with a little tortured smile, and father
with a shake of his head, had they known, ... and suddenly I was once
more bound in the spell of those eyes that had looked at me so calmly
and firmly to-day.
"Because you want me," I heard him say again; and the words that had
seemed so hard--almost brutal--a few hours ago, had now such a soft,
quiet, reassuring touch that I stretched out my arms as if to cling to
them.
I had written to him, enclosed my latest poems, and he had asked me in
a short note to arrange for a few minutes' quiet talk. I had never yet
met him without the children, and the thought of seeing him alone and
undisturbed made me tremble with a strange delight. On a very clumsy
pretext I asked for an hour off the next day, and arrived punctually.
His salute was very polite, his face very grave. "I have only a quarter
of an hour to spare," he said, "and must tell you at once what I
intended to tell you." His remark that he had no more than fifteen
minutes, whilst I had a whole hour at my disposal disappointed me, and
I hardly answered his opening remark. He, however, took no notice of
my anger and continued: "Many thanks for the letter as well as for the
poems, and it is on account of the poems that I wanted to talk to you.
You had the kindness to let me read some of your poems before, and I
was struck by the talent they revealed to me, but your versification
is as bad as your thoughts and feelings are exquisite. There"--he took
my letter out of his pocket--"you may see for yourself what I mean."
I looked perplexed at the letter in his hands, but could see nothing,
and asked him to make himself understood more clearly. At that request
he smiled--not, however, the malicious smile of old--and said:
"The verses lack all shape."
"Shape?" I asked, astonished and a little hurt. "What shape are they to
have?"
"Proper shape; the whole versification is wrong. Look here."
After that he began to read aloud and very slowly, making remarks
in between the lines--such as: "There is a foot short in that line;
and one foot too many in that one; in that other line the time goes
too quick, and here again it goes too slow; the proper metre of the
whole ought to be something like this." He read the poem over again,
but put in the missing feet by syllables of his own invention, and
left out what he thought too much. I had never in all my life heard
anything like it, and listened to every word most attentively. After
the quarter of an hour and a few minutes more had passed we parted, and
I walked home filled with new ideas. As soon as I could find time I
examined more of my verses and discovered the same unevenness in their
construction.
When I met my friend out on the balcony (I am not sure whether
accidentally or otherwise) a few days later, he handed me two books, a
large one and a small one. "This one here is a grammar of the German
language because--" and now he smiled a kind indulgent smile--"you can't
spell your own language yet ... and this is a book on the construction
of poems. It will tell you more clearly than I am able what you have to
do, and what you must not do in writing your poems."
I thanked him very much for the books, but when I looked them through
in the evening, I thought the German grammar most tedious, and the book
on the "construction of verses" hopelessly unintelligible.
"It is impossible," I said to myself, "to write in accordance with
these books; if I had to do it I simply could write no more." I put the
books away, and wrote my poems in the same style as before. A whole
week passed before I saw my friend again, and he asked me at once how I
liked the books. I was rather ashamed to tell the truth about them and
answered that they were all right.
"Did you write anything?"
I showed him my last poem. He read it very carefully and then returned
it.
"The thoughts expressed in it are beautiful as they are always, and it
is such a pity that you don't study the two books a little more."
"How do you know that?"
"Well, I can see it; if you had taken the slightest trouble with them
you could not very well have made such great mistakes."
At first I felt ashamed, but then I grew sulky.
"The books are both very silly," I said, "and I do not think that I
shall use them."
"Then you mean to remain a nursery-maid all your life?"
I dropped my eyes and was annoyed at the way he spoke to me, but in
the evening I studied the books. The theory of poetry I treated with
special attention, and after I had acquainted myself a little more
closely with its many rules and ways, I found out soon enough what was
the matter with my poems. I kept on studying it most diligently, and a
few weeks afterwards I wrote a new poem, for which I got much credit
from my friend.
"Let me congratulate you on your 'very first' poem," he said.
His praise had made me boundlessly happy and proud. With terrible
certainty I had comprehended that I was socially far removed from him;
that I could never hold the balance against him; that I was a girl
so poor, so meaningless, whose dreams--nay, not even whose boldest
dreams--were permitted to soar so high. But it was different now. A
feeling of bewildering sweetness told me that this aristocratic man,
to my ideas like a foreign bird with glittering wings, had deigned to
rest himself in the quiet woodlands of my soul, ready to fly away again
as soon as my flowers had faded and my larks had gone away to die.
Realizing the last, I felt a bitter pang. No; that mystic stranger who
by a sweet whim of fate had, as it were, come to stay with me for a
while, must go away no more. No, never. All splendour would vanish, all
brightness would fade, and the heart would forget how to sing. All and
everything would go with him: that glorious expectation, never owned
and all unconscious, telling me softly, softly, a wondrous, wondrous
tale; that strange, delightful embarrassment, that at the sight of
him had often, often set my feet and heart a-tremble; those waves of
infinite tenderness, gushing up suddenly from depths unfathomable--all
and everything would go. Something was roused within me, uplifting
itself against that desolation, growing and growing until it towered
above all anxiety and fear--a new self-consciousness together with a
new strength. Thus I commenced to fight the battle that each woman is
called upon to fight once at least, and which is more formidable than
all the battles of war that have ever been fought by man.