A whole year passed in this way, and I believe without doubt that I was
truly happy. A dull sense of fear, however, had gradually got hold of
me. No more did I sit down to my books when the children lay asleep, as
my habit had been, but sat crouched in a corner, brooding over thoughts
that would be ignored no longer.
"What would be the end of it all?"
I shuddered when I remembered the strange, sad looks he gave me
sometimes. Would it be possible to carry our friendship unsullied
through the flames of passion? And then the question rose again,
which I had believed to have silenced for ever, with many a beautiful
phrase--the question of all Philistines!
"Why does he not marry me? Why not?"
On account of my poverty, and my humble station in life! But could such
things come into consideration if a man loved a woman truly? And love
me he did, or else how could I account for the interest he took in me,
and for his ever ready and never failing devotion? I tried to find
something similar among the girls I knew. There was, however, nothing
similar. Whenever they touched upon matters of the heart, they smiled a
cunning little smile that only disgusted me, but never made me any the
wiser.
My poems began to be of a meditative, doleful, over-subtle nature, and
he, round whose figure revolved all my dreams, my thoughts, my verses,
criticized and corrected the lines, that held all the unspeakable woe
and longing of my soul, criticized and corrected them with an odd
smile on his face sometimes, and with looks grave, sad, far away, at
other times. And then there came nights which brought no slumber to
me; nights when I lay awake till daybreak, asking myself that one
dull, torturing question, over and over again, until at last its answer
flashed quick as lightning into my brain....
One day when we met again, he said:
"I am not quite satisfied with your progress."
"What do you mean?"
"Simply that you are treating one subject in your poems over and over
again. That is, of course, not in the least surprising, since you limit
your experience of people and their ways to one place only."
My heart beat faster, but I succeeded in hiding my emotion, and
answered with some hesitation:
"I, too, have thought of that already." And then I added still more
hesitatingly: "And I should like to go away."
We looked at each other now and knew that we lied; but the redeeming
words that were in heart and throat died away before the feigned
indifference on our faces.
"Where to?" he asked at last.
But I shrank back now--the die was about to be cast; all the dog-like
attachment and faithfulness of my sex broke loose, all the ardent
desire of happiness that had been waiting quietly and submissively for
so long stood up, every beat of my heart, every thought of my brain
said "No." The minutes passed and I made no answer; testing, like a
sounding lead, his looks searched my soul, and all at once I saw how
his lips twisted, and there it was again, the old malicious smile that
I had grown to hate and fear so much. I never understood it before,
but comprehended it now all in a moment. He did not consider me strong
enough to part from him; more, he considered no woman strong enough to
part from the man she happened to love; nay, more, he despised every
woman, every girl that lived, and, knowing that, I knew also, that not
even an atom of his soul belonged to me so far, that the battle which I
had taken up instinctively, as it were, was not yet by any means won.
"Where to!" he asked again.
With the quick instinct of someone hunted I realized my position, and
now I smiled in spite of the tears that sprang up behind my eyelids.
"To England."
"Why to England?"
"Because I speak a little English and should like to know it perfectly."
"Do you know anybody in London?"
"No; that, however, matters little; all that matters is the money for
the journey."
After that he grew very grave and was silent for a long while.
"You know," he said at last, "that you have a friend."
A few days after that conversation I fell ill with inflammation of the
lungs, and had to spend several weeks in the hospital. At last when
I had recovered the doctor told me that I was not strong enough for
a situation, but needed careful nursing and entire rest in order to
effect a complete recovery.
"Could you not go home for some time?" my mistress asked me.
"Where was my home?" I thought to myself.
But far too proud to tell her, I agreed, and left Buda-Pesth behind me
for the second time.
My parents had moved to Vienna in the meantime. They had not told me
much about the change, and in my heart of hearts I wondered what the
new shop and the new lodging would be like. When I arrived there,
however, I became very down-hearted. It was a picture of misery and
desolation. The shop was very small and almost empty, and the lodging
consisted of a single room that contained nothing but a little
iron stove, one or two beds, a table, and a chair. Moreover, being
underground, it received but little air and light. My father was alone
at home, and after having greeted him I asked for my mother. He told
me that she had taken a place as charwoman, and would not be in before
eight o'clock in the evening. Without taking off my hat or my jacket, I
sat down on one of the beds and listened silently to all that my father
said. I had heard the same over and over again, and now I listened to
it once more.
"Do you think that you will have room for me?" I asked at last.
"Of course," he replied; "but you will have to sleep in one bed with
the children."
"Where are the children?"
"Out making money."
"How?"
"They are selling papers."
"As soon as I feel better I will work too."
"The main point is that you should be well again."
I looked round the small, badly-aired room.
"I am afraid I shall never get well here."
"Since mother is away from home all day long, I am doing the cooking,"
he said; "and I think a cup of coffee will do you good."
After that he broke some brushwood across his knees, and laid the fire
in the stove. But as soon as he had put a match to the stove it began
to smoke terribly.
"That's only from the draught," my father said apologetically; "it will
soon pass off."
And so it did, but not before the whole room was clouded.
My eyes smarted and my throat felt sore, but I said nothing, and drank
the coffee that my father handed me in a cracked cup. I thought of my
brother, and could not understand how it was that he gave them no help.
"Where is he?" I asked aloud.
"Who?"
"Charlie."
At that my father grew very sad.
"It is very unfortunate," he replied, "but he has been out of work for
sometime."
"Where is he?"
"He is living with us of course."
I looked round the room again, and my father, who guessed my thoughts,
shrugged his shoulders.
"It can't be helped; it must do for us."
Later on my mother came in with the children, who, after having sold
their papers, had watched for her at the house where she did her work.
When the scanty supper was over, and it grew late, my brother arrived.
I was greatly shocked. He had changed completely. His face looked pale
and haggard, black circles were around his eyes, his hair hung wildly
over his forehead, his figure was lean, and his movements had lost all
their former gracefulness.
I controlled as well as I could the effect which this sad sight had
produced upon me, and shook hands with him.
"I am afraid," he said, with the same touch of cynicism in his voice
which I had noticed whenever he had spoken to me before--"I am afraid
that you won't very much enjoy staying with us."
"As soon as I have recovered," I answered, "I will put everything in
order."
"Put everything in order," my brother shouted, shaking with laughter;
"do you really think that this man"--he pointed to my father--"would
ever allow such a thing? Let me tell you that your honourable papa is
extremely fond of dirt."
For the second time in my life I saw the vein of wrath swell on my
father's forehead.
"Stop it!" he shouted; "do you hear?"
"Yes," my brother replied, and made himself ready to fight.
I sprang to my feet and placed myself with clasped hands before my
father.
"Pray do not listen to what he says," I cried between my tears and
sobs; "you know that I do not believe a single word of it."
"For your sake," my father replied; then his clenched fists dropped and
he left the room hurriedly.
"He is, of course, acting the offended part now," my brother continued
in the same scornful way as before, "and I hope for goodness' sake that
you will not be influenced by this comedian and feel pity, which would
be ill-placed in his case. You have been away these last years and have
had no opportunity to get to know him fully. I, however, see through
his game, and so will you after you have spent some time at home. At
present you may see in me a scoundrel or something near to it, but I
can assure you that although circumstances compel me to live under the
same roof with these common people, I am still the gentleman that I was
before. Schiller says somewhere in his dramas, a jewel remains a jewel
even should it happen to get mixed up with dung. As it is, I am a man
whom life has cruelly disappointed only because his ideals were too
fine and his dreams touched heaven. It is true that I am perhaps one
of the most questionable creatures to-day, but wait for half a year,
or say a year--my head is filled with ideas which will, when worked
out, affect like an explosion our entire code of laws, together with
the whole life as we conceive it to-day. Outwardly I am a waiter, a
rogue, or whatever you like, but inwardly I am at work on a kingdom for
millions of beings who now toil away half-starved in obscurity--and
that kingdom of mine holds a crown for everyone."
"It strikes me that you should first have one for yourself," I said.
My brother shrugged his shoulders.
"I can scarcely expect you to understand my point, since you are still
too much swallowed up by the mud of your origin, and therefore utterly
incapable of following my ideas. The great doctrine of reincarnation
is all Greek to you, and you can hardly see that according to its
teaching I am your brother only by chance. As little do you dream that
most probably I have been a powerful conqueror, or creator of kingdoms,
centuries ago. My great hope of being proud of you some day has, alas,
proved to be as fictitious as all my other hopes have proved themselves
to be, and I must now alone--great men have ever stood alone--carry out
my task."
My mother, who most probably was used to such speeches, had gone
fast asleep on her chair, and I went out to see what had become of
my father. I found him in a dingy-looking, badly-smelling courtyard,
and begged him to come in. He went back into the room with me, and no
further quarrels ensued that night. Later on my father and my brother
prepared to go to sleep on the floor.
I had laid myself down on one of the torn mattresses, and had closed
my eyes at once in order to make them believe that I had gone to
sleep. As soon, however, as all were silent I sat up and looked round
in wild despair. My mother, tired of her daily work, slept soundly,
and I listened to her breathing for a while. Then I glanced over
to where my brother lay. He looked now even leaner and taller than
before, and his face, all unguarded, showed such a strange expression
of disappointment, woe, and pain, that for the moment I forgot his
vanity, his brutality, his arrogance. A great pity sprang up within me
for his early-spoiled youth, his strange, passionate nature lashing
him, as it were, never granting him a second's rest nor reconciliation
to his fate. He hated my father because he thought that bad management
of the business had been the reason for all our misfortune. But he was
wrong. I knew for a certainty that my father had given large credit to
people who afterwards did not pay, and the natural consequence of it
was that he himself became unable to pay for the goods he had received.
Besides all that, there were the large number of children and other
matters, which would have melted a bigger capital than my father had
ever possessed. It is true that one might say there was no need for him
to give credit to people who could or would not pay, but he was too
generous and too good-hearted to refuse. Being himself a child of the
poor, he understood the bitterness of want, and if he had given way too
much to such feelings, he had, God knows, not escaped punishment.
I could not for a long time take my eyes from my father and my brother,
who now slept so peacefully side by side as if an ill word had never
passed between them.
My mother had to leave home very early next morning, and after the poor
breakfast was over, my brother seated himself at the table and called
my two little brothers to him.
"Come on, you lazy-bones; go and get your books!" he shouted, after
which they produced a few dirty books from a corner. My brother then
commenced the lesson with them; he was, however, very rude, and boxed
their ears for trifling things. Once he gave the youngest a brutal
kick, at which I sprang to my feet and, placing myself with clenched
fists before him, said:
"Don't you touch him again!"
My brother fell into a terrible rage.
"That's the thanks I get from you, I guess," he roared, "for spoiling
my whole career in giving up my time to educate the boys, a thing which
it is true you all consider superfluous. Do you believe that I can
quietly see them grow up and become such rogues as I have become, only
because I have had no education? Where are you, you dogs?" he shouted,
turning to the table again.
But while he had been disputing with me the boys had run away.
"There you are," he said to me, "they are no more afraid of the devil
than they are of books. Like sire, like son! The boys are not a bit
better than their honourable begetter. However, I trust I shall be able
to steady them yet, and will see who is the master here."
After he had for a while scolded and reproached me for my
incomprehensible shortsightedness in taking the part of these miserable
boys, he reached down a shabby felt hat and disappeared.
When he had left my father entered the room; I could see that he tried
to avoid the company of my brother as much as possible.
"What are you going to do?" I asked him, because he was putting on a
large blue overall.
"I am going to tidy the room, and after that I am going to cook."
He took a broom and began to sweep the floor. I would much rather have
done it myself, but the weariness in my knees was so great that I
could hardly stand up, so I remained seated on the edge of the bed and
watched him silently. After a while I asked him:
"Have you thought over where I shall go to?"
"Well, the best thing for you to do would be to go into the country."
"But that must not come too expensive."
"You might go up to the mill. I saw uncle last week, and they would
certainly be pleased to have you there for some time."
My joy was very great. I had not been there for so many years, and the
thought of strolling once more through those lovely meadows filled me
with delight.
"There is only one thing," my father continued, scratching his head
in some embarrassment, "the fare will amount to at least four to five
shillings, but I must try and get the money somehow."
"That is not necessary; I have got as much myself."
"Well, then there are no further difficulties, and if you will tell me
when you want to go I will write immediately."
I should have liked best to go at once, but since I did not want to
arrive there unexpectedly, I decided to stay at home for a week. During
that week I suffered terribly. The violent scenes between my father and
my brother drove me almost mad with anxiety and fear. I hailed the day
of my departure with the greatest joy, and spent five quiet weeks with
the very aged relations of my mother.
The pure, lovely air, together with the sunshine and the wonderful
tranquillity all around, soon made me feel better, and I was able to
walk again without pains in my knees. As soon as I felt better I asked
myself: "What now?" The thought of remaining at home was unbearable
to me, and yet I considered it to be my duty to stand by my parents in
their troubles. I turned the question over and over again in my mind,
but much as I thought and much as I reasoned, there was no way out. "I
must stay at home," I said to myself, "to work for them, and the sooner
I begin the better for us all."
With that resolution I returned to Vienna. The conditions of my parents
were, of course, still the same, and I was very anxious to find work
in order to contribute to our livelihood. After looking about for some
time, I obtained a situation during the afternoons to look after a
boy of nine years of age, whose mother had come over from America and
intended to stay in Vienna until January.
But bravely as I worked, and much as I tried to feel happy and
contented, I was far from being so. The common misery, and more than
that the quarrels between my father and my brother which were ever
sought for by the latter, affected me greatly, and my scarcely
recovered health began to fail again. When I came home in the evening
I used to sit down at the small window and stare out in the little
courtyard, which was surrounded by a grey, massive wall, at the top of
which, looking like a roof, hung a piece of sky.
It happened many times that I still sat there after the courtyard
wall and sky had long become invisible, and a single lonesome gas-jet
timidly streamed forth its cool, pale, trembling rays through the
darkness.
But when I knew myself alone, I burst into tears--into those tears
which, in spite of all their bitterness, soothe and relieve.
My mother often looked at me with sorrowful, troubled eyes, but the
only answer I made to her silent questions was a woeful little smile.
"What could I have told her?" She did not know that another thing
tortured me besides the misery of poverty that we all shared. She did
not know him, nor would she have understood it all. So I suffered on,
and suffered inexpressibly. Now and again I received a letter from
him--cool, formal lines, containing sometimes in a light, casual way
the question, "What was I going to do?"
I read these notes a thousand times, hid them away like costly
treasures, and reflected in a helpless, stupid manner on the wonderful
endurance and submission of a girl's love. And once in the midst
of these reflections I remembered suddenly the little story called
"Morgan" which he had given me first to read--remembered the man
full of restless desire, the dreamer, the idealist, the conqueror,
the despiser, who was by the purity and virtue of a woman brought to
acknowledge "love" at last. And whilst I yet pondered over it, my heart
grew strangely calm.
"Mother," I said the same evening, "would it not be far the best if I
went away again? I would, of course, send home my monthly wages, so
there would be no difference in the money, and one less to feed."
My mother gave me a quick, uncertain glance, and said in a singular,
hesitating manner: "You want to go back to Buda-Pesth, don't you?"
I felt my heart beat to my very throat, but my eyes, as they looked
into hers, did not waver. "No," I answered, "I want to go to England."
At first it seemed that she was relieved from some secret fear, then
her face looked the same again.
"Yes, it would be far the best," she replied, in the tired, tormented
voice of those who had given up all hope.
When everyone had gone to sleep, I sat down to write to my friend.
Trembling with excitement and haste, repeating the same thing over
and over again, I asked him to send me the money to go to London. His
answer arrived two days later--lines so full of tenderness, readiness,
and devotion, that the tears thronged into my eyes. "Would I not
arrange to see him before I went away?" he asked at the end. But of
that I would not think. I knew the charm, the power of his eyes, and
trembled for my victory so hardly won.