The little place where my mistress lived is situated on the Thames,
about two hours' journey from London. The lady herself came to meet
me at the station. The house to which she took me stood somewhat back
from the others, near to the bank of the river. Talking kindly all
the while, my new mistress showed me into a large pleasant room, and
told me that this was to be my room. Left alone, I looked round. The
low walls were covered with a pretty light-grey paper, and the black
massive iron bedstead had a cover of similar colour. In one corner
there was a washstand with a grey veined marble slab, and white china
standing upon it. On the right, a chair and a table. The room had two
windows, one of which faced the courtyard. The view, however, was
barred by the protruding roof of a shed, overgrown so thickly with
creepers that it looked like underbrush in the woods. That roof I grew
to love immensely, and, later on, I watched with keen delight how its
colour changed from the most tender green of spring to the burning red
of autumn. The second window gave me a view of the garden which was
sloping down to the river, and on the other bank I could see extensive
meadows of a most exquisite green. It was this window at which I leaned
and looked out, after I had, with a deep breath of relief, noticed the
cleanliness and comfort of the room.
I looked down at the Thames, of which I had heard so often at school,
and for which I received so much scolding and thrashing because it was
so hard to remember whether London or Paris flourished on its banks. I
looked down on the meadows lying soft and dreamy, untouched by the hand
of greed. No tree, no bush, as far as the eyes could wander, nothing
but the free, lovely fields, impressing one with a sense of prosperity
and peace. To me that peace and stillness was so pleasing that I
folded my hands involuntarily.
"Life," I said in a low voice, "wonderful life!" for wonderful I
thought it, in spite of the weariness in all my limbs and the ardent
longing in my heart.
I was called down a little later and made the acquaintance of the
daughter and the French girl. The former spoke German, the latter did
not. As I myself did not understand French, my fellow-servant and I
spoke English, and spoke it badly. I found out very soon that she was
a most superficial girl who hated thoroughly the work we had to do
together in the rooms and kitchen. Though she was only seventeen years
old she had already flirted a good deal, and whenever we were at work
beating the carpets, washing up the dishes, or cleaning the boots and
clothes, she told me of the men who had crossed her way and been more
or less fatal in her life. After having detailed also the latest of her
conquests, a grocer or a chemist's apprentice, she urged me to tell
her something about myself. But at that I shook my head decidedly and
smiled. What could I have told her? That what made me sometimes so
happy and sometimes so sad was a fairy-tale of such wonderful delicacy
that she could never have understood it. And when, regardless of my
smile and silence, she dived again into the waves of her adventures, I
was all the more quiet and worked twice as quickly as she did.
So time passed away painfully, yet mingled with the blissful hope that
he would come for me some day; unconscious, but not to be shaken, it
lived within me, and innumerable times I pictured to myself how it
would happen. The bell would ring a short, energetic ring, and he would
stand in the kitchen all unexpected and all unannounced. Then I would
take him upstairs to my room, show him happily--like a child shows his
toys--the little forest below my window, the river and the green fields
beyond it, until suddenly he would notice my black dress, my white
apron, and the flowing bonnet-strings--badges of my position--would
comprehend the endurance of my heart, my hands, and silently take me in
his arms.
These dreams, however, were the most foolish dreams that I have ever
dreamt.
By-and-by I learned to know thoroughly the ways of English home-life.
Although my mistress was a widow, she gave all sorts of entertainments
characteristic of English people, such as tea-parties, picnics, and
so forth. It is true that these large and small gatherings doubled my
work in every respect, but I tried to compensate myself by catching
now and again an English word, in order to enlarge my knowledge of
that language, which was poor indeed, since my mistress as well as
her daughter generally spoke either French or German. Yet, with much
zeal and diligence (I studied in English books deep into the night) I
progressed very nicely.
My mistress always treated me most kindly, but I could not help
smiling sometimes at the relations between her and her daughter. The
fifteen-year-old girl tyrannized over her mother in a most incredible
way. Unfortunately my mistress was convinced that her darling possessed
everything that was needed to make a great artist, and did all in her
power to develop the talents of that future genius. It is true that the
girl sang, danced, painted, and wrote poetry, but I am doubtful as to
the merit of her accomplishments. One day, when I was busily beating
the carpets, my mistress rushed out of her room, and looking pale with
nervousness she begged me to stop that noise because Miss Daisy was
about to write a poem. I lifted the heavy carpet down at once, but
thought of my own poems, which still proved to be a secret source of my
scanty joys, and asked myself how many poems I could have written if
absolute stillness was necessary for the writing of them.
They were composed while I was working, while I was running up and
downstairs, and there was nobody who cared. Nobody? No. Now and again a
letter told me that the one or the other of my poems was exceptionally
beautiful.
When I had been at my post for some time, a great change happened. Miss
Daisy fell ill with scarlet fever. As soon as the French girl knew
about it she left the house.
"Do you want to leave too?" my mistress asked me.
"Certainly not," I replied.
After seven weeks full of anxiety and fear, the doctor ordered the
patient a change of air. All the necessary things were packed up
immediately, and a few days later we looked out on the northern sea.
I had got a room to myself, and was impatient to retire there. The
evening came at last, but tired though I was, I did not think of sleep.
I stepped to the window, opened it as much as one can open a window
in England, and gazed enraptured at the heaving waters, on which the
moonlight glittered and danced. It was very late before I went to bed
on that night, and very early when I got up next morning. Nobody was
astir yet, and I dressed noiselessly. During the night I had had a
strange dream and felt like writing it down. I looked for a sheet of
paper and while the sky deepened from pink into red, I wrote a new
poem, and entitled it "Ruby."
After we had stayed at the seaside for about five weeks we returned
home, and my mistress did not engage a second servant for the present.
My duties increased and I had less time to spare than before, but still
filled the few moments of leisure I could find with the study of the
English language.
One day I came across a book by Milton, and in spite of my defective
knowledge of the language, read most eagerly his "Paradise Lost," and
was overwhelmed by the picturesque language and by the bold imagination
and grandeur of the whole. Many, many times, also, I looked up the page
on which was written:
"When I consider how my light is spent
Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide,
And that one talent which is death to hide,
Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent
To serve therewith my Maker, and present
My true account, lest He, returning, chide;
'Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?'
I fondly ask: but Patience, to prevent
That murmur, soon replies: 'God doth not need
Either man's work, or His own gifts; who best
Bear His mild yoke, they serve Him best; His state
Is kingly: thousands at His bidding speed,
And post o'er land and ocean without rest;
They also serve who only stand and wait.'"
And each time that I read that poem I fell into a strange brooding
mood. A mood from which later on sprang my greatest defeat and my
greatest conquest. By-and-by I bought the poems of Lord Byron, Keats,
and also of Longfellow, and not a single day passed without my being
able to do a little reading. That does not mean, however, that I read
all the poems contained in a book. Far from it. When I bought a new
book I used to turn over the leaves until I found a poem which I liked
very much, and that one poem I kept reading over and over again. It
happened also that I used to read a poem on account of one passage
only. There is, for example, one poem by Lord Byron, commencing thus:
"Ah! Love was never yet without
The pang, the agony, the doubt."
And a few lines further:
"That love has arrows, well I knew;
Alas, I find them poisoned too."
For the sake of these last lines, I wandered through the whole poem
again and again although I did not care for the rest.
My favourite poem by Keats was:
"I had a dove, and the sweet dove died,
And I have thought it died of grieving.
Oh, what could it grieve for? Its feet were tied
With a silken thread of my own hands' weaving.
Sweet little red feet! why should you die?
Why should you leave me, sweet bird! why?
You lived alone in the forest-tree;
Why, pretty thing, would you not live with me?
I kissed you oft and gave you white peas;
Why not live sweetly as in the green trees?"
This poem seemed to me so simple, so sweet, that I recited it while I
did the washing or cleaned the floor. It is a habit of mine to recite
a poem whenever my occupation permits it; the even movement of a verse
produces a most soothing effect on me, and I know of no other thing in
existence holding so much grace and sweetness as the symmetrical flow
of poetry. In this quiet manner, time slipped away. During the first
month of my stay in England my friend had written to me often, but
little by little his letters became rare; sometimes he kept me waiting
for months, and then I thought that he had forgotten me. At such hours
my longing for him was beyond all telling; how I watched for him and
waited, expecting vaguely that something unaccountable, something
wonderful would happen to bring him to me; and so firmly did I believe
this, that I began to tremble each time the bell was rung, thinking
that he had come. But he never came.
One day my mistress told me that she had received an invitation to go
to Scotland, but could not take me with her.
"I think," she said, "as you have not seen much of London yet, you
might like to become better acquainted with the town. So the best thing
for you would be to stay at the home for a few weeks."
"I don't think I should like to stay at the home," I replied.
"Why not? That home is a very worthy home indeed, and I feel sure that
you will be well cared for."
After that I did not dare to say more.