My way of living became the same again. Now as before I scrubbed the
floor, washed the linen, and looked after the kitchen. Many times
during my work I thought of my friend in London and secretly wished
to be near her. There was one reason, however, why I could not really
leave Marlow. It was this: that I was determined to return the money
which I owed to my friend in Buda-Pesth; that was, of course, not easy
for me, since my wages were only thirty shillings a month, and out of
them I used also to help my parents. It is true that I had sent home
less of late, because the conditions at home had gradually become more
satisfactory, and my brother had also gone away. My parents had not
heard from him for a long time. All they knew was that he had given up
entirely the hated profession of a waiter, and gone over seas to try
his luck in another land. In one of his more recent letters my father
had told me that he had received a newspaper from Brazil, containing
the news of a most daring flight made by an aviator named "Aranga."
Underneath this account, however, the following words were written in
pencil, "Much love to all of you. I shall be all right as long as my
spine is not broken."
To the above-mentioned purpose I now put away every farthing that I
could save out of the thirty shillings, and the mere thought of sending
my friend the amount of my debt made me exceedingly happy. Now to leave
my situation and find another one in London would have certainly cost
me money, and to spend even a single penny would have been unbearable
to me. About that, however, I made no mention to my friend, but told
him only of my occupation and so forth. His letters became very rare
indeed, and of late contained nothing but reproaches at my apparent
"waste of time."
"Have you," he asked, "gone over to England in order to learn how to
cook? There was indeed no need for you to go to London just for that.
You know how much I want to help on your education, and to develop your
talent. Pray do not insist on sacrificing all your time to others. Try
at least to find an engagement for the mornings somewhere in London,
and study in the afternoons. I would, of course, support you in
whatever way you require."
Tempting though such an offer may have been, I could not make up my
mind to accept it, and so I returned with a sigh to my pots and pans.
But in my heart of hearts I felt like the little boy in the story, who
was for ever wishing that something might come along that would take
him somewhere else. However, nothing came. One month passed after the
other, and sometimes my feet felt very tired. By-and-by my heart grew
weary too, and finally refused to tremble whenever the bell was rung;
no longer did I fear, hope, and believe that he had come at last. But I
was still waiting, waiting at the threshold of his soul, waiting for
the wonderful moment when it would open, and he would step out to me
with kindness on his lips and fulfilment in his eyes. Sometimes again
there were hours when I almost regretted--hours when my most secret
thoughts seemed to come to life and confront me with malicious-looking
faces. "Why did you go away from him?" they would ask scornfully. Yes,
why had I gone away from him? To get to know different people and
different places? Of course, did not he himself wish it thus? Did not I
myself want it thus? Want it thus? And after every drop of blood within
me had set its "No" against that question, the scornful voices rose
again: "And if you did not want to go away why, then, did you go?" And
all at once I knew it, and my cheeks flushed with an unaccustomed glow,
and my heart was filled with an unaccustomed sorrow. Thus disputing
with myself, time passed on.
It happened one night, when I could not go to sleep though I had worked
hard all day long, that I lay awake in bed, and thought and thought
until all good and evil spirits had gathered around me. Like so many
hands they reached down into my thoughts, tugging, pulling, and tearing
them about, and when they had gone, there were red letters floating
about in the darkness of the room, forming themselves to a question at
the end, and the question was:
"May I come back again?"
"Why not?" I said, shaking my fists towards the glowing signs; "is
not our friendship so pure, so marvellously wonderful?" ... At that
a wreath of flames encircled every letter, and when I read again I
trembled.
"That is just why," it said; and behind the letters there rose up a
beautiful, transparent light. But I would neither see the light nor
the writing, and closed my eyes like an obstinate child. Other nights
followed similar to that one, and by-and-by all things seemed to enter
into conspiracy against me. My own self seemed to hate and persecute
me--seemed to wrestle from me the last faint hope, which I would not
surrender. But in moments of greatest anguish he himself would come to
my help. As if conjured up by some magic world he stood amongst the
slanderous monsters, towering above them all.
"Do you believe in me?" he asked, gazing at me with the apprehensive
look and giving me his kindest smile.
"Yes, I believe," I answered, raising up these words as I had seen,
when a child, the priest raise up the golden monstrance, and at that my
host of tormentors grew quiet, as the congregation did at church.
Of all that my friend knew nothing.
Just as we had never in our personal intercourse said anything to
disclose our innermost thought or feeling, our letters remained equally
distant and cool, with perhaps only a line now and again, which failed
to hide our longing or grief.
But on those lines we lived--or I at least. Those lines held out
to me all and everything--imparted to my soul all the strength and
sweetness that it needed to persuade the weary limbs to do their dull,
daily work once more. And thus it happened that I was sometimes even
happy, that, with a smile in my eyes, I cleaned the copper pots until
they all shone, and scarcely felt the cold when, early on a winter
morning, I knelt down to wash the steps outside the house. But the most
beautiful moment was when in the evening I took my little savings-box
and spread its contents on my bed. That money I regarded as my greatest
treasure, always hiding it away most anxiously, and I should have been
inconsolable if I had lost it by any mishap.
I was determined to leave Marlow as soon as I had saved all the money
to cover my debt, and a little over to last me until I had found a
suitable situation in London. Things, however, did not turn out in
accordance with my expectations.
For some time back my mistress had intended to send her daughter to a
school abroad, and all at once she made up her mind to do so. She did
not care to live in the large house all by herself, and told me that
she was going to shut it up and travel about. Since all the money I
still wanted did not amount to more than fifty to sixty shillings, I
felt much grieved when she told me of her intentions, because there was
no possibility now of sending the money off in a few months as I had
hoped to be able to do. But soon I grew more quiet about it, comforting
myself with the hope of finding another situation very quickly, and of
being able after all to return the money in the shortest time possible.
Thus it came to pass that I left the house, where for eighteen months I
had been happy and unhappy in so peculiar a fashion; and when I looked
round my room for the last time I felt the tears spring into my eyes,
and I went downstairs sobbing bitterly. After having arrived in London,
I went to the home to see my friend. She welcomed me most heartily, but
could do nothing else for me. The next thing I wanted to do now was to
find a situation in order to spend as little of my savings as possible.
I called again on the elderly lady who had given me my first post, and
after the usual greetings and necessary explanations she said:
"Since you have been in England for some time, and also possess a
reference given by an English lady, it will not be difficult to find
something suitable for you. What kind of a situation do you prefer?"
I thought of the sixty shillings which I wanted to earn as quickly as
possible, and said that I did not mind in the least, but should feel
happy if I could get an opportunity to speak a little English.
"Should you like to take a post as an under-nurse?"
I had never heard of an under-nurse before, and did not quite know what
she meant.
"What's an under-nurse?"
"Well, you would like it no doubt, because the head-nurse is an
Englishwoman, so you would have plenty of opportunity to speak English."
After that I asked for the particulars, which she gave me in full.
"It is best for you," she said, "to go there and show yourself to the
lady. If you like the post then well and good, but should you not care
for it, then come back again."
She handed me the address and I went on my way. It seemed to be
tremendously far, and when, after much looking and asking, I at last
pulled the bell of a pretty house, I felt dead tired. A neat-looking
parlour-maid inquired my wishes, invited me to step in, and told me to
wait. I sat down on one of the upright oak chairs, and in my heart of
hearts hoped that the lady might not come immediately. But she appeared
very soon, and was most kind and gracious. After she had asked me a
few questions she told me that she would like to engage me, but could
not do so before the head-nurse had seen me. But the head-nurse was
out with the children, so would I either wait or come again? I decided
to wait, after which she left me to myself, and inwardly I prayed to
God that He might make the head-nurse like me too. A little while
afterwards I could hear much shouting and yelling, and the lady came
in to tell me that the head-nurse had returned. She asked me to follow
her upstairs, where we were met by four boys, aged about five, seven,
nine, and eleven years, who had come to some disagreement which they
seemed unable to put right. A very thin-looking woman, whom I guessed
to be the head-nurse, tried to quiet them, a task that proved only
successful after she had produced a long cane, the sight of which had
an immediate effect upon the four brothers. The head-nurse put the
cane very carefully into a corner and listened attentively to what her
mistress told her about me. Now and again she looked at me, and with
much comfort and relief I noticed that she seemed to like me.
The lady then explained to me what I would have to do, and I felt a
growing alarm the longer she spoke. But when she asked me in the end
whether I would like to take the post, I thought again of the sixty
shillings and said I should like to come.
I started my new situation two days later. If I had no idea of the
position of an under-nurse before, I was to get it now. I found out
quickly that among the four servants of the house, I was considered to
be the most insignificant one, and each of the three other servants
made me feel this. Owing to the fact that I spoke English imperfectly,
and neither the cook nor the parlour-maid were fond of foreigners,
they teased and taunted me at every possible opportunity. Furthermore,
they made me do all the work that they themselves did not care to do,
such as bringing up coal from the cellar and so forth. In order to get
on with them, I did everything. But the nights proved to be even more
terrible than the days. I had to sleep in one room with the cook and
the parlour-maid, and many times I set my teeth when I thought of my
own little room at Marlow. The two girls used to chat together until
midnight, relating all about their lovers, and mentioning, I am sure,
every Christian name for boys which is to be found in the calendar. The
one of whom I was the most afraid was the cook. She was terribly rude,
and often raised her hands as if to beat me whenever I did not do a
thing to her entire satisfaction.
However, every cup of sorrow contains its drop of mirth, and my
happiness arose from the cook's outings and her love-letters. The fact
is that when she received a letter from one of her many adorers she
was kind even to me.
One day a soldier presented her with a silver brooch, and she was so
nice that day to me that I almost liked her in the evening. But when it
happened that a day or more passed without having brought her a token
of some kind she became furious, and her spiteful rage was beyond all
bounds. While I still lived at Marlow I had often stood and watched for
the postman, hoping secretly that he might bring something for me, but
now I stood and watched for him, filled only with the ardent longing
that he might have something for the cook; and I think that now is the
right moment, and here the right place, to express my thanks to all
the policemen, soldiers, milkmen, butchers and others, who were happy
enough to come within scope of the cook's interest and consideration,
for the numbers of letters and cards which they despatched to her
without knowing that they had made me happy too.
One day there was a great row in the kitchen, and the parlour-maid left
the same day. The new parlour-maid was a very pale and ill-looking
girl, but she worked very hard. She was never rude to me. I liked
her for that and felt sorry for her because she looked so weak. One
evening, when the cook had her outing, and we lay alone in our room,
the parlour-maid began to sob most piteously.
"What's the matter?" I asked her, and after some hesitation she told me
that her sweetheart was lying on the point of death in a hospital for
consumption. Then she pulled a letter from behind her pillow and handed
it over to me. I lit the candle and by its flickering light I read the
lines. Brave yet desperate words of a dying man, together with a poem,
which throbbed with the unspeakable longing for health and life, and
disclosed the most sweet and most lovable thoughts.
"I am sure," I said, trying hard to conceal my emotion--"I am sure he
will get well again."
"No; he is there where only the dying are."
Her eyes were dry when she said that, and only her lips trembled. I put
out the light and shuddered. From that evening onward I helped her as
much as I could with her work, although I had plenty to do myself.
One night she roused us from our sleep with a terrible scream, and
looking round her wildly, she said she was sure that "he" had called
for her. On the morning she asked for half a day off, but she returned
no more.
After I had been at my post for about six months, I went one day to the
post-office to have a letter registered. The letter was addressed to my
friend in Buda-Pesth and contained the money which I owed to him. But
it contained something else beside that--the outcry of a heart tortured
to death. For the first time I told him of my unbearable position.
He wrote back at once. His letter was full of kind reproaches for my
silence about so many facts--what he termed my insincerity. He further
urged me to leave my place at once, take no situation whatsoever, and
give myself up entirely to the study of the English language in order
to be able to go in for an examination afterwards. He also returned
the money which I had sent, begging me to use it for board and so on.
Further sums would follow.
It happened that it was my day out when I received the letter, and
I went to see my friend in the home. I showed her the letter from
Buda-Pesth, and she greatly urged me to accede to his wishes.
"I know what men are like," she said, "and I feel convinced that that
man means to deal honestly with you."
In this way she spoke to me for a long while, and being afraid to take
a new situation on account of the cooks, I at last consented. My friend
then told me that she had thought of leaving the home, and suggested
that we should take one room together.
"It would be cheapest," she argued.
I liked the idea because, as she said, "it was cheapest," and thus
it happened that I packed up my things once more and moved into a
boarding-house in London, my heart filled with joyous hopes.
It is true that it worried me again to owe money to my friend in
Buda-Pesth. I consoled myself, however, with the intention to work
very hard in order to pass an examination in the English language
very soon, and then--Yes, and then! All at once I stopped to think.
The old, well-known hobgoblins appeared once more, and sneered and
grinned at me out of every corner. I pulled myself together with all
the self-restraint possible, shook off every thought for the future and
studied very hard.
The life in the boarding-house was full of interest and liveliness. The
boarders belonged to different races and spoke different languages.
There were, for instance, Indians, wearing turbans of white or daintily
shaded silk; Chinese, who had, however, sacrificed their pigtails to
the fashion of Europe; a former prima donna who had grown too stout
for the stage, and showed, with much fondness, photos of herself in
stage costumes; a pale, worn-out-looking gentleman from Switzerland who
could not put up with the fact that no English girl--unlike some French
girls of his acquaintance--would undertake the management of his own
household without the usual vows at the altar; a German who could not
stand the English cooking; and a young striving musician who was unable
to pay for his board and tried to commit suicide every Saturday.
Although the people were polite to me and I liked them very well,
I did not really care to associate much with them. Such, however,
was not the case with my friend, who used to amuse herself chiefly
with the discontented Swiss, in a way that at first surprised, later
alarmed, and finally disgusted me. It happened often that I left the
dining-room without a word, and sat down on my bed in our little room
until my friend came upstairs. She then used to look very gay and began
to tell me stories such as I had never heard from her before, and
which recalled to me the stories of the cook. I responded but little,
whereupon she grew very bad-tempered, and declared I was a dull girl
who could never see a joke. Sometimes I felt some sharp reply on the
tip of my tongue, but swallowed it down again, thinking that I was
perhaps really "dull" and she right after all. I tried to make amends
for my behaviour by greater attention and tenderness towards her,
showing also much interest for the stories she told me. In reality,
however, I found everything most tedious, and would have much preferred
to talk about poems. But my friend had declared once for all that she
did not care for poems. Thus I tried hard to keep up our friendship,
which was no more than a comedy, and should no doubt have kept it
up even longer if she had not done something which put an end to my
uncomfortable position.
I had gone upstairs rather early one evening and left my friend in the
company of the other boarders. I was in bed when she came up at last.
She looked frightfully hot and was shaking with laughter.
"What's the matter?" I asked her with affected interest.
Still laughing, she pulled out a crumpled sheet of newspaper and
straightened it.
"No, I never!" she exclaimed. "You must read that."
I looked at the paper and saw that it was French.
"How can I read it? I don't know French."
"Oh well, I forgot; I will read it out to you."
"But I can't understand it."
"Never mind; I am going to translate it."
After that, she placed herself close to my bed and read out a story
which made me furious.
"Stop, if you please," I said; "I will hear no more of it."
She laughed aloud.
"You are only acting now; the truth is that you are anxious to hear the
end."
"No; I will hear no more," I said decidedly; and because she did not
stop I got out of bed and ran, barefooted as I was, into the bathroom
close by. I stayed there for rather a long while, and when I came back
she was in bed and pretended to be asleep. I knew, however, that it was
impossible for us to live together any longer. We did not speak to each
other next morning. As soon as I had dressed, I went out and took a
room for myself in quite a different part of London.
I lived now close to Westminster Abbey.
I had heard much about it already, but had not yet seen it, and
determined to visit that place at the first possible moment.
With my heart beating fast, I stood a few days later in front of its
grey, sacred walls, and a little later I slipped in and mixed with the
swarm of visitors. I did not, however, walk about as they did, but
pressed myself hard into the first corner. Never in all my life had
I felt what I felt then. I was like one spellbound, as if I was in
immediate personal touch with all those who had been there a long, long
time ago, and who were nothing but dust now.
I roused myself at last and moved on. But I walked about like a
sleep-walker, conceiving only the infinite greatness of all things,
hardly realizing the reality of what I saw.
After some wandering to and fro I caught sight suddenly of a low,
little wooden door, and thought of opening it. I looked round carefully
because I did not know whether it was permitted (it is permitted),
pushed it open quickly and went out. Yes, really and truly out! Then,
lo and behold! behind that door there was no chapel filled with coffins
or monuments of kings and queens, but a garden in the shape of a
square, which, it is true, had no flowers, but a beautiful, well-kept
lawn, and that piece of green garden looked wonderful amid those grey,
massive walls, which, could they but speak, are able to tell the
stories of many a century. A few benches were placed here and there
and I sat down. I knew that the Abbey itself had once upon a time
been a monastery, and guessed that this had been the convent garden.
I imagined that I could see the tall figures of the monks leaving the
dormitory, proceeding slowly over the sparkling lawn, and disappearing
behind the little door to attend their early morning service.
Whenever I visited Westminster Abbey later on (I am glad to say I did
that very often) I paid my homage first to the tombs, the old, old
coronation chair, the famous stone beneath it, which is regarded as
the stone on which Jacob had slept and dreamt his world-known dream,
the Poets' Corner, and to countless other glorious things; after which
I restrained no longer the sweet impatience of my heart, but slipped
through the low wooden door into the convent garden. And seated there
on one of the benches, with my eyes twinkling, because of the full,
sudden glare of light, I used to weave some sweet sad tale of love
around the sombre figure of a proud and handsome monk.
Apart from these hours of so sweet, restful, and contemplative a
nature, every day was given up to work. I did all in my power to
acquaint myself most thoroughly with a knowledge of the English
language, and made such good progress that I began to compose my verses
in English. It is true that these poems will most probably never secure
me the gratitude of the English people, but nevertheless they pleased
me much, and my friend too expressed his satisfaction with them. He
also sometimes asked me now what I was going to do after I had passed
my examination, whether I was intending to stay in England or to go
somewhere else.
But to these questions I never wrote any answer, and when I had to do
so at last, a similar cowardice got hold of me to that which possessed
St. Peter when he denied his Master.
"Do you think that I may come back?" I asked him.
Later on I went to post the lines, and when I returned to my room I
found all the old well-known witches again.
"Is not something that is good beyond questioning--not clear as the
purest water?"
Thus they whispered into my ear high and low in every scale, and beside
that whisper I could hear the church bell strike every hour of the
night.
The days seemed to creep to the thrilling impatience within me, and
sometimes I felt a sudden terror at an unknown dread.
"What will he write to me? And when will he write?" I asked myself over
and over again.
His letter arrived at last; it was put in a blue envelope and felt like
a weight of lead in my hand. I could not make up my mind to open it,
and wished somehow that I had not yet received it.
Tearing open the envelope at last, I read the letter, read it again
and again. When I dropped the neatly written sheets, there was a
dead stillness in the room. Involuntarily I looked around me. All the
evil spirits had gone. All fear, all cowardice, all doubt had gone.
Something like a cloud lifted from my soul, and then a feeling rose up
to which I could as yet give no name, a feeling which tumbled about
within me like someone aroused from a dream, and finally pressed itself
hard against my throat.
I put my arms on the table, my face on my arms, and sat still for a
long while. When it had grown dark and late I hid the letter underneath
my pillow, and went to sleep without a light in the room. Once during
the night I sat up in bed and lit a candle, and then I took the letter
and holding it close to the light looked for one passage:
"If you had remained here, I do not know what might have happened;
if you come back, I know what will happen. But the question is, may
it come thus? You are not a girl of the ordinary type; you belong to
the race of Asra, the people who die when they love. And because I
have known that from the first, I have done for you what I have never
done for another woman yet--namely, got hold of the head of the beast
within, turned it round sharply and laughed at it."
I hid the letter again and lay very still in my bed.... That then was
the end of it.... Tired and reluctantly my thoughts pilgrimaged back.
I saw myself again as I was--poor, lonesome, waiting until the moment
when the fairest miracle which life has ever held came to me, and
every thought within me stretched forth arms, as it were, in order to
receive it. I felt once more how every word, every look of his, pressed
itself into my soul like a red-hot seal, and I suffered anew all the
tortures and all the happiness. And all at once I thought again of
the story of "Morgan" and of his young wife.... How truly different
an ending, and yet how similar a victory! For which was more glorious
for a girl--that a man should make her his wife, or make her his most
beautiful dream, and his lasting desire? And all that I vainly tried to
comprehend before I comprehended now. "Yes," I said to myself--and I
said it aloud into the darkness of the room--"discontented, restless,
aimless, freed from one passion to-day, and chained to another passion
to-morrow, thus will he stagger through his life. Ever full of desire,
never at peace with himself, he will taste of every pleasure and get to
know every disgust. But above all pleasure and above all disgust there
will be the one longing of his soul, which had denied itself the drink,
because of the dregs it knew to be at the goblet's bottom. Not while in
ecstasy, not in the hustle and bustle of the day will he be aware of
it--nay, but when he lies awake at night, filled with a sense of utter
loneliness, listening to the pouring rain outside, then it will come to
life again, will throb and tremble through his soul, soft and pleading
like an old forgotten strain." And after I had said that, I smiled that
strange wonderful smile, which only a woman knows who is willing to
take upon herself the heaviest burden for the sweet sake of love.
Next morning I left the house very early and wandered through the
streets of London. To-day I knew that I would wander through those
streets many, many times yet, and for a long, long while.
Once I stopped and entered a grey, small building. It was a Roman
Catholic church. I walked about it aimlessly, and my eyes caught the
picture of Christ in life-size. For the first time in my life, perhaps,
the sight of it stirred nothing within me. What use could He be to me?
Could He comprehend such a thing at all? It is true that He had become
human in order to feel with us, but He was a good man. He only knew
the sins and passions of others, never did He know a sin, or a passion
of His own. Of godly descent. He was endowed with godly strength, with
godly wisdom, with godliness. What did He really know of the nature of
a thief, of a murderer, of a perjurer? And though He had died for the
sake of love, what did He know of the sufferings of lovers?
I turned away from the picture and went out of the church. I went out
on tip-toe by force of habit, but on my soul dawned the religion of
life, which is older than the doctrine of Jesus ... and all round me
walked its disciples. Men and women who had done with dreaming and
were ready for the unknown hereafter--men with strong fists and hard
looks, by which one could tell that they had battled with life; women
whose faces looked wrinkled and worn, telling their story of hardship
and silent surrender; men and women who in their days of severity and
bitterness had surpassed the miracles wrought by Him, the Galilean; men
and women among whose numbers I was also enlisted.
And out of that new consciousness arose to me a new wisdom and a new
love--a wisdom which reigned over all former wisdom, and a love which
reigned over all former love. And when I returned with it into my
solitude, the stones began to speak.