"I'm not kind at all. I only think why should an innocent little
creature pay the penalty or suffer for.... Oh well, I mean it can't
help it.... After all ... is it a boy?"
"It was a boy." He paused, then he said gently: "It's dead, you know."
And he looked in front of him.
"What! Oh, I see ... you want to protect yourself against my
officiousness."
"No, Else, how can you?... No, Else, in matters like that one doesn't
lie."
"It's true, then? But how did it...?"
"It was still-born."
She looked at the ground. "No? How awful!" She shook her head. "How
awful!... And now she's lost everything quite suddenly."
George gave a slight start and was unable to answer. How every one
seemed to take it for granted that the Anna affair was finished. And
Else did not pity him at all. She had no idea of how the death of the
child had shocked him. How could she have an idea either? What did she
know of the hour when the garden had lost its colour for him and the
heavens their light, because his own beautiful child lay dead within
the house?
Frau Ehrenberg joined them. She declared that she was particularly
satisfied with George. Anyway, she had never doubted that he would show
what he was made of as soon as he once got started in a profession. She
was firmly convinced, too, that they would have him here in Vienna as a
conductor in three to five years. George pooh-poohed the idea. For the
time being he had not thought of coming back to Vienna. He felt that
people worked more and with greater seriousness outside in Germany.
Here one always ran the danger of losing oneself.
Frau Ehrenberg agreed, and took the opportunity to complain about
Heinrich Bermann, who had lapsed into silence as an author and now
never showed himself anywhere.
George defended him and felt himself obliged to state positively that
Heinrich was more industrious than he had ever been. But Frau Ehrenberg
had other examples of the corrupting influence of the Vienna air,
particularly Nürnberger, who now seemed to have cut himself completely
off from the world. As for what had happened to Oskar ... could that
have happened in any other town except Vienna? Did George know,
by-the-by, that Oskar was travelling with the Prince of Guastalla? Her
tone did not indicate that she regarded that as anything special, but
George noticed that she was a little proud of it, and entertained the
opinion somewhere at the back of her mind that Oskar had turned out all
right after all.
While George was speaking to Frau Ehrenberg he noticed that Else,
who had retired with James into the recess, was directing glances
towards him--glances full of melancholy and of knowledge, which almost
frightened him. He soon took his leave, had a feeling that Else's
handshake was inconceivably cold, while those of the others were
amiably indifferent, and went.
"How funny it all is," he thought in the vehicle which drove him to
Heinrich's. People knew everything before he did. They had known of
his _liaison_ with Anna before it had begun, and now they knew that
it was over before he did himself. He had half a mind to show them
all that they were making a mistake. Of course, in so vital an affair
as that one should be very careful not to decide on one's course of
action out of considerations of pique. It was a good thing that a few
months were now before him in which he could pull himself together
and have time for mature reflection. It would be good for Anna, too,
particularly good for her, perhaps. Yesterday's walk with her in the
rain over the brown wet streets came into his mind again, and struck
him as ineffably sad. Alas, for the hours in the arched room into which
the strains of the organ opposite had vibrated through the floating
curtain of snow--where were they? Yes, where had these hours gone to?
And so many other wonderful hours as well! He saw himself and Anna
again in his mind's eye, as a young couple on their honeymoon, walking
through streets which had the wonderful atmosphere of a strange land;
commonplace hotel rooms, where he had only stayed with her for a few
days, suddenly presented themselves before him, consecrated as it were
by the perfume of memory.... Then his love appeared to him, sitting
on a white seat, beneath the heavy branches, with her high forehead
girdled with the deceptive presentiment of gentle motherhood. And
finally she stood there with a sheet of music in her hand while the
white curtain fluttered gently in the wind. And when he realised that
it was the same room in which she was now waiting for him, and that
not more than a year had gone by since that evening hour in the late
summer when she had sung his own songs for the first time to his own
accompaniment, he breathed heavily and almost anxiously in his corner.
When he was in Heinrich's room a few minutes afterwards he asked him
not to look upon this as a visit. He only wanted to shake hands with
him. He would fetch him for a walk to-morrow morning if that suited
him.... Yes--the idea occurred to him while he was speaking--for a kind
of farewell walk in the Salmansdorf Forest.
Heinrich agreed, but asked him to stay just a few minutes. George asked
him jestingly if he had already recovered from his failure of this
morning.
Heinrich pointed to the secretary, on which were lying loose sheets
covered with large nervous writing. "Do you know what that is? I have
taken up _Ägidius_ again, and just before you came I thought of an
ending which was more or less feasible. I'll tell you more about it
to-morrow if it will interest you."
"By all means. I am quite excited about it. It's a good thing, too,
that you have settled down to a definite piece of work again."
"Yes, my dear George, I don't like being quite alone, and must create
some society for myself as quickly as possible, people I choose myself
... otherwise, any one who wants to come along, and one is not keen on
being at home to every chance ghost."
George told him that he had called on Leo and found him in far better
spirits than he had ever expected.
Heinrich leaned against the secretary with both his hands buried in
his trouser pockets and his head slightly bent; the shaded lamp made
uncertain shadows on his face. "Why didn't you expect to find him in
good spirits? If it had been us ... if it had been me, at any rate, I
should probably have felt exactly the same."
George was sitting on the arm of a black leather arm-chair with crossed
legs and his hat and stick in his hand. "Perhaps you are right," he
said, "but I must confess all the same that when I saw his cheerful
face I found it very strange to realise that he had a human life on his
conscience."
"You mean," said Heinrich, beginning to walk up and down the room,
"that it is one of those cases where the relationship of cause and
effect is so illuminating that you are justified in saying quietly
'he has killed' without its looking like a mere juggle of words....
But speaking generally, George, don't you think that we regard these
matters a little superficially? We must see the flash of a dagger or
hear the whistle of a bullet in order to realise that a murder has been
committed. As though any man who let any one else die would be in most
cases different from a murderer in anything else except having managed
the business more comfortably and being more of a coward...."
"Are you really reproaching yourself, Heinrich? If you had really
believed that it was bound to turn out like that ... I am sure you
would not have ... let her die."
"Perhaps ... I don't know. But I can tell you one thing, George: if she
were still alive--I mean if I had forgiven her, to use the expression
you are so fond of using now and then--I should regard myself as
guiltier than I do to-day. Yes, yes, that's how it is. I will confess
to you, George, there was a night ... there were a few nights, when I
was practically crushed by grief, by despair, by.... Other people would
have taken it for remorse, but it was nothing of the kind. For amid all
my grief, all my despair, I knew quite well that this death meant a
kind of redemption, a kind of reconciliation, a kind of cleanness. If
I had been weak or less vain ... as you no doubt regard it ... if she
had been my mistress again, something far worse than that death would
have happened for her as well ... loathing and anguish, rage and hate,
would have crawled around our bed ... our memories would have rotted
bit by bit--why, our love would have decomposed whilst its body was
still alive. It had no right to be. It would have been a crime to have
protracted the life of this love affair which was sick unto death,
just as it is a crime--and what is more, will be regarded so in the
future--to protract the life of a man who is doomed to a painful death.
Any sensible doctor will tell you as much. And that is why I'm very far
from reproaching myself. I don't want to justify myself before you or
before any one else in the world, but that is just how it is. I _can't_
feel guilty. I often feel very bad, but that hasn't the least thing in
the world to do with any consciousness of guilt."
"You went there just afterwards?" asked George.
"Yes, I went there. I even stood by when they lowered the coffin into
the ground. Yes, I trained there with the mother." He stood by the
window, quite in the darkness, and shook himself. "No, I shall never
forget it. Besides, it is only a lie to say that people come together
in a common sorrow. People never come together if they're not natural
affinities. They feel even further away from each other in times of
trouble. That journey! When I remember it! I read nearly the whole
time, too. I found it positively intolerable to talk to the silly old
creature. There is no one one hates more than some one who is quite
indifferent to you and requires your sympathy. We stood together by
her grave, too, the mother and I--I, the mother, and a few actors from
the little theatre.... And afterwards I sat in the inn with her alone,
after the funeral--a _tête-à-tête_ wake. A desperate business, I can
tell you. Do you know, by-the-by, where she lies buried? By your lake,
George. Yes. I have often found myself driven to think of you. You know
of course where the churchyard is? Scarcely a hundred yards from Auhof.
There's a delightful view on to our lake, George; of course, only if
one happens to be alive."
George felt a slight horror. He got up. "I am afraid I must leave you,
Heinrich. I am expected. You'll excuse me?"
Heinrich came up to him out of the darkness of the window. "Thank you
very much for your visit. Well, to-morrow, isn't it? I suppose you are
going to Anna now? Please give her my best wishes. I hear she is very
well. Therese told me."
"Yes, she looks splendid. She has completely recovered."
"I'm very glad. Well, till to-morrow then. I'm extremely glad that I
shall be able to see you again before you leave. You must still have
all kinds of things to tell me. I've done nothing again but talk about
myself."
George smiled. As though he hadn't grown used to this with Heinrich.
"Good-bye," he said, and went.
Much of what Heinrich had said echoed in George's mind when he sat
again in his fiacre. "We must see the flash of a dagger in order to
realise that a murder has been committed." George felt that there was a
kind of subterranean connection, but yet one which he had guessed for a
long time, between the meaning of these words and a certain dull sense
of discomfort which he had frequently felt in his own soul. He thought
of a past hour when he had felt as though a gamble over his unborn
child was going on in the clouds, and it suddenly struck him as strange
that Anna had not yet spoken a word to him about the child's death,
that she had even avoided in her letters any reference, not only to the
final misfortune, but also to the whole period when she had carried the
child under her bosom.
The conveyance approached its destination. Why is my heart beating?
thought George. Joy?... Bad conscience?... Why to-day all of a sudden?
She can't have any grievance against me.... What nonsense! I am run
down and excited at the same time, that's what it is. I shouldn't
have come here at all. Why have I seen all these people again? Wasn't
I a thousand times better off in the little town where I had started
a new life, in spite of all my longings?... I ought to have met Anna
somewhere else. Perhaps she will come away with me.... Then everything
will still come right in the end. But is anything wrong?... Are our
relations really in a bad way? And is it a crime to prolong them?...
That may be a convenient excuse on certain occasions.
When he went into Rosners' the mother, who was sitting alone at the
table, looked up from her book and shut it with a snap. The light of a
lamp that was swinging gently to and fro flowed from overhead on to the
table, distributing itself equally in all directions. Josef got up from
a corner of the sofa. Anna, who had just come out of her room, stroked
her high wavy hair with both hands, welcomed George with a light nod of
the head and gave him at this moment the impression of being rather an
apparition than real flesh and blood. George shook hands with every one
and inquired after Herr Rosner's health.
"He is not exactly bad," said Frau Rosner, "but he finds it difficult
to stand up."
Josef apologised at being found sleeping on the sofa. He had to use the
Sunday in order to rest himself. He was occupying a position on his
paper which often kept him there till three o'clock in the morning.
"He is working very hard now," said his mother corroboratively.
"Yes," said Josef modestly, "when a fellow gets real scope, so to
speak...." He went on to observe that the _Christliche Volksbote_ was
enjoying a larger and larger circulation, particularly in Germany. He
then addressed some questions to George about his new home, and showed
a keen interest in the population, the condition of the roads, the
popularity of cycling and the surrounding neighbourhood.
Frau Rosner, on her side, made polite inquiries about the composition
of the repertoire. George supplied the information and a conversation
was soon in progress, in which Anna also played a substantial part,
and George found himself suddenly paying a visit to a middle-class and
conventional family where the daughter of the house happened to be
musical. The conversation finally finished up in George feeling himself
bound to express a wish to hear the young lady sing once more--and he
had as it were to pull himself together to realise that the woman whose
voice he had asked to hear was really his own Anna.
Josef made his excuses; he was called away by an appointment with club
friends in the café. "Do you still remember, Herr Baron ... the classy
party on the Sophienalp?"
"Of course," replied George, smiling, and he quoted: "Der Gott, der
Eisen wachsen liess...."
"Der wollte keine Knechte," added Josef. "But we have left off singing
that now for a long time. It is too like the 'Watch on the Rhine,' and
we don't want to have it cast in our teeth any more that we have a
sneaking fancy for the other side of the frontier. We had great fights
about it on the committee. One gentleman even sent in his resignation.
He's a solicitor, you know, in the office of Doctor Fuchs, the National
German Deputy. Yes, it's all politics, you know." He winked. They must
not think, of course, that now that he himself had an insight into the
machinery of public life he still took the swindle seriously. With
the scarcely surprising remark that he could tell a tale or two if he
wanted, he took his leave. Frau Rosner thought it time to go and look
after her husband.
George sat alone with Anna, opposite her by the round table, over which
the hanging lamp shed its light.
"Thank you for the beautiful roses," said Anna. "I have them inside in
my room." She got up, and George followed her. He had quite forgotten
that he had sent her any flowers. They were standing in a high glass
in front of the mirror. They were dark red and their reflection was
opaque and colourless. The piano was open, some music stood ready and
two candles were burning at the side. Apart from that all the light in
the room was what came from the adjoining apartment through the wide
opening left by the door.
"You've been playing, Anna?" He came nearer. "The Countess's Aria? Been
singing, too?"
"Yes--tried to."
"All right?"
"It is beginning to ... I think so. Well, we'll see. But first tell me
what you have been doing all to-day."
"In a minute. We haven't welcomed each other at all so far." He
embraced and kissed her.
"It is a long time since----" she said, smiling past him.
"Well?" he asked keenly, "are you coming with me?"