"Look here, George, you don't owe me explanations of any kind."
"Explanations? But you are really.... Really, I'm not giving you any
explanations, Anna. I'm simply describing to you how I live and what
kind of people I have to deal with ... because I flatter myself that
these things interest you, in the same way that I told you where I had
been yesterday and to-day."
She was silent, and George felt again that she did not believe him,
that she was justified in not believing him--even though now and
again the truth happened to come from his lips. All kinds of words
were on the tip of his tongue, words of wounded pride, of rage, of
gentle persuasion--each seemed to him equally worthless and empty. He
made no reply, sat down at the piano and gently struck some notes and
chords. He now felt again as though he loved her very much and was
simply unable to tell it her, and as though this hour of meeting would
have been quite different if they had celebrated it elsewhere. Not in
this room, not in this town; in a place, for preference, which they
neither of them knew, in a new strange environment, yes, then perhaps
everything would have been again just as it had been once before. Then
they would have been able to have rushed into each other's arms--as
once before, with real yearning, and found delight--and peace. The
idea occurred to him: "If I were to say to her now 'Anna! Three days
and three nights belong to us!' If I were to beg her ... with the
right words.... Entreat her at her feet.... 'Come with me, come!'...
She would not hold out long! She would certainly follow me...." He
knew it. Why did he not speak the right words? Why did he not entreat
her? Why was he silent, as he sat at the piano and gently struck notes
and chords...? Why?... Then he felt her soft hand upon his head. His
fingers lay heavy on the notes, some chord or other vibrated. He did
not dare to turn round. She knows it, too, he felt. What does she
know?... Is it true, then...? Yes ... it is true. And he thought of
the hour after the birth of his dead child--when he had sat by her bed
and she had lain there in silence, with her looks turned towards the
gloomy garden.... She had known it even then--earlier than he--that
all was over. And he lifted his hands from the piano, took hers, which
were still lying on his head, guided them to his cheeks, drew her to
him till she was again quite close, and she slowly dropped down on
to his knees. And he began again, shyly: "Anna ... perhaps ... you
could manage to.... Perhaps I too could manage for a few days' more
leave if I were to telegraph. Anna dear ... just listen.... It would
be really so beautiful...." A plan came to him from the very depths of
his consciousness. If he really were to go travelling with her for some
days, and were to take the opportunity honestly to say to her, "It must
end, Anna, but the end of our love must be beautiful like the beginning
was. Not dim and gloomy like these hours in your people's house...."
If I were honestly to say that to her--somewhere in the country--would
it not be more worthy of her and mine--and our past happiness...? And
with this plan in his mind he grew more insistent, bolder, almost
passionate.... And his words had the same ring again as they had had a
long, long time ago.
Sitting on his knees, with her arms around his neck, she answered
gently: "George, I am not--going to go through it another time...."
He already had a word upon his lips with which he could have dissipated
her alarm. But he kept it back, for if put in so many words it would
have simply meant that while he was thinking of course of living again
a few hours of delight with her, he did not feel inclined to take any
responsibility upon himself. He felt it. All he need say to avoid
wounding her was this one thing: "You belong to me for ever!--You
really must have a child by me--I'll fetch you at Christmas or Easter
at the outside. And we will never be parted from each other any more."
He felt the way in which she waited for these words with one last hope,
with a hope in whose realisation she had herself ceased to believe. But
he was silent. If he had said aloud the words she was yearning for he
would have bound himself anew, and ... he now realised more deeply than
he had ever realised before that he wanted to be free.
She was still resting on his knees, with her cheek leaning on his.
They were silent for a long time and knew that this was the farewell.
Finally George said resolutely: "Well, if you don't want to come with
me, Anna, then I'll go straight back--to-morrow, and we'll see each
other again in the spring. Until then there are only letters. Only in
the event of my coming at Christmas if I can...."
She had got up and was leaning against the piano. "The boy's mad
again," she said. "Isn't it really better if we don't see each other
till after Easter?"
"Why better?"
"By then--everything will be so much clearer."