Rain had collected in the gargoyle and gave off a hopeless gurgle as if
someone were sobbing under the steep double roof.
Out of doors the autumn evening fell sadly. On the window panes of the
sunshine room raindrops ran down like tears on a transparent grey face.
Silence reigned in the deserted old nursery. Since Christopher’s
departure Anne had been very lonely. She would often rise from the
work table during the afternoon and go quietly to the door. She opened
it quickly, nobody was there. She looked down into the depths of the
staircase. The house was silent. She decided to count up to a hundred,
then wait no longer. Twice she counted up to a hundred, and even after
that she looked back from the threshold.
At night when Netti lit the lamp and Florian bolted the front door,
Anne’s eyes more than once filled with tears. She felt a prisoner. Life
remained outside the walls of her prison. Again a useless day had drawn
to an end, that at its dawning had promised so generously. It tortured
her artfully while it lasted, and in the end achieved nothing.
Thomas Illey came no more.
Anne’s little face became quite pale and thin. She began to be afraid.
Perhaps Illey went to someone else now, perhaps he was angry? The last
time he saw her he asked her so earnestly to go the next day to the
Danube pier. And she could not go, could send no message, could not
write. Christopher had to leave and their father was very strict with
both of them.
“Why does he not come? Where is he?”
She pressed her face against the window pane. Whenever the front door
bell rang the blood rushed to her heart. She waited, then hung her head
wearily.
In the sunshine room the furniture began to whisper. The walls too
remembered. The door handle was familiar with Thomas’s hand. The shaded
lamp, the clock under the glass globe, they all told her that they had
seen him many times.
Anne turned her face away. The memories wounded her. She clasped her
hands in prayer for respite from her tortures.
Hours passed. Tini came in and started to read her fortune with cards.
“All your sorrows will come to an end, my little dove,” she said when
she finished her game.
“I have no sorrows,” answered the girl and tried to hold her head high.
John Hubert’s voice said:
“Anne, a visitor!”
Of late Charles Münster had often come to the house. In the evening he
sat comfortably in the green room, approving everything John Hubert
said, and when he could think of nothing to say, he carelessly twirled
the thumbs of his big, red hands.
Those hands annoyed Anne. They became embarrassed, blushed like human
faces, struggled, while Charles Münster remained placid and tedious in
his inordinately long Sunday coat.
“Why does he come?” wondered Anne wearily, while sitting opposite him.
One day she learned that too; Charles Münster had asked her father for
her hand.
“It is a very honourable proposal and very advantageous,” said John
Hubert to his daughter. “The house of Münster has a good reputation and
is serious. The young man is intelligent and owns some capital.”
Anne’s heart sank while she looked at him and then the blood rushed to
her face. All her life she had striven to repress her will; she had
always obeyed, but what she was now asked to do roused her to rebellion.
“No, never!” And her voice rang out like a hammer dropping on steel.
John Hubert was startled. That was the voice of Ulwing the builder.
“I spoke too soon,” he thought, vexed. “I ought to have waited a little
longer.”
Then he waited. Outside the snow was falling already.
In the next few weeks Anne’s face became more and more transparent.
She did not sleep at night. She sang no longer, nor did she laugh and
during the long evenings she sat silent in the green room, while her
father worked at the writing table with the innumerable drawers.
John Hubert had now to use spectacles for reading. He pushed them up
on his forehead and looked stealthily at Anne. Gradually he became
anxious. He thought of his own life. He had never been happy, had never
made anybody else happy.
“Are you ill?” he asked suddenly.
“No.”
“Have you any pain?”
Anne did not answer but her eyes asked him why he tortured her. John
Hubert bent down. He turned the pages of his ledger. Anne heard him
sigh anxiously.
“Have you had bad news from Christopher?” she asked, going to the
writing table. “No? Is it the business?... Speak to me about it, for I
too am an Ulwing.”
John Hubert closed the book in which he had been reckoning.
“You would not understand it.”
“But I could learn to....”
“You just go on embroidering, singing. You have no need to know about
business. It is not suitable for women. God has created you for other
ends.” But this sentence aroused his conscience. He became embarrassed.
“You have not yet forgotten Thomas Illey?” he whispered casting his
eyes down.
“I have not forgotten him.”
A few days later Grandfather Jörg came in the evening to take Anne to
a concert. In the carriage the old gentleman began to mention Charles
Münster.
“Is he too like all the others?” the girl thought and looked sadly at
her grandfather. Once he had been to prison for sympathizing with the
freedom of others; and now he spoke against his grandchild’s freedom.
In the concert hall the crowd was already large. Innumerable candles
burned in the gilt wooden chandelier. Their flames wove a peaceful
yellow light in the air. On the platform the piano stood open. The
orchestra was tuning up and this sounded like birds with sharp beaks
pecking at the stringed instruments.
A few reporters stood near the wall. Anne heard them agree in advance
as to what they would say in next day’s papers. In the stalls
well-known merchants from the inner town, wives of rich citizens,
officers in uniform, and right in front bejeweled ladies in huge
crinolines, noble gentlemen in Hungarian national costume.
The family of Müller the chemist nodded to them. The Münster daughters
were there too. In the back rows the newcomers moved their chairs.
Some laughed and cleared their throats, then suddenly, as if moved by
a common spring, all the heads turned towards the platform. Then all
became silent.
Anne glanced over the faces. The crowd seemed to her like an empty
vessel gaping towards the piano in expectation of being filled with
sounds and emotions. Her heart was full of her young distress and she
felt afraid that at the first sound her sufferings would overflow
through her eyes.
All of a sudden she became strangely restless, as if some one had
touched her from a distance. She turned her head quickly. The blood
throbbed in her veins as her look met the dark, sad eyes of Thomas
Illey. And the two glances united through space.
Waves surged between them. A wild tumult of cheers broke out. The round
of applause echoed like a thunderstorm from the walls.
The great artist stood on the platform, high above everybody. His long
white hair waved softly round his marble brow. He inclined his wiry
body before the homage.
Then the piano burst out under his hands. And the sounds sang, crept,
stormed furiously, coaxed voluptuously, and dissolved in a smile. The
artist with the marble brow conjured up harmonies from the piano that
had not existed before him and were not to be after him.
The crowd listened with bated breath, spellbound. And the music
continued like a swelling tide. Then it became tender like a dying
echo. It broke forth again with superb impetuosity. Sounds wrought
in fire rose and those who heard them lived the creative moments of
Beethoven, Sebastian Bach and Weber over again. These sublime moments
were resuscitated by the master whose playing was forever the begetting
of gods.
Anne Ulwing’s soul was carried on glowing wings by Beethoven’s
Appassionata to Thomas over the heads of the crowd. She felt that the
waves of the music swept them together and that they became swallowed
up in some boundless glittering veil.
The hall was delirious again. People stood up. Some rushed to the
platform and continued to applaud there.
The artist began to play a composition of his own. And then, as if his
marble countenance had been set aflame, fire shone on his brow, fire
streamed from his eyes and the creative artist wandered and was alone
by himself.
Anne turned towards the piano. This was different from anything she
had ever heard. Long-forgotten words recurred to her mind: “One has to
create like God. Even the clay has to be created anew.”
Applause rose again, but the clapping seemed more restrained. It was
addressed to the virtuoso, not to the creator.
“They don’t understand him,” said Anne disappointed.
“It is not yet safe to admire this music. It came too early ...” and
again the words of Adam Walter came to her mind.
Then everything was forgotten. Her eyes searched for Thomas in the
crowd thronging towards the exit. In the dust-laden heat of the
cloak-room people pushed each other. Under the porch the doors of the
carriages slammed. A hoarse voice shouted the names of the coachmen.
Anne saw Florian and made a sign to him. Ulrich Jörg was already in the
carriage.
“I should like to walk,” said the girl hurriedly. The old gentleman was
sleepy. The horses of the next carriage became restive in the cold. The
door banged. Anne felt herself free.
“Let us go....”
Florian’s broad, good-natured face turned to her for an instant in
wonder. Then he followed her obediently in the snow.
A motionless figure stood at the street corner under a lamp peering
into the windows of the passing carriages. Suddenly he looked no longer
towards the carriages. His dark sad eyes rested on Anne. He held his
hat low in his hand and snow fell on his thin face.
They clasped each other’s hands and the peace of their mind was like
the languid moment, still incredible, when a bodily pain has abruptly
ceased to torture.
The sound of rolling carriages spread in all directions. Occasional
laughter flared up among the human voices, dying away at a distance.
After that, only the snow was falling in slow, shiny flakes. By tacit
agreement they started, side by side, into the great whiteness.
Anne did not feel the cold. The furs slid down her bare shoulders and
her low shoes sank deep into the snow. Illey gazed at her in rapture,
then pulled himself together. He wanted to appear calm, but his voice
was strangely changed.
“When I saw the posters of the concert, I began to hope that we might
meet. It all happened more wonderfully than my wildest hopes.”
Anne too tried to control herself.
“So you really did not go for the music’s sake?” she asked in a
whisper, smiling.
“I never go to concerts,” said Illey candidly. “I don’t understand the
higher music.”
Anne turned to him anxiously:
“Then you did not understand what I sang to you?”
“I did not understand the music, but I understood her who produced it.”
Anne’s thought became confused. Till then she had thought that they
met, united in music.... And now Thomas told her that he did not
understand the only language which her soul, her blood could speak....
It did not matter, nothing mattered so long as he was here, if only he
could be at her side.
She drew her head back a little and with eyes half shut looked
longingly at Illey’s shoulders as though she would, by the intensity of
her regard, build a nest there for her little head.
Thomas began to walk at a noticeably slow pace. Then Anne too noticed
the snow-covered lamp in front of the Ulwings’ house.
“I have sought this moment for a long time,” said Illey quickly. “I was
seeking it on the island when I waited for you so long--till the stars
appeared and the ferryman lit a fire for the night. Next day I was
there too. I have pulled the bell at your door many times. I saw your
face through the window, I heard you play the piano, yet I was told you
were not in. Florian avoided my eyes when he said that. I understood.
It was not desired that I should come.”
“And I was expecting you.” There was so much suffering in Anne’s veiled
voice that all became clear to Illey.
At this moment they came in sight of the house. They stepped so slowly
that they remained practically on the same spot, yet the distance grew
smaller. The porch moved out of the wall and came to meet them rapidly,
dark through the glittering whiteness. The two pillar-men came with it
too. They leaned more and more from under the cornice and looked down
on them.
The porch stopped with a jerk. They had reached the end of the street.
Anne’s heart stood still with anguish. One more moment and they would
be together no more.
Florian dropped the latch key. He fumbled slowly, very slowly with his
hand in the snow and never looked up once while doing so.
Thomas Illey bent to Anne:
“We cannot live any more without each other,” and he kissed her hand.
Snow was falling slowly and through the snow-white veil they looked
silently into each other’s eyes.
When Anne walked up the stairs she took Thomas’s kiss with her lips
from her hand.
Next day she told her father all that had happened and when in the
afternoon the front door bell rang Florian opened the door with a broad
beaming face to Thomas Illey.
Anne heard his steps. The steps passed her door, along the corridor,
towards the green room.
Thomas Illey spoke little. His voice was serious and firm. John Hubert
listened to him standing and only offered him a seat when he had
finished.
“An honourable proposal....” This reminded him that he had used
the same words to Charles Münster. He laughed and then spoke out
conscientiously, as he had decided beforehand. He spoke of the loss
caused by the fire, of bad years of business. Of Anne’s dowry. His
voice became feeble:
“I am very sorry but I cannot withdraw any capital from the business.
The estate must remain undivided. This was decided by my late father. I
cannot depart from this.”
Illey waved his hand politely, disparagingly.
“This is not my affair. It concerns Miss Anne alone.”
John Hubert stared at him with undisguised astonishment. The charm
of the ancient name of Illey re-asserted itself on him: he no longer
leaned back in his armchair. He sat straight up solemnly and felt sorry
he had till now been so business-like.
“But what about the property of Ille,” he chose his words carefully, “I
understand that it is, unfortunately, in strange hands....”
Illey turned his head away. He realized that he had just been showing
off before the other and felt ashamed. This mild-eyed good old business
man reminded him of that which had attracted him at first to Anne. It
was no good denying it; in those times he thought that the Ulwings
were rich and that the ancestral property of Ille might again become
his own. He now tried to justify himself for those old thoughts by the
longing for the land of his forebears. There was one hope. He thrust it
aside.
John Hubert looked at him expectantly.
“Did Mr. Illey not think of buying the property back?”
Many a proud, disinterested word came to Illey’s mind. To rise above
everything, even above himself. To ask for nothing, only for Anne whom
he loved. He turned his sharp gentlemanly face to John Hubert. He
looked him straight in the eyes, as if making a vow:
“I think no longer of buying Ille back.”
John Hubert enquired politely after his family.
Thomas slowly turned the old seal ring on his finger. He began to speak
of his father. He died young of heart disease. His mother followed him.
Then the property got into the auctioneer’s hands. Only a swampy wood
remained. Nobody wanted that. And a little money. He wanted to learn
to work. This brought him to town. He wanted to regain possession of
the land through his own exertions. Had it not given them their name,
or had it not received its name from them? However it was, the land of
Ille and the Illeys had belonged to each other for nearly a thousand
years.
Thomas looked down wearily. He thought that the fate of the
Lord-Lieutenant’s grandchildren had overtaken him too.
“I studied law,” he said quietly, “like the rest of us; politics
absorbed me and I did not learn to work for money. That is in our
blood. It is only when work is done gratuitously that the Hungarian
nobility does not blush to work. Those of us who gave themselves for
money became bad men; the good ones were ruined.”
John Hubert nodded absent-mindedly. He was quite reassured now that he
had ascertained that Thomas Illey did not intend to withdraw Anne’s
dowry from the business. He proffered his hand to him.
“It is settled. You do not think of buying Ille back. You won’t meddle
with the business. Now we can look at the ledgers and the balance
sheet.”
Thomas smiled. He wanted to see nothing but Anne, and John Hubert
opened the door of the sunshine room to him. There everything was
bright and warm.
When the new spring made earth and sky bright and warm around the old
house, Mamsell Tini stuck a wreathed veil into Anne’s hair. Now, like a
white cloud, the veil floated through the old rooms, caressed the doors
and walls. Anne kissed her father.
“Thank you, father,” said the girl. “I am so happy.”
Tears came into the eyes of John Hubert. Life had no more joys in store
for him....
In the corridor stood old Füger, and Mrs. Henrietta in a starched
bonnet, and Mr. Gemming. Poor little Feuerlein, deeply stirred, wiped
his eyes. None bowed more respectfully to Thomas Illey than Otto Füger.
Above, high above the roofs, the bells clanged loud from the church
steeple of Leopold’s town, bells that had so often spoken of the
destinies of the Ulwings. And under the porch the two pillar-men looked
down into the flower-laden carriage.
The porch repeated once over the sound of the parting wheels, then the
house fell into silence. Anne carried her quiet laugh away with her on
her honeymoon. Everything became quiet, the men, the days.
* * * * *
John Hubert was quite alone. A letter from Christopher, one from Anne.
He read them both many times over, smiled and shut his eyes. Nowadays,
he was always sleepy. He looked at the clock. Too early to go to bed.
He walked up and down in the quiet rooms.
From the green room the light of the lamp reached the dining room. The
sunshine room received light from a lamp in the street which spread
over the ceiling. The old nursery was quite dark.
John Hubert folded his hands behind his back and walked slowly from
darkness into light, from light into darkness. He thought of his life.
It had been like that too, but now that he looked back on it there
seemed to have been more darkness than light.
He could not understand what made him think of this just now when his
head was weary enough. For an instant he intended sending for the
doctor. Then he felt too tired to do it.
While he slowly turned the key in his watch, he felt giddy, yet he put
all the various objects from his pocket into the alabaster tray. His
keys, his penknife and the cigar case embroidered with beads. This he
carried as a habit, having renounced smoking several years ago.
Next day was Sunday. He did not get out of bed. From time to time Tini
came in to ask if he wanted anything. He opened his eyes, nodded, but
said nothing.
Gárdos, the physician, reassured him.
“It will pass away; it is only a little overwork,” and prescribed nux
vomica.
“No, you must not write to the children.”
During the week John Hubert was up. On Sunday he again stayed in bed
and felt better there. A letter came from Anne. He smiled at it. So
there was one person in the world who owed him her happiness.... He
smoothed his blanket down and turned to the wall.
A loud buzzing woke him at night. His head turned, the bed turned, so
did the room. And he breathed with difficulty. He wanted to unbutton
his shirt collar, but did not succeed. He sat up suddenly and with his
accustomed movement put his hand several times to his neck as if to put
his necktie right.
Then he fell back and moved no more.
That night John Hubert Ulwing died, correctly, without much ado, just
as he had lived.