The house was empty and silence nestled between its walls. It was
a memorable event for the corridor to hear the sound of steps. The
ticking of the marble clock resounded through all the rooms, no noise
impeding its progress.
Thus did Anne find the house when she came back with her husband from
the interrupted journey which was to remain in her memory like a broken
dream.
Days without thoughts. Gentle words. Pure, girlish fears. Then she
became accustomed to Thomas’s embraces. The news of her father’s death
roused her and she could dream her dream no more. It was gone for ever.
Another came.
Real life took its place and the first year passed away.
Slowly the peace of the old house became bright again. Now and then
the rooms began to laugh timidly. They stopped suddenly, ashamed of
themselves, as if remembering those who had left by the door never to
come back again.
Another year went by.
The yellow walls of the old house were warm in the sun. In the garden
the beds put forth blossom-laden rosebushes, climbing garlands of
roses.
The rooms now laughed freely with the rippling laughter of a child.
And the house smiled to itself, like some good old patriarch who has
regained youth.
At that time Anne sang some wonderful little songs. She had never
learned them, they came of themselves and their soothing rhythm was
like the rocking of a cradle. Then she lifted her son with that
mysterious movement, which is more exalted than the gesture of love, a
movement secretly known by her arms long ago. And she thought that it
was this that linked all humanity. An endless, blessed chain, a chain
wrought of women’s arms over the earth, beginning with the first woman
and to end with the last child.
“Mamma,” babbled little George. Anne repeated in whispers the word
which was bestowed on her, which she herself had never uttered to her
mother; she looked at the fading portrait of Mrs. Christina. She began
to listen. The street door opened. Steps came along the corridor....
“Thomas, I was longing for you!” She would have liked to say more,
something warmer. She wanted to tell him her love, but the words were
bashful and changed as they crossed her lips. She leaned towards her
husband, ready to be kissed.
Illey did not notice it; he was thinking of something else. He began to
read a letter.
“From home....”
“From home?... Is not this your home?” Anne’s head, held till now
sideways in a listening attitude, rose slowly.
Thomas saw nothing, heard nothing when Ille was in question. Everybody,
the old steward, the bailiff, the agent, the priest, anybody who was
in difficulties, came to him, as if he were still the landlord. He did
their errands and his eyes shone when he spoke of them.
Anne looked at him motionless. A feeling came over her of which she
could never rid herself whenever Thomas spoke of Ille. It seemed to her
that her husband abandoned her and went far away to some other place.
“Thomas,” she whispered, as if to recall him.
Illey smiled inattentively. He was still reading the letter. Anne’s
face became grave and cold. The tenderness which had till then flowed
bootlessly from her shrank back painfully into her heart.
“No, don’t go away. Come here. Read this....”
But Anne would not go nearer him. She held her head rigidly erect.
After the vain inclination to tenderness she hoped to regain the
balance in this way.
“It doesn’t matter, Thomas,” and animosity sounded in her voice,
“after all I don’t know those people of yours.”
“Why do you speak like that?” He looked at her reproachfully. Again
Anne’s voice baffled the hope in his soul, with which he thought
of Ille, which still gained, against his will, the upper hand over
him.... If he were to tell her everything, if he explained to her
that everything belonging to Ille was grown to his heart, that he
was craving for his land ... would she understand? The words shaped
themselves so intensely in his mind that he nearly heard them sound.
But they seemed abasing, as if they were begging. He felt that he could
never utter them.
In that moment Anne saw her husband’s countenance hard and frigid.
“Why are you angry, Thomas?” Her eyes wandered to the letter from
Ille. “Don’t you understand? It will all be empty talk. All this is so
strange to me.”
“You are right!” Illey gave a short reproachful laugh. It dawned on him
suddenly that Anne was strange to all that which lived so vividly in
his blood and his past. Strange, and perhaps she wanted to remain so.
While they were silent it seemed to both of them that they had drawn
further apart from each other, though neither of them had moved. Then
it was Thomas who turned away. Anne looked after him.
In the beginning, when they could not understand each other, they
forgot it in an embrace. Later on, the weak, helpless cry of a baby in
the next room was enough to remove everything from their minds and to
make them run to it side by side; before they had reached the door they
had grasped each other’s hands.
On this occasion each of them remained alone. The words he had spoken
weighed cold on Anne’s memory; those he had kept back made her anxious.
She played with her little son absent-mindedly. She fumbled idly in her
work-table’s drawers. She gave that up too. She wanted to go to her
husband, lean her head against his shoulders, and ask and answer till
there remained nothing between them that was obscure and uncertain.
But Thomas had visitors. From the green room the voice of gentlemen
reached the dining room and the smoke of their pipes pervaded the
place. They talked of the reconciliation of the King and the country,
of the coronation, of those who performed it, of Parliament, of great
national transformations.
Since the constitution had been re-established, Illey had entered the
service of the State; he worked in the Ministry of Agriculture. Anne
heard him in the adjoining room make some remarks on intensive culture.
How coolly and intelligently Thomas spoke, while her own heart was
still heavy and sore. Suddenly her husband’s laughter reached her ears
through the closed door. Her eyebrows stiffened and straightened, as if
she had been hurt....
It was about this time that Thomas Illey began to go shooting more
often. His friends who owned property in the country invited him. Down
there in Ille, in his swampy wood, game was plentiful. When he was free
from his office he took his gun and was off. Then he came home again
happy, with a sunburnt face.
In the green room arms stood in the old cupboard where Ulwing the
builder used to keep his plans. Above the couch the portrait of the
architects Fischer von Erlach and Mansard were replaced by English
prints of hunting scenes. Cartridges were kept in the small recesses of
the writing table with the many drawers. A finely wrought hunting knife
lay in front of the marble clock.
Anne sometimes felt that Thomas did not love the old house or the green
room or the cosy, well-padded good old furniture.
“I say, Anne, these chairs here stand round the table like fat
middle-class women in the market. They hold their arms akimbo and are
nearly bursting with health.”
He laughed quietly.
“Is it possible you cannot see how funny they are? At home, in Ille,
there is a similar armchair in the nursery. We called it ‘Frau Mayer’
and put a basket on its arm.”
Anne blushed a little and, disconcerted, looked at the chequered linen
covers.
“They insult us,” she said, as if speaking to the armchair, “though
we belong together....” She thought suddenly of the staircase in the
Geramb house, of Bertha Bajmoczy ... the old indignity ... the old
resentment. Then, as if her grandfather’s voice echoed in her memory,
“I am a free citizen.”
She raised her head. Her young neck bent back disdainfully.
“How beautiful you are, like this,” said Thomas and his voice altered.
The woman’s shoulder trembled. That was the old voice that thrilled
her like a touch. They looked at each other for a moment and then she
disappeared in Thomas’s embrace.
Anne felt that in her husband’s arms all her cares vanished, that she
herself passed away. Her head fell back, no longer with pride but with
that feminine movement which expresses the conquest of the conqueror.
“My love....”
They held each other for a long time tightly embraced and the silence
of rare and secret reunions came over them. When the silence broke, the
reunion was ended and they both withdrew into themselves.
Later in the day, Anne came running through the rooms with a telegram
and joy rang in her voice:
“From Christopher!”
“Is he still in Baden-Baden?” sneered Thomas.
“He is coming to-night.”
“It is time....”
Anne cast her eyes down sadly. She always felt some irritation in
Thomas’s voice when he spoke of Christopher and that pained her. It was
true that since their father’s death Christopher had travelled a great
deal, but Otto Füger sent him regular reports and when he was home he
worked.
Business must have been excellent. There was more luxury in the house
than ever. Christopher had replaced the old boards by parquet flooring.
Carpets were laid on the stairs and two pairs of horses stood in
the stable. A manservant served at table in Netti’s place. Florian
opened the gate in livery. Anne received as much money as she liked
for housekeeping, that was all she understood. But if Thomas was not
content, why did he keep silent? Surely it would have been his duty to
look through the business books. Why did he shrink from it?
Anne believed that he despised the business and, as in her mind the
business and the name of Ulwing were inseparable, she felt affronted by
her husband’s aloof indifference. In the beginning, she had frequently
raised the question with Thomas. He always maintained a repelling
silence.
She turned to him, but her husband, as if divining her thoughts,
anticipated her.
“Let us leave that alone, darling. I won’t interfere with the affairs
of the Ulwing business.” He thought of what her father had told him
when he asked for his daughter’s hand. A man must keep his word even
if he has not given it formally. He put his arms out and drew his wife
onto his knee.
“Let us stay together. I have to leave to-night, I am going shooting
to-morrow.”
Anne put her arms round Thomas’s neck. However much she desired it, she
would not ask her husband in words not to go away from her. But to-day
she knew something that was sure to retain him. She smiled into his
face.
“Do you know what day to-morrow is?”
Thomas became cheerful.
“Of course, Sunday. I can go to shoot.”
“The third anniversary of our wedding,” whispered Anne.
“Is that so? To-morrow?” Thomas’s eyes became affectionate with
grateful remembrance and he pressed his wife passionately to his
breast. He felt her slender body bend from his knee into his arms. Her
small, cool face, nestled close to his. Her hair smelt of violets. It
made him reel....
“He does not say he will stay at home,” thought Anne, “he never says
anything.” Her soul felt degraded by the caresses bestowed on her
body. “Never anything but this.... I don’t want it.” She pushed her
husband brusquely away and arranged her hair.
Thomas felt a cold void in his lap. For a moment he looked disconcerted
into the air, then he collected himself. His love was a request from a
man, not the humble supplication of a beggar. He frowned obstinately.
“When does your train start?” asked Anne, exhausting herself in the
effort to appear unaffected.
The woman’s voice appeared quite strange to Illey. “She does not ask
me to stay. She sends me away from her,” and his countenance became at
once dark and hostile from the memory of thwarted desire. He pulled out
his watch. He returned it to his pocket without looking at it. He began
to hurry. He made his guns ready. The cartridge bag exhaled something
left in it by the woods. The straps cracked delicately, just like out
there, when they rubbed together over one’s shoulders; and his thoughts
were no more in the room, but were wandering far afield over boundless,
free lands, under the shining sun.
Anne said no more and left the room.
In the evening, while putting her little son to sleep, she thought of
past anniversaries.... Since when had life changed so much between her
and Thomas? The change must have come slowly, she had not noticed it.
The child was asleep. Anne opened the door of the sunshine room and,
after a long time, unconsciously sat down to the piano. She did not
play, she did not sing, just leaned her head on it as if she were
leaning it on somebody’s shoulder.
When Christopher arrived he found his sister there near the mute
instrument.
Anne looked at her brother aghast. How he had changed of late. Clothes
of an English cut hung on his body. His once lovely hair with the
silver shine had thinned round his deep blue-veined temples. The light
eyelashes appeared heavy over his exhausted eyes.
“And Thomas, gone a-shooting?”
“Have you been ill?” asked Anne, sitting down opposite to him in the
dining room.
“What makes you think so? No, just a trifle.” Christopher ate hastily,
speaking all the time in a snatchy way. “There is nothing the matter
with me, only my nerves are bad just now when I shall stand most in
need of them. I want to achieve great things. I have learned many new
things. But they require nerve.”
He lit a cigar; the match moved queerly between his fingers. “In the
past life depended on the muscles of man, so development of muscles was
the principal aim of education. Now we have to rely for everything on
nerves, and nobody looks after them.” His mouth twitched slightly to
one side. “Tell me, Anne, do you feel sometimes as if strings quivered
in your neck high up to the brain?”
“No, I don’t feel that,” said Anne, and stared at him.
Christopher laughed, ill at ease.
“Nor do I feel it, I only heard it spoken of. A friend of mine ... you
know ... nerves.”
Anne pressed her folded hands convulsively, but her face remained calm.
“Tell your friend that he is ill and that he better attend to it at
once.”
Christopher blew the smoke into the air.
“The old ones had more resistance than we. Our generation received so
many shocks when young. Do you remember the shell striking the house?
And the fire ... those among us who were weak were broken by it, those
who were strong became stronger. You became stronger. You are lucky,
Anne, and it is good to be near you, you are so sure and cool.”
“Then do remain always near me, Christopher.”
“Yes. By the way, do you sometimes start up in terror at night? You
understand, one can’t ask these things from a stranger ... and do you
never feel when you are alone, that somebody is standing behind your
back? He stands near the wall and watches what you are doing.”
Anne looked horrified at her brother.
“But that is folly....”
“Stove-fairies and piano-mice,” said Christopher and smiled wearily
towards the green room. “And little George?” He laughed with forced
mirth, “he must be quite a little gentleman. I brought him a horse from
Paris. It has an engine inside, you wind it up like a clock and then it
runs. What wonders people invent nowadays!”
He began to speak of cities, countries ... of the French Emperor, the
Paris Stock Exchange, the dresses of the Empress Eugénie. All the time
he smoked one cigar after another; after a time weariness disappeared
from his voice and his eyes became livelier. When he went downstairs he
whistled. Anne heard it clearly but it did not reassure her.
Since his sister’s marriage Christopher had lived on the ground floor.
He had adapted two rooms of the old office which had been empty since
the business had dwindled.
Flowers stood on the chest of drawers in the deep vaulted room. He
knew Anne had put them there. It was she who had put the lace mat on
the night table. For an instant he felt happy at being home again and
gave orders to the servant not to wake him in the morning; he wanted
to sleep. Then he remembered that he had business on the morrow with
his book-keeper. He had signed many bills in blank during his journey,
so that Otto Füger might send him some money. He had lost incessantly
at Baden-Baden and his stay in Paris had made a serious breach in his
purse. To-morrow all that would have to be reckoned up. Hazy ignorance
was comfortable, but the reckoning day was loathsome.
He wanted to chase away unpleasant thoughts. They were like wasps,
returned to the attack, and stung him.
And the business? How had the various enterprises prospered while he
had been away? The weekly reports were in his valise. He had never
found time to read them through. It didn’t matter. He had studied the
Stock Exchange in Paris. People got rich there in one day. All that was
required was a cool head. One must not lose one’s nerve. How much money
he had seen! How much!
He extinguished the candle. He lay on his back with open eyes. For a
time his thoughts gave him a rest. The darkness was quite empty. How
many things had passed through his darknesses! Ancient fairies and
dwarfs. Sophie, his first love. Girls from the streets, actresses,
women, beautiful grand ladies, cold and indifferent in day time,
passionate and exacting at night. Enough. They interested him no more.
The only thing that mattered to him now was money, the mighty mass of
money which flows incessantly between the hands of men, like a great
dominating river, from one end of the world to the other. One had only
to dig a channel for the river and it would flow wherever one liked.
He saw it on the Paris Stock Exchange. How much money....
The darkness of Christopher’s night was suddenly empty no more.
Money!... That was the whole secret.... And he began to long for it as
he used to yearn in days gone by for women.