At six o’clock came the inquiry of the soldiers: Had anything been seen
of Bachmann? Fräulein Hesse answered, pleased to be playing a rôle:
“No, I’ve not seen him since Sunday—have you, Emilie?”
“No, I haven’t seen him,” said Emilie, and her awkwardness was
construed as bashfulness. Ida Hesse, stimulated, asked questions, and
played her part.
“But it hasn’t killed Sergeant Huber?” she cried in consternation.
“No. He fell into the water. But it gave him a bad shock, and smashed
his foot on the side of the moat. He’s in hospital. It’s a bad look-out
for Bachmann.”
Emilie, implicated and captive, stood looking on. She was no longer
free, working with all this regulated system which she could not
understand and which was almost god-like to her. She was put out of her
place. Bachmann was in her room, she was no longer the faithful in
service serving with religious surety.
Her situation was intolerable to her. All evening long the burden was
upon her, she could not live. The children must be fed and put to
sleep. The Baron and Baroness were going out, she must give them light
refreshment. The man-servant was coming in to supper after returning
with the carriage. And all the while she had the insupportable feeling
of being out of the order, self-responsible, bewildered. The control of
her life should come from those above her, and she should move within
that control. But now she was out of it, uncontrolled and troubled.
More than that, the man, the lover, Bachmann, who was he, what was he?
He alone of all men contained for her the unknown quantity which
terrified her beyond her service. Oh, she had wanted him as a distant
sweetheart, not close, like this, casting her out of her world.
When the Baron and Baroness had departed, and the young man-servant had
gone out to enjoy himself, she went upstairs to Bachmann. He had
wakened up, and sat dimly in the room. Out in the open he heard the
soldiers, his comrades, singing the sentimental songs of the nightfall,
the drone of the concertina rising in accompaniment.
“Wenn ich zu mei...nem Kinde geh’...
In seinem Au...g die Mutter seh’...”
But he himself was removed from it now. Only the sentimental cry of
young, unsatisfied desire in the soldiers’ singing penetrated his blood
and stirred him subtly. He let his head hang; he had become gradually
roused: and he waited in concentration, in another world.
The moment she entered the room where the man sat alone, waiting
intensely, the thrill passed through her, she died in terror, and after
the death, a great flame gushed up, obliterating her. He sat in
trousers and shirt on the side of the bed. He looked up as she came in,
and she shrank from his face. She could not bear it. Yet she entered
near to him.
“Do you want anything to eat?” she said.
“Yes,” he answered, and as she stood in the twilight of the room with
him, he could only hear his heart beat heavily. He saw her apron just
level with his face. She stood silent, a little distance off, as if she
would be there for ever. He suffered.
As if in a spell she waited, standing motionless and looming there, he
sat rather crouching on the side of the bed. A second will in him was
powerful and dominating. She drew gradually nearer to him, coming up
slowly, as if unconscious. His heart beat up swiftly. He was going to
move.
As she came quite close, almost invisibly he lifted his arms and put
them round her waist, drawing her with his will and desire. He buried
his face into her apron, into the terrible softness of her belly. And
he was a flame of passion intense about her. He had forgotten. Shame
and memory were gone in a whole, furious flame of passion.
She was quite helpless. Her hands leapt, fluttered, and closed over his
head, pressing it deeper into her belly, vibrating as she did so. And
his arms tightened on her, his hands spread over her loins, warm as
flame on her loveliness. It was intense anguish of bliss for her, and
she lost consciousness.
When she recovered, she lay translated in the peace of satisfaction.
It was what she had had no inkling of, never known could be. She was
strong with eternal gratitude. And he was there with her. Instinctively
with an instinct of reverence and gratitude, her arms tightened in a
little embrace upon him who held her thoroughly embraced.
And he was restored and completed, close to her. That little,
twitching, momentary clasp of acknowledgment that she gave him in her
satisfaction, roused his pride unconquerable. They loved each other,
and all was whole. She loved him, he had taken her, she was given to
him. It was right. He was given to her, and they were one, complete.
Warm, with a glow in their hearts and faces, they rose again, modest,
but transfigured with happiness.
“I will get you something to eat,” she said, and in joy and security of
service again, she left him, making a curious little homage of
departure. He sat on the side of the bed, escaped, liberated,
wondering, and happy.
V
Soon she came again with the tray, followed by Fräulein Hesse. The two
women watched him eat, watched the pride and wonder of his being, as he
sat there blond and naïf again. Emilie felt rich and complete. Ida was
a lesser thing than herself.
“And what are you going to do?” asked Fräulein Hesse, jealous.
“I must get away,” he said.
But words had no meaning for him. What did it matter? He had the inner
satisfaction and liberty.
“But you’ll want a bicycle,” said Ida Hesse.
“Yes,” he said.
Emilie sat silent, removed and yet with him, connected with him in
passion. She looked from this talk of bicycles and escape.
They discussed plans. But in two of them was the one will, that
Bachmann should stay with Emilie. Ida Hesse was an outsider.
It was arranged, however, that Ida’s lover should put out his bicycle,
leave it at the hut where he sometimes watched. Bachmann should fetch
it in the night, and ride into France. The hearts of all three beat hot
in suspense, driven to thought. They sat in a fire of agitation.
Then Bachmann would get away to America, and Emilie would come and join
him. They would be in a fine land then. The tale burned up again.
Emilie and Ida had to go round to Franz Brand’s lodging. They departed
with slight leave-taking. Bachmann sat in the dark, hearing the bugle
for retreat sound out of the night. Then he remembered his post card to
his mother. He slipped out after Emilie, gave it her to post. His
manner was careless and victorious, hers shining and trustful. He
slipped back to shelter.
There he sat on the side of the bed, thinking. Again he went over the
events of the afternoon, remembering his own anguish of apprehension
because he had known he could not climb the wall without fainting with
fear. Still, a flush of shame came alight in him at the memory. But he
said to himself: “What does it matter?—I can’t help it, well then I
can’t. If I go up a height, I get absolutely weak, and can’t help
myself.” Again memory came over him, and a gush of shame, like fire.
But he sat and endured it. It had to be endured, admitted, and
accepted. “I’m not a coward, for all that,” he continued. “I’m not
afraid of danger. If I’m made that way, that heights melt me and make
me let go my water”—it was torture for him to pluck at this truth—“if
I’m made like that, I shall have to abide by it, that’s all. It isn’t
all of me.” He thought of Emilie, and was satisfied. “What I am, I am;
and let it be enough,” he thought.
Having accepted his own defect, he sat thinking, waiting for Emilie, to
tell her. She came at length, saying that Franz could not arrange about
his bicycle this night. It was broken. Bachmann would have to stay over
another day.
They were both happy. Emilie, confused before Ida, who was excited and
prurient, came again to the young man. She was stiff and dignified with
an agony of unusedness. But he took her between his hands, and
uncovered her, and enjoyed almost like madness her helpless, virgin
body that suffered so strongly, and that took its joy so deeply. While
the moisture of torment and modesty was still in her eyes, she clasped
him closer, and closer, to the victory and the deep satisfaction of
both of them. And they slept together, he in repose still satisfied and
peaceful, and she lying close in her static reality.