"IF ONE HAS MADE THE ONE GREAT SACRIFICE."
THERE was a suicide in the Kurhaus one afternoon. A Dutchman, Vandervelt,
had received rather a bad account of himself from the doctor a few days
previously, and in a fit of depression, so it was thought, he had put a
bullet through his head. It had occurred through Marie's unconscious
agency. She found him lying on his sofa when she went as usual to take
him his afternoon glass of milk. He asked her to give him a packet which
was on the top shelf of his cupboard.
"Willingly," she said, and she jumped nimbly on the chair, and gave him
the case.
"Anything more?" she asked kindly, as she watched him draw himself up
from the sofa. She thought at the time that he looked wild and strange;
but then, as she pathetically said afterwards, who did not look wild
and strange in the Kurhaus?
"Yes," he said. "Here are five francs for you."
She thought that rather unusual too; but five francs, especially coming
unexpectedly like that, were not to be despised, and Marie determined to
send them off to that Mutterli at home in the nut-brown châlet at Grüsch.
So she thanked Mynheer van Vandervelt, and went off to her pantry to
drink some cold tea which the English people had left, and to clean the
lamps. Having done that, and knowing that the matron was busily engaged
carrying on a flirtation with a young Frenchman, Marie took out her
writing materials, and began a letter to her old mother. These peasants
know how to love each other, and some of them know how to tell each
other too. Marie knew. And she told her mother of the gifts she was
bringing home, the little nothings given her by the guests.
She was very happy writing this letter: the little nut-brown home rose
before her.
"Ach!" she said, "how I long to be home!"
And then she put down her pen, and sighed.
"Ach!" she said, "and when I'm there, I shall long to be here. _Da wo
ich nicht bin, da ist das Gluck_."
Marie was something of a philosopher.
Suddenly she heard the report of a pistol, followed by a second report.
She dashed out of her little pantry, and ran in the direction of the
sound. She saw Wärli in the passage. He was looking scared, and his
letters had fallen to the ground. He pointed to No. 54.
It was the Dutchman's room.
Help arrived. The door was forced open, and Vandervelt was found dead.
The case from which he had taken the pistol was lying on the sofa. When
Marie saw that, she knew that she had been an unconscious accomplice.
Her tender heart overflowed with grief.
Whilst others were lifting him up, she leaned her head against the wall,
and sobbed.
"It was my fault, it was my fault!" she cried. "I gave him the case.
But how was I to know?"
They took her away, and tried to comfort her, but it was all in vain.
"And he gave me five francs," she sobbed. "I shudder to think of them."
It was all in vain that Wärli gave her a letter for which she had been
longing for many days.
"It is from your _Mutterli_," he said, as he put it into her hands. "I
give it willingly. I don't like the look of one or two of the letters
I have to give you, Mariechen. That Hans writes to you. Confound him!"
But nothing could cheer her. Wärli went away shaking his curly head
sadly, shocked at the death of the Dutchman, and shocked at Marie's
sorrow. And the cheery little postman did not do much whistling that
evening.
Bernardine heard of Marie's trouble, and rang for her to come. Marie
answered the bell, looking the picture of misery. Her kind face was
tear-stained, and her only voice was a sob.
Bernardine drew the girl to her.
"Poor old Marie," she whispered. "Come and cry your kind heart out, and
then you will feel better. Sit by me here, and don't try to speak. And
I will make you some tea in true English fashion, and you must take it
hot, and it will do you good."
The simple sisterly kindness and silent sympathy soothed Marie after a
time. The sobs ceased, and the tears also. And Marie put her hand in her
pocket and gave Bernardine the five francs.
"Fräulein Holme, I hate them." she said. "I could never keep them. How
could I send them now to my old mother? They would bring her ill luck--
indeed they would."
The matter was solved by Bernardine in a masterly fashion. She suggested
that Marie should buy flowers with the money, and put them on the
Dutchman's coffin. This idea comforted Marie beyond Bernardine's most
sanguine expectations.
"A beautiful tin wreath," she said several times. "I know the exact kind.
When my father died, we put one on his grave."
That same evening, during _table-d'hôte_, Bernardine told the Disagreeable
Man the history of the afternoon. He had been developing photographs,
and had heard nothing. He seemed very little interested in her relation
of the suicide, and merely remarked:
"Well, there's one person less in the world."
"I think you make these remarks from habit," Bernardine said quietly,
and she went on with her dinner, attempting no further conversation with
him. She herself had been much moved by the sad occurrence; every one
in the Kurhaus was more or less upset; and there was a thoughtful,
anxious expression on more than one ordinarily thoughtless face. The
little French danseuse was quiet: the Portuguese ladies were decidedly
tearful, the vulgar German Baroness was quite depressed: the comedian at
the Belgian table ate his dinner in silence. In fact, there was a weight
pressing down on all. Was it really possible, thought Bernardine, that
Robert Allitsen was the only one there unconcerned and unmoved? She had
seen him in a different light amongst his friends, the country folk,
but it was just a glimpse which had not lasted long. The young-
heartedness, the geniality, the sympathy which had so astonished her
during their day's outing, astonished her still more by their total
disappearance. The gruffness had returned: or had it never been absent?
The lovelessness and leadenness of his temperament had once more
asserted themselves: or was it that they had never for one single day
been in the background?
These thoughts passed through her mind as he sat next to her reading his
paper--that paper which he never passed on to any one. She hardened her
heart against him; there was no need for ill-health and disappointment
to have brought any one to a miserable state of indifference like that.
Then she looked at his wan face and frail form, and her heart softened
at once. At the moment when her heart softened to him, he astonished her
by handing her his paper.
"Here is something to interest you," he said, "an article on Realism in
Fiction, or some nonsense like that. You needn't read it now. I don't
want the paper again.''
"I thought you never lent anything," she said, as she glanced at the
article, "much less gave it."
"Giving and lending are not usually in my line," he replied. "I think I
told you once that I thought selfishness perfectly desirable and
legitimate, if one had made the one great sacrifice."
"Yes," she said eagerly, "I have often wondered what you considered the
one great sacrifice."
"Come out into the air," he answered, "and I will tell you."
She went to put on her cloak and, hat, and found him waiting for her at
the top of the staircase. They passed out into the beautiful night: the
sky was radiantly bejewelled, the air crisp and cold, and harmless to do
ill. In the distance, the jodelling of some peasants. In the hotels, the
fun and merriment, side by side with the suffering and hopelessness. In
the deaconess's house, the body of the Dutchman. In God's heavens, God's
stars.
Robert Allitsen and Bernardine walked silently for some time.
"Well," she said, "now tell me."
"The one great sacrifice," he said half to himself, "is the going on
living one's life for the sake of another, when everything that would
seem to make life acceptable has been wrenched away, not the pleasures,
but the duties, and the possibilities of expressing one's energies,
either in one direction or another: when, in fact, living is only a
long tedious dying. If one has made this sacrifice, everything else
may be forgiven."
He paused a moment, and then continued:
"I have made this sacrifice, therefore I consider I have done my part
without flinching. The greatest thing I had to give up, I gave up: my
death. More could not be required of any one!"
He paused again, and Bernardine was silent from mere awe.
"But freedom comes at last," he said, "and some day I shall be free.
When my mother dies, I shall be free. She is old. If I were to die, I
should break her heart, or, rather she would fancy that her heart was
broken. (And it comes to the same thing). And I should not like to give
her more grief than she has had. So I am just waiting, it may be months,
or weeks, or years. But I know how to wait: if I have not learnt
anything else, I have learnt how to wait. And then" . . . .
Bernardine had unconsciously put her hand on his arm; her face was full
of suffering.
"And then?" she asked, with almost painful eagerness.
"And then I shall follow your Dutchman's example," he said deliberately.
Bernardine's hand fell from the Disagreeable Man's arm.
She shivered.
"You are cold, you little thing," he said, almost tenderly for him.
"You are shivering."
"Was I?" she said, with a short laugh. "I was wondering when you would
get your freedom, and whether you would use it in the fashion you now
intend!"
"Why should there be any doubt?" he asked.
"One always hopes there would be a doubt," she said, half in a whisper.
Then he looked up, and saw all the pain on the little face.