It has been raining for already two days,—a soft, leisurely drizzle,
but an endless one. Often it increases in vehemence. It begins to
patter upon my roof with rapid fury. Then it seems that at last it
is over. Now the dense grey clouds will empty themselves and the
downpour will cease. The great fury abates, the racket upon the roof
becomes gradually quiet, yet the rain continues to fall, softly and
leisurely. Often so softly that it seems to have stopped. Then I look
out of the window with just a ray of hope that I shall see a clear
sky. But by the wheels that roll incessantly across the pavement I
recognise the eternal rain. The eternal rain. The eternal....
I lower the shades and turn on the electric light. Let it be night.
I’ll seat myself upon the armchair before my desk and pursue my
thoughts, and think and think of——
Of my fortune—or of my misfortune?
It has come upon me so suddenly that I don’t know how to take it. The
day before yesterday I was so happy, and to-day my heart is so heavy,
so heavy.... I know that this is the effect of the ceaseless rain,—of
the weeping, lamenting, grey, dark-grey outdoors. Still, I am so
restless. My feeling comes from within,—comes over me from the depths
of my heart and my soul. It seems to me that I _must_ be moody, and
I cannot understand how I could have been so high-spirited the day
before yesterday. I am vexed that I can no longer be so merry.
So suddenly. So suddenly....
Can it have happened only ten days ago?
Only ten days ago.
* * * * *
_She_ brought me a manuscript, which I was to read and appraise for
her.
Young—perhaps twenty, and maybe only eighteen.
And beautiful—beautiful? Yes, even strikingly beautiful. Scarcely
had I opened the door and beheld her, when a strange sensation
clutched at my heart.
Her eyes! Those deep, black eyes under the long black lashes! They
pierced me at once. I could not tear myself away from them. And thus
overwhelmed, only half conscious, I received the impression that
those eyes were set in a rather long, dark-complexioned, youthful
countenance, and that around a low, alluring forehead played several
black curls mischievously, and that her whole figure was very svelte
and supple,—almost that of a child.
And her voice! Like her eyes. Deep, and of a dark quality, and so
warm. No sooner had she asked, “Does Mr. So-and-so live here, and are
you not he?” than my eyes and my ears were so completely filled with
her that I forgot I must not keep her standing at the door, and that
I must invite her in.
She invited herself, however. She entered my room, far beyond the
threshold, and I closed the door slowly, without removing my glance
from her. And remained standing as if hypnotised, without knowing
whether to make inquiry or to wait until she would tell me who she
was and what she wished of me.
She laughed. Deep, warm, ringing laughter. Why did I not ask her to
be seated?
Oh, yes. Pardon. And I, the father of a daughter almost as old as
she, turned red with embarrassment, it seems. I hastened to fetch her
a chair, but she had already chosen one and sat down.
* * * * *
She continues to speak, while I take my place in my armchair before
the desk and gaze, gaze upon her, my ears thirstily and enchantedly
drinking in the sound of her voice.
She tells me that she pictured me exactly as I am. She has read
everything I have written. She knows all my writings well and has
imagined a picture of me. And the picture is correct. But she did
not think I possessed so many grey hairs. That makes no difference,
however. For I am young. She is certain of that. But she still has
no idea of how my voice sounds. She thus hints that I have said
nothing as yet. And she laughs.
I join the laughter and am at a loss for words. I feel that I must
say something _significant_,—that the maidenly vision with the
beautiful childlike figure, who knows all my writings and has formed
a perfect image of me, is now waiting for deep and notable words to
issue from my lips. Nor do I desire to be insignificant. I don’t care
to utter plain, ordinary, pedestrian words. So I smile and wait for
her to speak further.
She looks about the room, resting her glance for a moment upon the
paintings that hang upon my walls. And soon she transfers her eyes
once more to me. Sharp, penetrating glances, with a great question in
them. And now there rises in her eyes a smile of subtle irony.
Because I do not inquire, she explains in her deep voice, she is
compelled to speak for herself. Why does one come to a famous
author? Naturally, she has for a long time desired to know me, but
without a special reason she would never have dared to come. Now,
however, she comes as to a doctor or a lawyer, on a professional
visit, for an opinion and for counsel. She has written something and
wishes to enjoy the criticism of an authority. Will I not take the
trouble?
I reply politely, very politely: “Certainly, with the greatest of
pleasure.”
She laughs. Oh, she does not believe that her piece will afford me
much pleasure. The very handwriting is impossible. Should I prefer,
perhaps, to have her read it to me?
I desire to hear the sound of her voice. But if she reads she will
look at the manuscript during the entire reading, and I’ll be unable
to see her eyes.
Then she adds, “But I read very badly. My reading is even worse than
my handwriting.” She laughs: she does not care to read, either. For
if she reads it now, I’ll express my opinion at once, and she will
have to arise, say “Good day,” and never call again. She would
rather leave the manuscript with me, and then she will come,—yes,
she will really _come_ and hear the answer. She does not wish it
by mail. She will certainly have a number of questions to ask. She
would prefer to come,—and since, naturally, I shall not have read her
manuscript through, she will have to call again and again....
She deposits upon my desk a small manuscript. For the first time I
see her hand. A wee little hand,—white, tender skin, through which
the lines of the joints are visible.
I take the manuscript, glance at the title-page, peep at the
beginning and at the middle, and feel her deep black eyes upon
me. And as I raise my head I encounter her glances with the great
question in them, and also the subtle irony.
* * * * *
Something taps at my window. And now it miaows. I know that a cat
has taken refuge upon my window-sill from the endless downpour. I am
certain of it, yet I arise from my chair and walk over to take a
look. This furnishes some distraction from my thoughts. And an excuse
for moving. My feet are like ice.
I raise the shade and shudder with fright. A large black cat
is looking up at me from the outer darkness, with her burning,
phosphorescent eyes. I hate a black cat. Not that I am superstitious,
yet in my memory and my nerves there is a residue of everything that
superstition has created concerning black cats. I rap at the window
to drive her away. But she pays little heed to my rapping. She turns
around, selects a comfortable spot and lies down. I am on the point
of opening the window and thrusting her into the street below, but I
don’t care to touch her. I take pity on her, too. Outside the rain is
still falling, falling. Let her lie and rest on a dry spot. Who cares?