* * * * *
The next day she did not come. Nor the day after. But on both days I
_thought_ that she had not come. I did not wish to give the matter
thought, but it haunted me, made me uneasy. If she had promised to
come, she should have kept her word.
I read her manuscript. A very wretched tale. It was supposed to
depict the yearning of a solitary woman for an unknown man. But the
words were weak and the colours false. And I could not get away from
the idea that perhaps she had written them just to have a pretext for
coming to me. “The impudent cat!”
On the third day she came. From the door she laughed to me with her
deep, staccato laughter. “Kept you waiting?”
“Catch me telling you, you cat!”
I bid her enter the room. She advances to the centre, looks about,
gazes toward the door by which my wife entered three days before,
directs her deep look upon me, taking a chair, and speaks with her
deep, velvety voice. “Have you read through my manuscript?”
I am about to tell her the truth, but I feel that I cannot dismiss
her from me forever,—that I desire her to come to me again,—so I
reply, “I’ve read it, but not read it through. You will have to
forgive me.”
“Where did you leave off?”
Yes, where am I to tell her I left off?
“Perhaps you haven’t even started to read it yet?” she suggests,
seeing that no answer to her previous question is forthcoming.
I assure her that I really have read her tale, commencing to relate
the contents, and betraying myself by disclosing a knowledge of the
end.
“Then you’ve read it all!” she laughs.
“Yes,” I confess. “But only superficially,—I merely thumbed the
pages.”
And she, with her deep voice, declares, “Oh, my little story isn’t so
deep that it requires a second reading. You may tell me your opinion.
I will not cry if my little piece is valueless. I know myself that
its worth is very small. And as to my coming to you again, you
needn’t worry. I have brought another manuscript that I wrote in the
past two days.”
* * * * *
Heavens, what is that? Fie! What a scare I got!
The black cat has sprung into the room.
I look at her in terror. And only gradually does my astonishment
master my fear. How did she jump in? For the window is closed!
I go over to the window. The cat presses close to the wall underneath
and gazes up at me, as if entreating me not to cast her out. I raise
the shade. I examine the window. It is shut and fastened. I examine
the panes. Ah, yes, down in the left-hand corner a small opening
has been broken through. A small opening, forming together with the
frame a triangle. And the glass bordering the hole glitters with many
sharp, uneven, jagged edges.
When was the pane broken? How have I failed to notice it sooner? Why
has nobody in the house noticed it?
And how has the cat crawled through? That large black cat through
such a small aperture? She must have scratched her entire skin. I
turn to look at her and am seized with murderous rage. I am about
to kick her, and resolve to throw her back into the rain and the
darkness. If only for the sake of the yellow canary that I have in a
brass cage in another room. But I myself do not wish to do this. I
don’t care to touch the wet cat, and I feel sure that I’ll stain my
fingers with blood.
I summon the housemaid and order her to throw out the cat. She does
not ask how the cat got in. She is certain that some one let the
animal in and would like to know who could have been so careless. Her
first thought and chief concern is the yellow songbird of whom the
entire household is so fond. She seizes the cat and dashes out with
it. She opens the street-door and throws the animal out with a curse.
I wish to learn whether her hands are smeared with blood, but she
does not reappear. She has gone back to her work. I am content. For
a long conversation would have ensued, and I desire to be alone and
undisturbed. I’ll find out later.
* * * * *
To resume.
She sat and spoke for a long time. She also arose from her place and
approached me, so close that I could feel her breath and an odour
of new-mown hay enveloped me; a warmth radiated from her, making
me uncomfortably warm. Several times she placed her hand upon my
hair,—my hair that was more grey than black—the impudent cat! How
dare she! Suppose my wife should happen to come in and surprise us.
She noticed my furtive glances toward the door and laughed. She had
seen my wife leave the house, she asserted. With a young girl. Was
that my daughter? As she spoke she caressed my grey hair and looked
at me with those deep eyes full of endearment and desire. And she
added, with her velvety, resonant voice, “I detest authors’ wives!”
And then: “An artist should not be married. He should be free—for all
and each....”
I maintained a significant silence. What should I say to her? I must
be careful with this woman.
She took my hand and examined my fingers. She held them long and
tenderly, fondling them with her own thin, warm fingers.
Then I had to discourse to her about my creative work, and the touch
of her fingers was immensely pleasant, and I spoke with increasing
warmth and friendliness, so that she might not release my hands.
All at once she leaned forward and kissed me upon the lips, as I was
in the middle of a sentence,—in the very middle of a word.
Like a flash she disappeared from the room.
* * * * *
The cat! The cat has again sprung into the room. Naturally, through
the same opening in the window-pane. I scold and curse. But this time
I’ll not summon the maid. I open the window, seize the cat by the
neck and throw her into the street with all my might. I do not see
her fall, but I hear her strike the stony pavement far off somewhere.
There, now she will hesitate long before she’ll come. That is, if she
is able to move at all.
I close the window and sigh with relief. But that hole must be
stuffed. If it were not for the inclemency of the weather and the
lateness of the hour, I would send for the glazier. But for the
present it must be stuffed with something. I hunt about, find a
newspaper and stop the hole.
Now I may calmly give myself once more over to my thoughts.
* * * * *