"Wait for me at the fountain," said Eleanore to her companion, as she
crossed the market place in Eschenbach at midday: "I'll call for you as
soon as everything has been discussed."
The coachman pointed out the little house of the widow Nothafft.
A woman with a stern face and unusually large eyebrows asked her what
she wanted as she entered the little shop, which smelled of vinegar and
cheese.
Eleanore replied that she would like to talk with her for a few minutes
quite undisturbed and alone.
The profound seriousness of Marian's features, which resembled more than
anything else an incurable suffering, did not disappear. She closed the
shop and took Eleanore into the living room, and, without saying a word,
pointed to one chair and took another herself.
Above the leather sofa hung the picture of Gottfried Nothafft. Eleanore
looked at it for a long while.
"Dear mother," she finally began, laying her hand on Marian's knee. "I
am bringing you something from Daniel."
Marian twitched. "Good or bad?" she asked. She had not heard from Daniel
for twenty-two months. "Who are you?" she asked, "what have you to do
with him?"
Eleanore saw at once that she would have to be extremely cautious if she
did not wish to offend the sensitive--and offended--woman by some
inconsiderate remark. With all the discrimination she could command she
laid her case before Daniel's mother.
And behold--the unusual became usual, just as the natural seemed
strange. Eleanore pictured Daniel's hardships and rise to fame, boasted
loyally of his talents and of the enthusiasm for him of those who
believed in him, referred to his future renown, and insisted that all
his guilt, including that toward his mother, be forgotten and forgiven.
Marian reviewed the past; she understood a great many things now that
were not clear to her years ago; she understood Daniel better; she
understood virtually everything, except this girl's relation to him and
the girl herself. If it was peculiar that this strange woman had to come
to her to tell her who Daniel was and what he meant to the people, it
was wholly inexplicable that she had brought some one with her who had
been the sweetheart of the very man for whom she now showed unreserved
affection.
Eleanore read Marian's face and became a trifle more deliberate. It
occurred to her, too, to ask herself a few questions: What am I, any
way? What is the matter with me?
She could not give a satisfactory answer to these questions. His friend?
He my friend? The words seemed to contain too much peace and calm.
Brother? Companion? Either of these words brought up pictures of
intimate association, inner relationship. Little Brother! Yes, that is
what she had called out to him once from behind the mask. Well then:
Little sister behind the mask?
Yes, that was what it should be: Little sister behind the mask. She had
to have a hiding place for so many things of which she had only a vague
presentiment and which in truth she did not care to visualise in
brighter outlines. A subdued heart, a captured heart--it glows, it cools
off, you lift it up, you weigh it down just as fate decrees. To be
patient, not to betray anything, that was the all-important point:
Little sister behind the mask--that was the idea.
Marian said: "My child, God himself has inspired you with the idea of
coming to me and telling me about Daniel. I will put fresh flowers in
the window as I did some time ago, and I will leave the front door open
so that the swallows can fly in and build their nests. Perhaps he will
think then from time to time of his mother."
Then she asked to see Meta. Eleanore went out, and returned in a few
minutes with her charge. Marian looked at the pregnant girl
compassionately. Meta was ill at ease; to every question that was put to
her she made an incoherent reply. She could stay with her, said Marian,
but she would have to work, for there was no other way for the two to
live. The girl referred to the fact that she had already worked out for
four years, and that no one had ever accused her of lack of industry or
willingness. Thereupon Marian told her she would have to be very quiet,
that the people in the neighbourhood were very curious, and that if she
ever gave them her family history she would have to leave.
This attended to, Eleanore went on her way. She refused quite
emphatically to stay for dinner. Marian thought that she was in a hurry
to catch the next coach, and accompanied her across the square. They
promised to write to each other; before Eleanore got into the rickety
old coach, Marian kissed her on the cheek.
She watched the coach until it had passed out through the city gate. A
drunken man poked her in the ribs, the blacksmith called to her as she
passed by, the doctor's wife leaned out of the window and asked her who
the cityfied lady was. Marian paid not the slightest attention to any of
them; she went quietly and slowly back to her house.