A few days later she went out during a pouring rain storm, and wandered
about aimlessly through the streets. Every minute she feared--and
hoped--she would fall over and become unconscious of herself and the
world about her. She passed by two churches, the doors of which were
locked. It was growing dark; she reached the apothecary shop of Herr
Pflaum, and looked in through the glass door. Herr Seelenfromm was
standing at the counter, mixing some medicine in a mortar. She went in
and asked him whether he could not give her a narcotic. He said he
could, and asked her what it should be. "One which makes you sleep for a
long, long while," she said, and smiled at him so as to make him
inclined to fulfil her request. It was the first smile that had adorned
her grief-stricken face for many a day. Herr Seelenfromm was just about
to suggest a remedy to her. He sat down in a vain position so that he
might avail himself of the opportunity to flirt with her a little. The
apothecary, however, came up just then, and when he heard what Gertrude
wanted, he cast a penetrating glance at her and said: "You had better go
to the doctor, my good woman, and have him make you out a prescription.
I have had some rather disagreeable experiences with cases of this
kind."
When Gertrude had finally dragged herself home, she found Philippina
sitting by the cradle of little Agnes, rocking the child back and forth
and humming a lullaby. "Where is Eleanore?" asked Gertrude.
"Where do you think she is?" said Philippina contemptuously: "She is
upstairs with your husband."
Gertrude heard Daniel playing the piano. She raised her head to hear
what he was playing.
"She told me I was to go with her to Glaishammer to get a washwoman for
you," continued Philippina.
"Ah, what do we want with a washwoman?" said Gertrude; "we cannot afford
one. It costs a great deal of money, and every cent of money spent means
a drop of blood from Daniel's veins. Don't go to Glaishammer! I would
rather do the washing myself!"
She knew, however, at that very moment that she had done her last
washing. There was something so mournful about the light of the lamp.
Agnes's little face looked so pale as it peeped out from under the
covers, Philippina cowered so witlessly at the floor. But all this was
only for the moment; all this she could take with her up into a better
world.
She bent down over the child, and kissed it, and kissed it with hot,
burning lips. A lurk of unsoftened evil crept into Philippina's face.
"Listen, Gertrude, listen: you are all Greek to me," said Philippina, "I
don't understand you."
Gertrude went over to Eleanore's room, where she stood for a while in
the dark, trembling and thinking. At times she was startled: she heard
some one walking about, and she thought the door would open. She could
scarcely endure her impatience. Suddenly she remembered the attic and
how quiet it was up there; there no one could disturb her. She decided
to go up. On her way she went into the kitchen, and took a thick cord
from a sugar-loaf.
As she passed by Daniel's room, she noticed that the door was half open.
He was still playing. Two candles were standing on the piano; Eleanore
was leaning up against the side of the piano. She had on a pale blue
dress that fell down over her beautiful body in peaceful folds.
Gertrude looked at the picture with wide-open eyes. There was an
inimitable urging, a reaching aloft, and a painful sinking-back in the
piece he was playing and in the way he was playing it. Gertrude went on
up without making the slightest bit of noise. It was dark, but she found
her way by feeling along with her hands.