It was late in the evening of the following day. Hertha, already half
undressed, stood at the bedroom window and looked at the moon. Her
breast heaved under its burden of woe. She had just written to her best
friend, Ada--Ada von Wehrheimb--with whom, since they were at school
together, she had been supposed to share every joy and sorrow. The
letter, with two postscripts, lay on the table.
At last she had had the courage to tell her friend of the utter wreck
of all her hopes, and, having once written her woes, she realized, as
she had not done before, their full extent, for till now a vague
mistrust of herself had prevented her taking her own suffering
altogether seriously. And when one wanted to feel thoroughly unhappy,
there were so many little things to interrupt one--the cocks and hens,
the foals, the saddle-horses, the swing, Elly's silly chatter, archery,
and, last but not least, grandmamma and her cookery-book. On the other
hand, friends and nourishers of the unhappy mood were "Poetic
Greetings" by Elise Polkos, Leo the dog, embroidery, and, above all,
the moon.
Slowly it sailed, now, above the rustling treetops. The true September
moon--big, white and cold, with sharply defined shadows visible in its
brilliant orb. It swept the grey clouds which seemed to disperse like
silver dust, so soon as it touched them, leaving only a faint mist
behind on the smooth floor of the sky.
The garden-lawns lay brightly illumined in the moonbeams. A swarm of
silvery sparks chased each other over the carp pond directly the breeze
ruffled its waters. It was like a shower of hoar-frost skimming a white
body. In the middle of the flashing circle of light rose the obelisk--a
clumsy pile of blackness with sharp-cut corners. On one side it seemed
to project a little as if a round piece had been added on to it there,
and within this arch something dark-red was glowing like a fiery eye.
Hertha looked at it again. She thought she must be mistaken; but the
fiery eye did not disappear. It winked at her roguishly and pryingly as
much as to say, "I know you. You and your stupid love-lorn heart!"
This heart began to beat louder. What could it be at this time of night
making fireworks in the deserted sleeping garden? "If you had an atom
of pluck you would go at once and find out."
When Hertha's will called her courage in question, she was sure to act.
So she flung a grey waterproof over her shoulders, threw an inquiring
glance at Elly, who, with slightly pouting rosy lips, slept the most
profound sleep, and in her slippered feet slid out into the corridor,
where the moonlit window-panes cast a galaxy of bright shapes on the
long wall.
Now she began to be afraid in earnest, but it was not far to the
wicket. The latch clicked, and, breathing quickly, she entered the
garden, the damp dew-laden grass of which struck icy cold through her
thin stockings. All the time the fiery eye still gleamed across at her.
For a moment it seemed as if a lid had dropped over it, but then it
appeared again in a somewhat darker corner. One instant she almost
decided to turn round, but the next she was ashamed of her cowardice
and began to hurry straight towards the suspicious object, at the top
of her speed. Then suddenly a dog barked, and a voice that made her
heart stand still, cried--
"Who is there?"
She was so terrified that she could neither speak nor move a step
backwards or forwards. As if glued to the spot, she stood there till
Leo, the dog, with a friendly whine, pressed his damp nose into the
palm of her hand.
"Who the devil is there?" the voice called out once more, and then
_his_ figure rose up like that of a huge Hun and began to stride
towards the tree that she crouched behind.
"It's only me," she gasped chokingly.
"Child, you! Why aren't you in bed?"
"I couldn't sleep."
"And so are running about out-of-doors late at night. Grandmamma ought
to know this."
He had caught hold of her hand, which in vain struggled to get free.
The short pipe in his mouth emitted clouds of white smoke around her.
Its glowing bowl had been the fiery eye which had blinked at her so
suspiciously.
"You are out yourself," she answered, biting her lips till her teeth
ground together.
"That is a different thing. I am a robust fellow who can stand all
weathers."
"So can I."
"Now, now."
"And if I can't, what does it matter? Nothing could be worse than my
life is at present."
He made a sound of pity with his tongue. "Child, child," he said, "are
we beating our wings again?"
"Oh, go away--leave me alone." And she warded him off with her elbows;
she was not far from sobbing.
"Don't begin the old game, Hertha; I haven't done anything to you for a
long time."
"No, that's true," she replied, "you haven't done anything to me,
nothing at all either bad or good."
He stroked his beard meditatively. "As we are here, child, and it seems
that we both can't sleep, come and sit down. Sit down beside me; we may
find lots to talk about."
She felt dimly, "Now I must defend myself." But how could she resist?
Already he had seized her by the shoulder and drawn her to the steps of
the obelisk, where he had been sitting before.
"What am I to do here?" she asked, cowering down.
"Be sincere, out with it. You are not happy, my child?"
She shrugged her shoulders twice. "Not even _now_!" she said.
He suppressed a smile. "Come, confess.... What ails you? We have all
remarked on the change in you. Grandmamma is beginning to worry about
it. If you are fond of her, you will be sorry for that, eh?"
She shook her head, struggling with her tears. "I want to be fond of
everybody--everybody."
"Yes, and don't you see we are all anxious that you should be happy?
Don't you understand _that_, you obstinate one?"
"Don't, you only try to hurt me." And she thrust her elbows at him.
"I?" he asked. "Good Heavens! how?"
"You will speak to me always as if I were a child."
"And that hurts you?"
She was silent. Now was the time to tell him all that was in her heart.
The hour of reckoning had come.
But she felt as if her lips, had been sealed. There was a whirling and
rushing in her head. She felt a sensation as of a douche of water
falling from her crown over her limbs, and with a soft sigh she sank
against the stone. He was afraid that faintness had attacked her; and
supporting her with his left arm he bent his head down to hers. The
moon lit up one half of her face, while of the other only the contour
of the oval cheek showed faintly against the darkness.
"Be reasonable, sweet child," he begged.
She did not move, and he could contemplate her at his leisure. Here and
there in the dusky masses of her loose hair shone a high light like a
glowworm, and a few dark strands waved in spiral form over the high
smooth forehead. A line of care which he had not noticed before hovered
at the corners of her softly curved mouth. Taken altogether, it was no
longer the face of a child that lay there shining white in the
moonlight; and, clearer than weeks before after the meeting at the inn,
there awoke in his heart the self-reproach, "Here is the happiness
which you will pass lightly by."
The dreamy sunny premonition, "It will be," dared no more arise out of
his soul's depths. What _had been_, held him in fetters. The past, of
which he had delusively believed himself to be master long ago, ever
stretched its spectre-like form in front of him with more threatening
mien. It filled him at every pore with a dull repellant anguish.
Not for nothing had he come at midnight to set out here and brood over
emotions, which would not exist if one tried to define them with names,
but which suddenly overwhelm a man when he thinks that he is safest
from them. Not for nothing had he foregone sleep, he who at daybreak
must be up and at his work.
His heart went out in a tenderness that was half pain, to this naive
immature being leaning against his arm, full of the unconscious
cravings of youth. It seemed to him that in helping her he must help
himself. He stroked her cheek with an unsteady hand.
"Come now, be good, sweet child," he said in a comforting tone.
"Speak ... unburden your heart."
She sighed heavily and turned her little head slightly towards his
shoulder as if she would like to nestle there.
"Just the same as she was then," he thought--"shy and defiant, but
completely melted by kindness."