VI.
Their first business the next morning was to buy another clock. Bydaylight, Louise was full of remorse at what she had done, and inpassing the writing-table, averted her eyes. They went out early to ashop in the GRIMMAISCHESTRASSE; and Maurice stood by and watched hermake her choice.
She loved to buy, and entered into the purchase with leisurelyenjoyment. The shopman and his assistant spared themselves no troublein fetching and setting out their wares. Louise handled each clock asit was put before her, discussed the merits of different styles, and afaint colour mounted to her cheeks over the difficulty of decidingbetween two which she liked equally well. She had pushed up her veil;it swathed her forehead like an Eastern woman's. Her eagerness, whichwas expressed in a slight unsteadiness of nostril and lip, would havehad something childish in it, had it not been for her eyes. Theyremained heavy and unsmiling; and the disquieting half-rings below themwere more bluely brown than ever. Leaning sideways against the counter,Maurice looked away from them to her hands; her fingers were entirelywithout ornament, and he would have liked to load them with rings. Asit was, he could not even pay for the clock she chose; it cost morethan he had to spend in a month.
In the street again, she said she was hungry, and, glad to be able toadd his mite to her pleasure, he took her by the arm and steered her tothe CAFE FRANCAIS, where they had coffee and ices. The church-steepleswere booming eleven when they emerged; it did not seem worth whilegoing home and settling down to work. Instead, they went to theROSENTAL.
It was a brilliant autumn day, rich in light and shade, and there wasonly a breath abroad of the racy freshness that meant subsequent decay.The leaves were turning red and orange, but had not begun to fall; thesky was deeply blue; outlines were sharp and precise. They were both ina mood this morning to be susceptible to their surroundings; they wereeven eager to be affected by them, and made happy. The disagreements ofthe two preceding nights were like bad dreams, which they were anxiousto forget, or at least to avoid thinking of. Her painful, unreasonabletreatment of him, the evening before, had not been touched on betweenthem; after his incoherent attempts to justify himself, after hisbitter self-reproaches, when she lay sobbing in his arms, they hadboth, with one accord, been silent. Neither of them felt any desire foropen-hearted explanations; they were careful not to stir up the depthsanew. Louise was very quiet; had it not been for her eyes, he mighthave believed her happy. But here, just as an hour before in thewatchmaker's shop, they brooded, unable to forget. And yet there was apliancy about her this morning, a readiness to meet his wishes, which,as he walked at her side, made him almost content. The old, foolishdreams awoke in him again, and vistas opened, of a gentle comradeship,which might still come true, when the strenuous side of her love forhim had worn itself out. If only an hour like the present could havelasted indefinitely!
It was a happy morning. They ended it with an improvised lunch at theKAISERPARK; and it remained imprinted on their minds as an unexpectedpatch of colour, in an unending row of grey days, given up to duty.
The next one, and the next again, Louise continued in the same yieldingmood, which was wholly different from the emotional expansiveness ofthe past weeks. Maurice took a glad advantage of her willingness toplease him, and they had several pleasant walks together: to Napoleon'sbattlefields; along the GRUNE GASSE and the POETENWEG to Schiller'shouse at Gohlis; and into the heart of the ROSENTAL--DAS WILDEROSENTAL--where it was very solitary, and where the great trees seemedto stagger under their load of stained leaves.
A burst of almost July radiance occurred at this time; and one day,Louise expressed a wish to go to the country, in order that, by oncemore being together for a whole day on end, they might relive in fancythe happy weeks they had spent on the Rochlitzer Berg. It was never herway to urge over-much, which made it hard to refuse her; so it wasarranged that they should set off betimes the following Saturday.
Maurice had his reward in the cry of pleasure she gave when he wakenedher to tell her that it was a fine day.
"Get up, dear! It's less than an hour till the train goes."
For the first time for weeks, Louise was her impetuous self again. Shethrew things topsy-turvy in the room. It was he who drew her attentionto an unfastened hook, and an unbound ribbon. She only pressed forward.
"Make haste!--oh, make haste! We shall be late."
An overpowering smell of newly-baked rolls issued from the bakers'shops, and the errand-boys were starting out with their baskets. Womenand house-porters were coming out to wash pavements and entrances: thecollective life of the town was waking up to another uneventful day;but they two were hastening off to long hours of sunlight and freshair, unhampered by the passing of time, or by fallacious ideas of duty;were setting out for a new bit of world, to strange meals taken instrange places, reached by white roads, or sequestered wood-paths. Inthe train, they were crushed between the baskets of the marketwomen,who were journeying from one village to another. These sat with theirwizened hands clasped on their high stomachs, or on the handles oftheir baskets, and stared, like stupid, placid animals, at the strangeyoung foreign couple before them. Partly for the frolic of astonishingthem, and also because he was happy at seeing Louise so happy, Mauricekissed her hand; but it was she who astonished them most. When she gavea cry, or used her hands with a sudden, vivid effect, or flashed herwhite teeth in a smile, every head in the carriage was turned towardsher; and when, in addition, she was overtaken by a fit of loquacity,she was well-nigh devoured by eyes.
They did not travel as far as they had intended. From the carriagewindow, she saw a wayside place that took her fancy.
"Here, Maurice; let us get out here."
Having breakfasted, and left their bags at an inn, they strayed atrandom along an inviting road lined with apple-trees. When Louise grewtired, they rested in the arbour of a primitive GASTHAUS, and ate theirmidday meal. Afterwards, in a wood, he spread a rug for her, and shelay in a nest of sun-spots. Only their own voices broke the silence.Then she fell asleep, and, until she opened her eyes again, and calledto him in surprise, no sound was to be heard but the sudden, crisprustling of some bird or insect. When evening fell, they returned totheir lodging, ate their supper in the smoky public room--for, outside,mists had risen--and then before them stretched, undisturbed, the longevening and the longer night, to be spent in a strange room, of whichthey had hitherto not suspected the existence, but which, from now on,would be indissolubly bound up with their other memories.
The first day passed in such a manner was as flawless as any they hadknown in the height of summer--with all the added attractions of closerintimacy. In its course, the shadows lifted from her eyes; and Mauriceceased to remember that he had made a mess of his affairs. But the verynext one failed--as far as Louise was concerned--to reach the samelevel: it was like a flower ever so slightly overblown. The lyriccharms that had so pleased her--the dewy freshness of the morning, thesolitude, the unbroken sunshine--were frail things, and, snatched withtoo eager a hand, crumbled beneath the touch. They were not made tostand the wear and tear of repetition. It was also impossible, shefound, to live through again days such as they had spent at Rochlitz;time past was past irrevocably, with all that belonged to it. And itwas further, a mistake to believe that a more intimate acquaintancemeant a keener pleasure; it was just the stimulus of strangeness, thepiquancy of feeling one's way, that had made up half the fascination ofthe summer.
With sure instinct, Louise recognised this, even while she exclaimedwith delight. And her heart sank: not until this moment had she knownhow high her hopes had been, how firmly she had pinned her faith uponthe revival of passion which these days were to bring to pass. Theknowledge that this had been a delusion, was hard to bear. In thought,she was merciless to herself, when, on waking, the second morning, shelooked with unexpectant eyes over the day that lay before her. Couldnothing satisfy her, she asked herself? Could she not be content fortwenty-four hours on end? Was it eternally her lot to come to the endof things, before they h
ad properly begun? It seemed, always, as if shealone must be pressing forward, without rest. Here, on the second ofthese days of love and sunshine, she saw, with absolute clearness, thatneither this nor any other day had anything extraordinary to give her;and sitting silent at dinner, under an arbour of highly-colouredcreeper, she was overcome by such a laming discouragement, that shelaid her knife and fork down, and could eat no more.
Maurice, watching her across the table, believed that she wasover-tired, and filled up her glass with wine.
But she did not yield without a struggle. And it was not merelyrebellion against the defects of her own nature, which prompted her.The prospect of the coming months filled her with dismay. When thislast brief spell of pleasure was over, there was nothing left, to whichshe could look forward. The approaching winter stretched before herlike a starless night; she was afraid to let her mind dwell on it. Whatwas she to do?--what was to become of her, when the short dark dayscame down again, and shut her in? The thought of it almost drove hermad. Desperate with fear, she shut her eyes and went blindly forward,determined to extract every particle of pleasure, or, at least, ofoblivion, that the present offered.
Under these circumstances, the poor human element in their relationsbecame once again, and more than ever before, the pivot on which theirlives turned. Louise aimed deliberately at bringing this about.Further, she did what she had never yet done: she brought to bear ontheir intercourse all her own hardwon knowledge, and all her arts. Shedrew from her store of experience those trifling, yet weighty details,which, once she has learned them, a woman never forgets. And, inaddition to this, she took advantage of the circumstances in which theyfound themselves, utilising to the full the stimulus of strange timesand places: she fired the excitement that lurked in surreptitiousembrace and surrender, under all the dangers of a possible surprise.She was perverse and capricious; she would turn away from him till shereduced him to despair; then to yield suddenly, with a completenessthat threatened to undo them both. Her devices were never-ending. Notthat they were necessary: for he was helpless in her hands when sheassumed the mastery. But she could not afford to omit one of the meansto her end, for she had herself to lash as well as him. And so, oncemore, as at the very beginning, hand grew to be a weight in hand,something alive, electric; and any chance contact might rouse a blastin them. She neither asked nor Showed mercy. Drop by drop, they drainedeach other of vitality, two sufferers, yet each thirsty for the other'slife-blood; for, with this new attitude on her part, an element ofcruelty had entered into their love. When, with her hands on hisshoulders, her insatiable lips apart, Louise put back her head andlooked at him, Maurice was acutely aware of the hostile feeling in her.But he, too, knew what it was; for, when he tried to urge prudence onher, she only laughed at him; and this low, reckless laugh, her savageeyes, and morbid pallor, invariably took from him every jot of concern.
They returned to Leipzig towards the middle of the first week, in ordernot to make their absence too conspicuous. But they had arranged to goaway again, on the following Saturday, and, in the present state ofthings, the few intervening days seemed endless. Louise shut herselfup, and would see little of him.
The next week, and the next again, were spent in the same fashion. Afine and mild October ran its course. For the fourth journey, towardsthe end of the month, they had planned to return to Rochlitz. At thelast moment, however, Maurice opposed the scheme, and they left thetrain at Grimma. It was Friday, and a superb autumn day. They put up,not in the town itself, but at an inn about a mile and a half distantfrom it. This stood on the edge of a wood, was a favourite summerresort, and had lately been enlarged by an additional wing. Now, it wasempty of guests save themselves. They occupied a large room in the newpart of the building, at the end of a long corridor, which was shut offby a door from the rest of the house. They were utterly alone; therewas no need for them even to moderate their voices. In the earlymorning hours, and on the journey there, Maurice had thought he noticedsomething unusual about Louise, and, more than once, he had asked herif her head ached. But soon he forgot his solicitude.
Next morning, he felt an irresistible inclination to go out: openingthe window, he leaned on the sill. A fresh, pleasant breeze wasblowing; it bent the tops of the pines, and drove the white cloudssmoothly over the sky. He suggested that they should walk to the ruinedcloister of Nimbschen; but Louise responded very languidly, and he hadto coax and persuade. By the time she was ready to leave the untidyroom, the morning was more than half over, and the shifting clouds hadballed themselves into masses. Before the two emerged from the wood, aneven network of cloud had been drawn over the whole sky; it looked likerain.
They walked as usual in silence, little or nothing being left to say,that seemed worth the exertion of speech. Each step cost Louise avisible effort; her arms hung slack at her sides; her very hands feltheavy. The pallor of her face had a greyish tinge in it. Maurice beganto regret having hurried her out against her will.
They were on a narrow path skirting a wood, when she suddenly expresseda wish for some tall bulrushes that grew beside a stream, some distancebelow. Maurice went down to the edge of the water and began to cut therushes. But the ground was marshy, and the finest were beyond his reach.
On the path at the top of the bank, Louise stood and followed hismovements. She watched his ineffectual efforts to seize the furtherreeds, saw how they slipped back from between his hands; she watchedhim take out his knife and open it, endeavour once more to reach thosehe wanted, and, still unsuccessful, choose a dry spot to sit down on;saw him take off his boots and stockings, then rise and go cautiouslyout on the soft ground. Ages seemed to pass while she watched him dothese trivial things; she felt as if she were gradually turning tostone as she stood. How long he was about it! How deliberately hemoved! And she had the odd sensation, too, that she knew beforehandeverything he would and would not do, just as if she had experienced italready. His movements were of an impossible circumstantiality, out ofall proportion to the trifling service she had asked of him; for, atheart, she cared as little about the rushes as about anything else. Butit was an unfortunate habit of his, and one she noticed more and moreas time went on, to make much of paltry details, which, properly,should have been dismissed without a second thought. It implied acertain tactlessness, to underline the obvious in this fashion. Thevery way, for instance, he stretched out his arm, unclasped his knife,leant forward, and then stooped back to lay the cut reeds on the bank.Oh, she was tired!--tired to exasperation!--of his ways and actions--astired as she was of his words, and of the thousand and one occurrences,daily repeated, that made up their lives. She would have liked to creepaway, to hide herself in an utter seclusion; while, instead, it was herlot to assist, hour after hour, at making much of what, in the depthsof her soul, did not concern her at all. Nothing, she felt, would everreally concern her again. She gazed fixedly before her, at him, too,but without seeing him, till her sight was blurred; trees and sky,stream and rushes, swam together in a formless maze. And all of asudden, while she was still blind, there ran through her such anintense feeling of aversion, such a complete satedness with all she hadof late felt and known, that she involuntarily took a step backwards,and pressed her palms together, in order to hinder herself fromscreaming aloud. She could bear it no longer. In a flash, she graspedthat she was unable, utterly unable, to face the day that was beforeher. She knew in advance every word, every look and embrace that itheld for her: rather than undergo them afresh, she would throw herselfinto the water at her feet. Anywhere, anywhere!--only to get away, tobe alone, to cover her face and see no more! Her hand went to herthroat; her breath refused to come; she shivered so violently that shewas afraid she would fall to the ground.
Maurice, all unsuspecting, sat with his back to her, and laced hisboots.
But he was startled into an exclamation, when he climbed the bank andsaw the state she was in.
"Louise! Good Heavens, what's the matter? Are you ill?"
He took her by the arm, and shook h
er a little, to arrest her attention.
"Maurice! ... no!" Her voice was hoarse. "Oh, let me go home!"
He repeated the words in amazed alarm. "But what is it, darling? Areyou ill? Are you cold?--that you're trembling like this?"
"No ... yes. Oh, I want to go home!--back to Leipzig."
"Why, of course, if you want to. At once."
The rushes lay forgotten on the ground. Without further words, theyhastened to the inn. There, Maurice helped her to throw her things intothe bag she had not wholly unpacked, and, having paid the bill, ledher, with the same feverish haste, through the woods and town to therailway-station. He was full of distressed concern for her, but hardlydared to show it, for, to all his questions, she only shook her head.Walking at his side, she dug her nails into her palms till she felt theblood come, in her effort to conceal and stifle the waves of almostphysical repugnance that passed through her, making it impossible forher to bear even the touch of his hand. In the train, she leaned backin the corner, and, shutting her eyes, pretended to be asleep.
They took a droschke home; the driver whipped up his horse; thelandlady was called in to make the first fire of the season. Louisewent to bed at once. She wanted nothing, she said, but to lie still inthe darkened room. He should go away; she preferred to be alone. No,she was not ill, only tired, but so tired that she could not keep hereyes open. She needed rest: tomorrow she would be all right again. Heshould please, please, leave her, and go away. And, turning her face tothe wall, she drew the bedclothes over her head.
At his wits' end to know what it all meant, Maurice complied. But athome in his room, he could settle to nothing; he trembled at everyfootstep on the stair. No message came, however, and when he had seenher again that evening, he felt more reassured.
"It's nothing--really nothing. I'm only tired ... yes, it was too much.Just let me be, Maurice--till to-morrow." And she shut her eyes again,and kept them shut, till she heard the door close behind him.
He was reassured, but still, for the greater part of the night, he laysleepless. He was always agitated anew by the abrupt way in whichLouise passed from mood to mood; but this was something different; hecould not understand it. In the morning, however, he saw things in aless tragic light; and, on sitting down to the piano, he experiencedalmost a sense of satisfaction at the prospect of an undisturbed day'swork.
Meanwhile Louise shrank, even in memory, from the feverish weeks justpast, as she had shrunk that day from his touch. And she struggled tokeep her thoughts from dwelling on them. But it was the first time inher life that she felt a like shame and regret; and she could not ridher mind of the haunting images. She knew the reason, too; darknessbrought the knowledge. She had believed, had wished to believe, thatthe failure was her fault, a result of her unstable nature; whereas thewhole undertaking had been merely a futile attempt to bolster up theimpossible, to stave off the inevitable, to postpone the end. And ithad all been in vain. The end! It would come, as surely as day followednight--had perhaps indeed already come; for how else could the nervousaversion be explained, which had seized her that day? What, during theforegoing weeks, she had tried not to hear; what had sounded in herears like the tone of a sunken bell, was there at last, horrible anddeafening. She had ceased to care for him, and ceased, surfeited withabundance, with the same vehement abruptness as she had once begun. Theswiftness with which things had swept to a conclusion, had,confessedly, been accelerated by her unhappy temperament; but, howevergentle the gradient, the point for which they made would have remainedthe same. What she was now forced to recognise was, that the wholeaffair had been no more than an episode; and the fact of its havingbegun less brutally than others, had not made it a whit better ablethan these to withstand decay.
A bitter sense of humiliation came over her. What was she? Not a weekago--she could count the days on her fingers--the mere touch of hishand on her hair had made her thrill; and now the sole feeling she wasconscious of was one of dislike. She looked back over the course of herrelations with him, and many things, unclear before, became plain toher. She had gone into the intimacy deliberately, with open eyes,knowing that she cared for him only in a friendly way. She hadbelieved, then, that the gift of herself would mean little to her,while it would secure her a friend and companion. And then, too--shemight as well be quite honest with herself--she had nourished aromantic hope that a love which commenced as did this shy, adoringtenderness, would give her something finer and more enduring than shehad hitherto known. Wrong, all wrong, from beginning to end! It hadbeen no better than those loves which made no secret of their aim anddid not strut about draped in false sentiment. The end of all was oneand the same. But besides this, it had come to mean more to her thanshe had ever dreamt of allowing. You could not play with fire, itseemed, and not be burned. Or, at least, she could not. She was brandedwith wounds. The fierce demands in her, over which she had no control,had once more reared their heads and got the mastery of her, and ofhim, too. There had been no chance, beneath their scorching breath, fora pallid delicacy of feeling.
It did not cross her mind that she would conceal what she felt fromhim. Secrecy implied a mental ingenuity, a tiresome care of word anddeed. His eyes must be opened; he, too, must learn to say the horridword "end." How infinitely thankful she had now reason to be that shehad not yielded to his persuasions, and married him! No, she had neverseriously considered the idea, even at the height of her folly. Butthen, she was never quite sure of herself; there was always a chancethat some blind impulse would spring up in her and overthrow herresolutions. Now, he must suffer, too--and rightly. For, after all, hehad also been to blame. If only he had not importuned her sopersistently, if only he had let her alone, nothing of this would havehappened, and there would be no reason for her to lie and tauntherself. But, in his silent, obstinate way, he had given her no peace;and you could not--she could not!--go on living unmoved, at the side ofa person who was crazy with love for you.
For two nights, she slept little. On the third, worn out, she fell,soon after midnight, into a deep sleep, from which, the followingmorning, she wakened refreshed.
When Maurice came, about half-past twelve, her eyes followed him with anew curiosity, as he drew up a chair and sat down at her bedside. Shewondered what he would say when he knew, and what change would comeover his face. But she made no beginning to enlightening him. In hispresence, she was seized by an ungovernable desire to be distracted, tobe taken out of herself. Also, it was not, she began to grasp, a caseof stating a simple fact, in simple words; it meant all thecircumstantiality of complicated explanation; it meant a still moremurderous tearing up of emotion. And besides this, there was anotherfactor to be reckoned with, and that was the peculiar mood he was in.For, as soon as he entered the room, she felt that he was differentfrom what he had been the day before.
She heard the irritation in his voice, as he tried to persuade her tocome out to dinner with him. In fancy she saw it all: saw them walkingtogether to the restaurant, at a brisk pace, in order to waste none ofhis valuable time; saw dinner taken quickly, for the same reason; sawthem parting again at the house-door; then herself in the room alone,straying from sofa to window and back again, through the long hours ofthe long afternoon. A kind of mental nausea seized her at the thoughtthat the old round was to begin afresh. She brought no answer over herlips. And after waiting some time in vain for her to speak, Mauricerose, and, still under the influence of his illhumour, drew up thethree blinds, and opened a window. A cold, dusty sunlight poured intothe room.
Louise gave a cry, and put her hands to her eyes.
"The room is so close, and you're so pale," he said in selfexcuse. "Doyou know you've been shut up in here for three days now?"
"My head aches."
"It will never be any better as long as you lie there. Dearest, what isit? WHAT'S the matter with you?"
"You're unhappy about something," he went on, a moment later. "What isit? Won't you tell me?"
"Nothing," she murmured. She lay and pressed her
palms to her eyeballs,so firmly that when she removed them, the room was a blur. Maurice,standing at the window, beat a tattoo on the pane. Then, with his backto her, he began to speak. He blamed himself for what he called thefolly of the past weeks. "I gave way when I should have been firm. Andthis is the result. You have got into a nervous, morbid state. But it'snonsense to think it can go on."
For the first time, she was conscious of a somewhat critical attitudeon his part; he said "folly" and "nonsense." But she made no comment;she lay and let his words go over her. They had so little import now.All the words that had ever been said could not alter a jot of what shefelt--of her intense inward experience.
Her protracted silence, her heavy indifference infected him; and forsome time the only sound to be heard was that of his fingers drummingon the glass. When he spoke again, he seemed to be concluding anargument with himself; and indeed, on this particular day, Mauricefound it hard to detach his thoughts from himself, for any length oftime.
"It's no use, dear. Things can't go on like this any longer. I've gotto buckle down to work again. I've ... I...I haven't told you yet:Schwarz is letting me play the Mendelssohn."
She thought she would have to cry aloud; here it was again: thechilling atmosphere of commonplace, which her nerves were expected tolive and be well in; the well-worn phrases, the "must this," and "mustthat," the confident expectation of interest in doings that did notinterest her at all. She could not--it would kill her to begin it anew!And, in spite of her efforts at repression, an exclamation forced itsway through her lips.
At this, Maurice went quickly back to her.
"Forgive me ... talking about myself, when you are not well."
He knelt down beside the bed, and removed her hands from her face. Shedid not open her eyes, kept quite still. At this moment, she feltmainly curious: would the strange aversion to his touch return? He waskissing her palms, pressing them to his face. She drew a long, deepsigh: it did not come back. On the contrary, the touch of his hand waspleasant to her. He stroked her cheek, pushed back a loose piece ofhair from her forehead; and, as he did this, she was aware of the oldsense of well-being. Beneath his hand, irksome thoughts fell away.Backwards and forwards it travelled, as gently as though she were asick person. And, little by little, so gradually that, at first, sheherself was not conscious of them, other wishes came to life in heragain. She began to desire more than mere peace. The craving came overher to forget her self-torturings, and to forget them in a dizzy whirl.Reaching up, she put her arms round his neck, and drew him down. Hekissed her eyelids. At this she opened her eyes, enveloping him in alook he had learnt to know well. For a second he sustained it: his lifewas concentrated in the liquid fire of these eyes, in these eagerparted lips. She pressed them to his, and he felt a smart, like a bee'ssting.
With a jerk, he thrust her arms away, and rose to his feet; to keep hisbalance he was obliged to grasp the back of a chair. Taking out hishandkerchief, he pressed it to his lip.
"Maurice!"
"It's late ... I must go ... I must work, I tell you." He stood staringat the drop of blood on his handkerchief.
"Maurice!"
He looked round him in a confused way; he was strangely angry, andhasty to no purpose. "Won't you ... then you won't come out with me?"
"Maurice!" The word was a cry.
"Oh, it's foolish! You don't know what you're doing." He had found hiscoat, and was putting it on, with unsure hands. "Then, if ... thisevening, then! As usual. I'll come as usual."
The door shut behind him; a minute later, the street-door banged. Atthe sound Louise seemed to waken. Starting up in bed, she threw a wildlook round the empty room; then, turned on her face, and bit a hole inthe linen of the pillow.
Maurice worked that afternoon as though his future was conditioned bythe number of hours he could practise before evening. Throughout thesethree days, indeed, his zeal had been unabating. He would never haveyielded so calmly to the morbid fashion in which she had cooped herselfup, had not the knowledge that his time was his own again, beensomething of a relief to him. Yes, at first, relief was the word forwhat he felt. For, after making one good resolution on top of another,he had, when the time came, again been a willing defaulter. He hadallowed the chance to slip of making good, by redoubled diligence, hisfoolish mistake with regard to Schwarz. Now it was too late; though themaster had let him have his way in the choice of piece for the comingPRUFUNG, it had mainly been owing to indifference. If only he did notprove unequal to the choice now it was made! For that he was out of therut of steady work, was clear to him as soon as he put his hands to thepiano.
But he had never been so forlornly energetic as on this particularafternoon. Yet there was something mechanical, too, about his playing;neither heart nor brain was in it. Mendelssohn's effective roulades ranthoughtlessly from his fingers: in the course of a single day, he hadcome to feel a deep contempt for the emptiness of these runs andflourishes. He pressed forward, however, hour after hour without abreak, as though he were a machine wound up for the purpose. But withthe entrance of dusk, his fictitious energy collapsed. He did not eventrouble to light the lamp, but, throwing himself on the sofa, coveredhis eyes with his arm.
The twilight induced sensations like itself--vague, formless,intolerable. A sudden recognition of the uselessness of human strivinggrew up in him, with the rapidity of a fungus. Effort and work,ambition and success, alike led nowhere, were so many blind alleys:ambition ended in smoke; success was a fleeing phantom, which onesought in vain to grasp. To the great mass of mankind, it was more thanimmaterial whether one of its units toiled or no; not a single soul wasbenefited by it. Most certainly not the toiler himself. It was onlygiven to a few to achieve anything; the rest might stand aside early inthe day. Nothing of their labours would remain, except the scars theythemselves bore.
He was unhappy; to-night he knew it with a painful clearness. The shockhad been too rude. For him, change had to be prepared, to comegradually. Sooner or later, no doubt, he would right himself again; butin the meantime his plight was a sorry one. It was his duty to protecthimself against another onslaught of the kind--to protect them both.For there was no blinking the fact: a few more weeks like theforegoing, and they would have been two of the wretchedest creatures onearth. They were miserable enough as it was, he in his, she in her ownway. It must never happen again. She, too, had doubtless becomesensible of this, in the course of the past three days. But had she?Could he say that? What had she thought?--what had she felt? And hetold himself that was just what he would never know.
He saw her as she had lain that morning, her arms long and white on thecoverlet. He recalled all he had said, and tried to piece thingstogether; an inner meaning seemed to be eluding him. Again, in memory,he heard the half-stifled cry that had drawn him to her side, felt herhands in his, the springy resistance of her hair, the delicate skin ofher eyelids. Then, he had not understood the sudden impulse that hadmade him spring to his feet. But now, as he lay in the dusk, and summedup these things, a new thought, or hardly a thought so much as anintuition, flashed through his mind, instantly to take entirepossession of him--just as if it had all along been present, inwaiting. Simultaneously, the colour mounted to his face: he refused toharbour such a thought, and put it from him, angry with himself. But itwas not to be kept down; it rose again, in an inexplicable way--thissuggestion, which was like a slur cast on her. Why, he demanded ofhimself, should it not have occurred to him before?--once, twenty, ahundred times? For the same thing had often happened: times withoutnumber, she had striven to keep him at her side. Was its presenceto-day a result of his aimless irritation? Or was it because, afterholding him at arm's length for three whole days, she had asked, onreturning to him, neither affection nor comradeship, only the blindgratification of sense?
He did not know. But forgotten hints and trifles--words, acts,looks--which he had never before considered consciously, now recurredto him as damning evidence. With his arm still across his eyes, he layand let it work in him;
let doubts and frightful uncertainties grow upin his brain; suffered the most horrible suffering of all--doubt of theone beloved. He seemed to be looking at things from a new point, seeingthem in different proportions--all his own poor hopes and beliefs aswell and, while the spasm of distrust lasted, he felt inclined to doubtwhether she had ever really cared for him. He even questioned his ownfeeling for her, seeking to discover whether it, too, had not beenbased on a mere sensual fancy. He saw them satisfying an instinct,without reason and without nobility. And, by this light, he read areason for the past months, which made him groan aloud.
He rose and paced the room. If what he was thinking of her were true,then it would be better for both their sakes if he never saw her again.But, even while he said this, he knew that he would have to see her,and without loss of time. What he needed was to stand face to face withher, to look into her eyes, which, whatever they might do, had neverlearned to hide the truth, and there gain the certainty that hisimaginings were monstrous--the phantoms of a melancholy Octobertwilight.
It was nearly nine o'clock, but there was no light in her room. Hepictured her lying in the dark, and was filled with remorse. But hesaid her name in vain; the room was empty. Lighting the lamp, he sawthat the bedclothes had been thrown back over the foot-end of theunmade bed, as though she had only just left it. The landlady said thatshe had gone out, two hours previously, without leaving any message.All he could do was to sit down and wait; and in the long half-hourthat now went by, the black thoughts that had driven him there wereforgotten. His only wish was to have her safe beside him again.
Towards ten o'clock he heard approaching sounds. A moment later Louisecame in. She blinked at the light, and began to unfasten her veilbefore she was over the threshold.
He gave a sigh of relief. "At last! Thank goodness! Where have youbeen?"
"Did you think I was lost? Have you been here long?"
"For hours. Where else should I be? But you--where have you been?"
Standing before the table, she fumbled with the veil, which she hadpulled into a knot. He did not offer to help her; he stood looking ather, and both voice and look were a little stern.
"Why did you go out?"
She did not look at him. "Oh, just for a breath of air. I felt I ... IHAD to do something."
From the moment of her entrance, even before she had spoken, Mauricewas aware of that peculiar aloofness in her, which invariably madeitself felt when she was engrossed by something in which he had no part.
"That's hardly a reason," he said nervously.
With the veil stretched between her two hands, she turned her head. "Doyou want another? Well, after you left me to-day, I lay and thought andthought ... till I felt I should go mad, if I lay there any longer."
"Yes, but all of a sudden, like this! After being in bed for three days... to go out and ..."
"But I have not been ill!"
"Go out and wander about the streets, at night."
"I didn't mean to be so late," she said, and folded the veil with anexaggerated care. "But I was hindered; I had a little adventure."
"What do you mean?"
"Oh, nothing much. A man followed me--and I couldn't get rid of him."
"Go on, please!" He was astonished at the severity of his own voice.
"Oh, don't be so serious, Maurice!" She had folded the veil to a neatsquare, stuck three hatpins in it, and thrown it with her hat andjacket on the sofa. "No one has tried to murder me," she said, andraised both her hands to her hair. "I was standing before Haase'swindow--the big jeweller's in the PETERSTRASSE, you know. I've alwaysloved jewellers' windows--especially at night, when they're lighted up.As a child, I thought heaven must be like the glitter of diamonds onblue velvet--the Jasper Sea, you know, and the pearly floor."
"Never mind that now!"
"Well, I was standing there, looking in, longer perhaps than I knew. Ifelt that some one was beside me, but I didn't see who it was, till Iheard a man's voice say: 'SCHONE SACHEN, FRAULEIN, WAS?' Of course, Itook no notice; but I didn't run away, as if I were afraid of him. Iwent on looking into the window, till he said: 'DARF ICH IHNEN ETWASSKAUFEN?'and more nonsense of the same kind. Then I thought it was timeto go. He followed me down the PETERSTRASSE, and when I came to theROSSPLATZ, he was still behind me. So I determined to lead him a dance.I've been walking about, with him at my heels, for over an hour. In aquiet street where there was no one in sight, he spoke to me again, andrefused to go away until I told him where I lived. I pretended toagree, and, on the condition that he didn't follow me any further, Igave him a number in the QUERSTRASSE; and in case he broke his. word, Icame home that way. I hope he'll spend a pleasant evening looking forme."
She laughed--her fitful, somewhat unreal laugh, which was alwaysdispleasing to him. To-night, taken in conjunction with her story, andher unconcerned way of telling it, it jarred on him as never before.
"Let me catch him here, and I'll make it impossible for him to insult awoman again!" he cried. "For it is an insult though you don't see it inthat light. You laugh as you tell it, as if something amusing hadhappened to you. You are so strange sometimes.--Tell me, dearest, WHYdid you go out? When I asked you, you wouldn't come."
"No. Then I wasn't in the mood." Her smile faded.
"No. But after dark--and quite alone--then the mood takes you."
"But I've done it hundreds of times before. I can take care of myself."
"You are never to do it again--do you hear?--Why didn't you give thefellow in charge?" he asked a moment later, in a burst of distrust.
Again Louise laughed. "Oh, a German policeman would find that ratherfunny than otherwise. It's the rule, you know, not the exception. Andthe same thing has happened to me before. So often that it's literallynot worth mentioning. I shouldn't have spoken of it to-night if youhadn't been so persistent. Besides," she added as an afterthought--and,in the face of his grave displeasure, she found herself wilfullyexaggerating the levity of her tone--"besides, this wasn't the kind ofman one gives in charge. Not the usual commercial-traveller type. AGraf, or Baron, at least."
He was as nettled as she had intended him to be. "You talk just as ifyou had had experience in the class of man.--Do you really think itmakes things any better? To my mind, it's a great deal worse.--But thething is--you don't know how ... You're not to go out alone again atnight. I forbid it. This is the first time for weeks; and see whathappens! And it's not you may well say it has happened to you before. Idon't know what it is, but--The very cab-drivers look at you as they'veno business to--as they don't look at other women!"
"Well, can I help that?--how men look at me?" she asked indignantly."Do you wish to say it's my fault? That I do anything to make them?"
"No. Though it might be better if you did," he answered gloomily. "Theunpleasant thing is, though you do nothing ... that it's there all thesame ... something ... I don't know what."
"No, I don't think you do, and neither do I. But I do know that you arebeing very rude to me." As he made no reply, she went on: "You will,however, at least give me credit for knowing how to keep men at adistance, though I can't hinder them from looking at me.--And, for yourown comfort, remember in future that I'm not an inexperienced child.There's nothing I don't know."
"You needn't throw that up at me."
"--I at YOU?" she laughed hotly. "That's surely reversing the order ofthings, isn't it? It ought to be the other way about."
"Unfortunately it isn't." The look he gave her was made up of mingledanger and entreaty; but as she took no notice of it, he turned away,and going to the window, leaned his forehead against the glass. Whataffected him so disagreeably was not the incident of the man followingher, but her light way of regarding it. And as the knowledge of thiscame home to him, he was impelled to go on speaking. "It's a trifle tomake a fuss about, I know," he said. "And I shouldn't give it a secondthought, if I could ONLY feel, Louise, that you looked at it as I do... and felt about it as I do. You seem so indifferent to what itreally means--it's almost as
if you enjoyed it. Other women aredifferent. They resent such a thing instinctively. While you don't eventake offence. And men feel that in you, somehow. That's what makes themlook at you and follow you about. That's what attracts them and alwayshas done--far too easily."
"You among the rest!"
"For God's sake, hold your tongue! You don't know what you're saying."
"Oh, I know well enough." She put her hair back from her forehead, andpassed her handkerchief over her lips. "Instead of lecturing me in thisway, you might be grateful, I think, that I didn't accept the man'soffer and go somewhere to supper with him. It's dull enough here. Youdon't make things very gay for me. To-day, altogether, you are treatingme as if I were a criminal."
He did not answer; the words "You among the rest!" went on sounding inhis ears. Yes, there was truth in them, a horrible truth. Who was he tosit in judgment?--either on her, or on those others who yielded to theattraction that went out from her. Had not he himself been in love withher before he even knew her name. Had he then accused her?--laid theblame at her door?
She caught a moth that was fluttering round the lamp, and carried it tothe window. When, a moment later, he turned and gave her anotherunhappy look, she felt a kind of pity for him, forced as he was, by hisnature, to work himself into unhappiness over such a trivial matter.
"Don't let us say unkind things to each other," she said slowly. "I'msorry. If I had known it would worry you so much, I shouldn't have saida word about it. That would have been easy."
He felt her touch on his arm. As it grew warm and close, he, too, wasfilled with the wish to be at one with her again--to be lulled intosecurity. He pressed her hand.
"Forgive me! To-day I've been bothered--pestered with black thoughts.Or else I shouldn't go on like this."
Now she was silent; both stared out into the night. And then a strangething happened. He began to speak again, and words rose to his lips, ofwhich, a moment before, he had had no idea, but which he now knew forabsolute truth. He said: "I don't want to excuse myself; I'm jealous, Iadmit it. And yet there IS an excuse for me, Louise. For saying suchthings to you, I mean. To-night I--Have you ever thought, dear, what adifference it would make to us, if you had ... I mean if I knew ...that you had never cared for anyone ... if you had never belonged toanyone but me? That's what I wish now more than anything else in theworld. If I could just say to myself: no one but me has ever held herin his arms; and no one ever will. Do you think then, darling, I couldspeak as I have to-night?"
A moment back, he had had no thought of such a thing; now, here it was,expressed, over his lips--another of those strange, inlying truths,which were existent in him, and only waited for a certain moment tocome to light. Strangest of all, perhaps, was the manner in which itimpressed itself on him. In it seemed to be summed up his trouble ofthe afternoon, his suspense and irritation of the later hours. It wasas if he had suddenly found a formula for them, and, as he stated it,he was dumbfounded by its far-reaching significance.
A church-clock pealed a single stroke.
"Oh, yes, perhaps," said Louise, in a low voice. She could not rouseherself to a very keen interest in his feelings.
"No, not perhaps. Yes--a thousand times yes! Everything would bechanged by it. Then I couldn't torment you. And our love would have acertainty such as it can now never have."
"But you knew, Maurice! I told you--everything! You said it didn'tmatter."
"And it doesn't, and never shall. But to make it undone, I wouldcheerfully give years of my life. You're a woman--you can't understandthese things--or know what we miss. You mine only--life wouldn't be thesame."
For a moment she did not answer. Then the same toneless voice came outof the darkness at his side. "But I AM yours only--now. And it's afoolish thing to wish for the impossible."
Maurice Guest Page 36
