"Fraulein—what's your name—what are you smiling at?" called the Young Man.
She blushed and looked up, hands quiet in her lap, looked across the empty tables and shook her head.
"Come here, and I'll show you a picture," he commanded.
She went and stood beside him. He opened the book, and Sabina saw a coloured sketch of a naked girl sitting on the edge of a great, crumpled bed, a man's opera hat on the back of her head.
He put his hand over the body, leaving only the face exposed, then scrutinised Sabina closely.
"Well?"
"What do you mean?" she asked, knowing perfectly well.
"Why, it might be your own photograph—the face, I mean—that's as far as I can judge."
"But the hair's done differently," said Sabina, laughing. She threw back her head, and the laughter bubbled in her round white throat.
"It's rather a nice picture, don't you think?" he asked. But she was looking at a curious ring he wore on the hand that covered the girl's body, and only nodded.
"Ever seen anything like it before?"
"Oh, there's plenty of those funny ones in the illustrated papers."
"How would you like to have your picture taken that way?"
"Me? I'd never let anybody see it. Besides, I haven't got a hat like that!"
"That's easily remedied."
Again a little silence, broken by Anna throwing up the slide.
Sabina ran into the kitchen.
"Here, take this milk and egg up to the Frau," said Anna. "Who've you got in there?"
"Got such a funny man! I think he's a little gone here," tapping her forehead.
Upstairs in the ugly room the Frau sat sewing, a black shawl round her shoulders, her feet encased in red woollen slippers. The girl put the milk on a table by her, then stood, polishing a spoon on her apron.
"Nothing else?"
"Na," said the Frau, heaving up in her chair. "Where's my man?"
"He's playing cards over at Snipold's. Do you want him?"
"Dear heaven, leave him alone. I'm nothing. I don't matter... And the whole day waiting here."
Her hand shook as she wiped the rim of the glass with her fat finger.
"Shall I help you to bed?"
"You go downstairs, leave me alone. Tell Anna not to let Hans grub the sugar—give him one on the ear."
"Ugly—ugly—ugly," muttered Sabina, returning to the cafe where the Young Man stood coat-buttoned, ready for departure.
"I'll come again to-morrow," said he. "Don't twist your hair back so tightly; it will lose all its curl."
"Well, you are a funny one," she said. "Good night."
By the time Sabina was ready for bed Anna was snoring. She brushed out her long hair and gathered it in her hands... Perhaps it would be a pity if it lost all its curl. Then she looked down at her straight chemise, and drawing it off, sat down on the side of the bed.
"I wish," she whispered, smiling sleepily, "there was a great big looking-glass in this room."
Lying down in the darkness, she hugged her little body.
"I wouldn't be the Frau for one hundred marks—not for a thousand marks. To look like that."
And half-dreaming, she imagined herself heaving up in her chair with the port wine bottle in her hand as the Young Man entered the cafe.
Cold and dark the next morning. Sabina woke, tired, feeling as though something heavy had been pressing under her heart all night. There was a sound of footsteps shuffling along the passage. Herr Lehmann! She must have overslept herself. Yes, he was rattling the door-handle.
"One moment, one moment," she called, dragging on her stockings.
"Bina, tell Anna to go to the Frau—but quickly. I must ride for the nurse."
"Yes, yes!" she cried. "Has it come?"
But he had gone, and she ran over to Anna and shook her by the shoulder.
"The Frau—the baby—Herr Lehmann for the nurse," she stuttered.
"Name of God!" said Anna, flinging herself out of bed.
No complaints to-day. Importance—enthusiasm in Anna's whole bearing.
"You run downstairs and light the oven. Put on a pan of water"—speaking to an imaginary sufferer as she fastened her blouse—"Yes, yes, I know—we must be worse before we are better—I'm coming—patience."
It was dark all that day. Lights were turned on immediately the cafe opened, and business was very brisk. Anna, turned out of the Frau's room by the nurse, refused to work, and sat in a corner nursing herself, listening to sounds overhead. Hans was more sympathetic than Sabina. He also forsook work, and stood by the window, picking his nose.
"But why must I do everything?" said Sabina, washing glasses. "I can't help the Frau; she oughtn't to take such a time about it."
"Listen," said Anna, "they've moved her into the back bedroom above here, so as not to disturb the people. That was a groan—that one!"
"Two small beers," shouted Herr Lehmann through the slide.
"One moment, one moment."
At eight o'clock the cafe was deserted. Sabina sat down in the corner without her sewing. Nothing seemed to have happened to the Frau. A doctor had come—that was all.
"Ach," said Sabina. "I think no more of it. I listen no more. Ach, I would like to go away—I hate this talk. I will not hear it. No, it is too much." She leaned both elbows on the table—cupped her face in her hands and pouted.
But the outer door suddenly opening, she sprang to her feet and laughed. It was the Young Man again. He ordered more port, and brought no book this time.
"Don't go and sit miles away," he grumbled. "I want to be amused. And here, take my coat. Can't you dry it somewhere?—snowing again."
"There's a warm place—the ladies' cloak-room," she said. "I'll take it in there—just by the kitchen."
She felt better, and quite happy again.
"I'll come with you," he said. "I'll see where you put it."
And that did not seem at all extraordinary. She laughed and beckoned to him.
"In here," she cried. "Feel how warm. I'll put more wood on that oven. It doesn't matter, they're all busy upstairs."
She knelt down on the floor, and thrust the wood into the oven, laughing at her own wicked extravagance.
The Frau was forgotten, the stupid day was forgotten. Here was someone beside her laughing, too. They were together in the little warm room stealing Herr Lehmann's wood. It seemed the most exciting adventure in the world. She wanted to go on laughing—or burst out crying—or—or—catch hold of the Young Man.
"What a fire," she shrieked, stretching out her hands.
"Here's a hand; pull up," said the Young Man. "There, now, you'll catch it to-morrow."
They stood opposite to each other, hands still clinging. And again that strange tremor thrilled Sabina.
"Look here," he said roughly, "are you a child, or are you playing at being one?"
"I—I—"
Laughter ceased. She looked up at him once, then down at the floor, and began breathing like a frightened little animal.
He pulled her closer still and kissed her mouth.
"Na, what are you doing?" she whispered.
He let go her hands, he placed his on her breasts, and the room seemed to swim round Sabina. Suddenly, from the room above, a frightful, tearing shriek.
She wrenched herself away, tightened herself, drew herself up.
"Who did that—who made that noise?"
... In the silence the thin wailing of a baby.
"Achk!" shrieked Sabina, rushing from the room.
8. THE LUFT BAD.
I think it must be the umbrellas which make us look ridiculous.
When I was admitted into the enclosure for the first time, and saw my fellow-bathers walking about very nearly "in their nakeds," it struck me that the umbrellas gave a distinctly "Little Black Sambo" touch.
Ridiculous dignity in holding over yourself a green cotton thing with a red parroquet handle when you are dressed in nothing larger than a ha
ndkerchief.
There are no trees in the "Luft Bad." It boasts a collection of plain, wooden cells, a bath shelter, two swings and two odd clubs—one, presumably the lost property of Hercules or the German army, and the other to be used with safety in the cradle.
And there in all weathers we take the air—walking, or sitting in little companies talking over each other's ailments and measurements and ills that flesh is heir to.
A high wooden wall compasses us all about; above it the pine-trees look down a little superciliously, nudging each other in a way that is peculiarly trying to a debutante. Over the wall, on the right side, is the men's section. We hear them chopping down trees and sawing through planks, dashing heavy weights to the ground, and singing part songs. Yes, they take it far more seriously.
On the first day I was conscious of my legs, and went back into my cell three times to look at my watch, but when a woman with whom I had played chess for three weeks cut me dead, I took heart and joined a circle.
We lay curled on the ground while a Hungarian lady of immense proportions told us what a beautiful tomb she had bought for her second husband.
"A vault it is," she said, "with nice black railings. And so large that I can go down there and walk about. Both their photographs are there, with two very handsome wreaths sent me by my first husband's brother. There is an enlargement of a family group photograph, too, and an illuminated address presented to my first husband on his marriage. I am often there; it makes such a pleasant excursion for a fine Saturday afternoon."
She suddenly lay down flat on her back, took in six long breaths, and sat up again.
"The death agony was dreadful," she said brightly; "of the second, I mean. The 'first' was run into by a furniture wagon, and had fifty marks stolen out of a new waistcoat pocket, but the 'second' was dying for sixty-seven hours. I never ceased crying once—not even to put the children to bed."
A young Russian, with a "bang" curl on her forehead, turned to me.
"Can you do the 'Salome' dance?" she asked. "I can."
"How delightful," I said.
"Shall I do it now? Would you like to see me?"
She sprang to her feet, executed a series of amazing contortions for the next ten minutes, and then paused, panting, twisting her long hair.
"Isn't that nice?" she said. "And now I am perspiring so splendidly. I shall go and take a bath."
Opposite to me was the brownest woman I have ever seen, lying on her back, her arms clasped over her head.
"How long have you been here to-day?" she was asked.
"Oh, I spend the day here now," she answered. "I am making my own 'cure,' and living entirely on raw vegetables and nuts, and each day I feel my spirit is stronger and purer. After all, what can you expect? The majority of us are walking about with pig corpuscles and oxen fragments in our brain. The wonder is the world is as good as it is. Now I live on the simple, provided food"—she pointed to a little bag beside her—"a lettuce, a carrot, a potato, and some nuts are ample, rational nourishment. I wash them under the tap and eat them raw, just as they come from the harmless earth—fresh and uncontaminated."
"Do you take nothing else all day?" I cried.
"Water. And perhaps a banana if I wake in the night." She turned round and leaned on one elbow. "You over-eat yourself dreadfully," she said; "shamelessly! How can you expect the Flame of the Spirit to burn brightly under layers of superfluous flesh?"
I wished she would not stare at me, and thought of going to look at my watch again when a little girl wearing a string of coral beads joined us.
"The poor Frau Hauptmann cannot join us to-day," she said; "she has come out in spots all over on account of her nerves. She was very excited yesterday after having written two post-cards."
"A delicate woman," volunteered the Hungarian, "but pleasant. Fancy, she has a separate plate for each of her front teeth! But she has no right to let her daughters wear such short sailor suits. They sit about on benches, crossing their legs in a most shameless manner. What are you going to do this afternoon, Fraulein Anna?"
"Oh," said the Coral Necklace, "the Herr Oberleutnant has asked me to go with him to Landsdorf. He must buy some eggs there to take home to his mother. He saves a penny on eight eggs by knowing the right peasants to bargain with."
"Are you an American?" said the Vegetable Lady, turning to me.
"No."
"Then you are an Englishwoman?"
"Well, hardly—"
"You must be one of the two; you cannot help it. I have seen you walking alone several times. You wear your—"
I got up and climbed on to the swing. The air was sweet and cool, rushing past my body. Above, white clouds trailed delicately through the blue sky. From the pine forest streamed a wild perfume, the branches swayed together, rhythmically, sonorously. I felt so light and free and happy—so childish! I wanted to poke my tongue out at the circle on the grass, who, drawing close together, were whispering meaningly.
"Perhaps you do not know," cried a voice from one of the cells, "to swing is very upsetting for the stomach? A friend of mine could keep nothing down for three weeks after exciting herself so."
I went to the bath shelter and was hosed.
As I dressed, someone tapped on the wall.
"Do you know," said a voice, "there is a man who LIVES in the Luft Bad next door? He buries himself up to the armpits in mud and refuses to believe in the Trinity."
The umbrellas are the saving grace of the Luft Bad. Now when I go, I take my husband's "storm" gamp and sit in a corner, hiding behind it.
Not that I am in the least ashamed of my legs.
9. A BIRTHDAY.
Andreas Binzer woke slowly. He turned over on the narrow bed and stretched himself—yawned—opening his mouth as widely as possible and bringing his teeth together afterwards with a sharp "click." The sound of that click fascinated him; he repeated it quickly several times, with a snapping movement of the jaws. What teeth! he thought. Sound as a bell, every man jack of them. Never had one out, never had one stopped. That comes of no tomfoolery in eating, and a good regular brushing night and morning. He raised himself on his left elbow and waved his right arm over the side of the bed to feel for the chair where he put his watch and chain overnight. No chair was there—of course, he'd forgotten, there wasn't a chair in this wretched spare room. Had to put the confounded thing under his pillow. "Half-past eight, Sunday, breakfast at nine—time for the bath"—his brain ticked to the watch. He sprang out of bed and went over to the window. The venetian blind was broken, hung fan-shaped over the upper pane... "That blind must be mended. I'll get the office boy to drop in and fix it on his way home to-morrow—he's a good hand at blinds. Give him twopence and he'll do it as well as a carpenter... Anna could do it herself if she was all right. So would I, for the matter of that, but I don't like to trust myself on rickety step-ladders." He looked up at the sky: it shone, strangely white, unflecked with cloud; he looked down at the row of garden strips and backyards. The fence of these gardens was built along the edge of a gully, spanned by an iron suspension bridge, and the people had a wretched habit of throwing their empty tins over the fence into the gully. Just like them, of course! Andreas started counting the tins, and decided, viciously, to write a letter to the papers about it and sign it—sign it in full.
The servant girl came out of their back door into the yard, carrying his boots. She threw one down on the ground, thrust her hand into the other, and stared at it, sucking in her cheeks. Suddenly she bent forward, spat on the toecap, and started polishing with a brush rooted out of her apron pocket... "Slut of a girl! Heaven knows what infectious disease may be breeding now in that boot. Anna must get rid of that girl—even if she has to do without one for a bit—as soon as she's up and about again. The way she chucked one boot down and then spat upon the other! She didn't care whose boots she'd got hold of. SHE had no false notions of the respect due to the master of the house." He turned away from the window and switched his bath towel from
the washstand rail, sick at heart. "I'm too sensitive for a man—that's what's the matter with me. Have been from the beginning, and will be to the end."
There was a gentle knock at the door and his mother came in. She closed the door after her and leant against it. Andreas noticed that her cap was crooked, and a long tail of hair hung over her shoulder. He went forward and kissed her.
"Good morning, mother; how's Anna?"
The old woman spoke quickly, clasping and unclasping her hands.
"Andreas, please go to Doctor Erb as soon as you are dressed."
"Why," he said, "is she bad?"
Frau Binzer nodded, and Andreas, watching her, saw her face suddenly change; a fine network of wrinkles seemed to pull over it from under the skin surface.
"Sit down on the bed a moment," he said. "Been up all night?"
"Yes. No, I won't sit down, I must go back to her. Anna has been in pain all night. She wouldn't have you disturbed before because she said you looked so run down yesterday. You told her you had caught a cold and been very worried."
Straightway Andreas felt that he was being accused.
"Well, she made me tell her, worried it out of me; you know the way she does."
Again Frau Binzer nodded.
"Oh yes, I know. She says, is your cold better, and there's a warm undervest for you in the left-hand corner of the big drawer."
In a German Pension Page 5
