CHAPTER XX
The Portier was almost happy that morning. For one thing, he had wonhonorable mention at the Schubert Society the night before; for another,that night the Engel was to sing Mignon, and the Portier had spent hisChristmas tips for a ticket. All day long he had been poring over thescore.
"'Kennst du das Land wo die Citronen bluhen?'" he sang with feelingwhile he polished the floors. He polished them with his feet, wearingfelt boots for the purpose, and executing in the doing a sort ofungainly dance--a sprinkle of wax, right foot forward and back, leftfoot forward and back, both feet forward and back in a sort of doubleshuffle; more wax, more vigorous polishing, more singing, with longerpauses for breath. "'Knowest thou the land where the lemon treesbloom?'" he bellowed--sprinkle of wax, right foot, left foot, any footat all. Now and then he took the score from his pocket and pored overit, humming the air, raising his eyebrows over the high notes, droppinghis chin to the low ones. It was a wonderful morning. Between greetingsto neighbors he sang--a bit of talk, a bit of song.
"'Kennst du das Land'--Good-morning, sir--the old Rax wears a crown. Itwill snow soon. 'Kennst du das Land wo die Citronen'--Ah, madam the milkFrau, and are the cows frozen up to-day like the pump? No? Marvelous!Dost thou know that to-night is Mignon at the Opera, and that the Engelsings? 'Kennst du das Land'--"
At eleven came Rosa with her husband, the soldier from Salzburg with onelung. He was having a holiday from his sentry duty at the hospital,and the one lung seemed to be a libel, for while the women had coffeetogether and a bit of mackerel he sang a very fair bass to the Portier'stenor. Together they pored over the score, and even on their way to thebeer hall hummed together such bits as they recalled.
On one point they differed. The score was old and soiled with muchthumbing. At one point, destroyed long since, the sentry sang A sharp:the Portier insisted on A natural. They argued together over threeSteins of beer; the waiter, referred to, decided for A flat. It was aserious matter to have one's teeth set, as one may say, for a naturaland then to be shocked with an unexpected half-tone up or down! Itdestroyed the illusion; it disappointed; it hurt.
The sentry stuck to the sharp--it was sung so at the Salzburg opera.The Portier snapped his thumb at the Salzburg opera. Things were lookingserious; they walked back to the locale in silence. The sentry coughed.Possibly there was something, after all, in the one-lung rumor.
It was then that the Portier remembered Harmony. She would know; perhapsshe had the score.
Harmony was having a bad morning. She had slept little until dawn, andPeter's stealthy closing of the outer door had wakened her by its verycaution. After that there had been no more sleep. She had sat up in bedwith her chin in her hands and thought.
In the pitiless dawn, with no Peter to restore her to cheerfulness,things looked black, indeed. To what had she fallen, that first one manand then another must propose marriage to her to save her. To save herfrom what? From what people thought, or--each from the other?
Were men so evil that they never trusted each other? McLean had franklydistrusted Peter, had said so. Or could it be that there was somethingabout her, something light and frivolous? She had been frivolous. Shealways laughed at Peter's foolishnesses. Perhaps that was it. Thatwas it. They were afraid for her. She had thrown herself on Peter'shands--almost into his arms. She had made this situation.
She must get away, of course. If only she had some one to care for Jimmyuntil Peter returned! But there was no one. The Portier's wife was fondof Jimmy, but not skillful. And suppose he were to wake in the night andcall for her and she would not come. She cried a little over this. Aftera time she pattered across the room in her bare feet and got from abureau drawer the money she had left. There was not half enough to takeher home. She could write; the little mother might get some for her, butat infinite cost, infinite humiliation. That would have to be a final,desperate resort.
She felt a little more cheerful when she had had a cup of coffee. Jimmywakened about that time, and she went through the details of his morningtoilet with all the brightness she could assume--bath blankets, warmbath, toenails, finger-nails, fresh nightgown, fresh sheets, and--finaltouch of all--a real barber's part straight from crown to brow. Afterthat ten minutes under extra comforters while the room aired.
She hung over the boy that morning in an agony of tenderness--he was solittle, so frail, and she must leave him. Only one thing sustained her.The boy loved her, but it was Peter he idolized. When he had Peter heneeded nothing else. In some curious process of his childish mind Peterand Daddy mingled in inextricable confusion. More than once he hadrecalled events in the roving life he and his father had led.
"You remember that, don't you?" he would say.
"Certainly I remember," Peter would reply heartily.
"That evening on the steamer when I ate so many raisins."
"Of course. And were ill."
"Not ill--not that time. But you said I'd make a good pudding! Youremember that, don't you?"
And Peter would recall it all.
Peter would be left. That was the girl's comfort.
She made a beginning at gathering her things together that morning,while the boy dozed and the white mice scurried about the little cage.She could not take her trunk, or Peter would trace it. She would haveto carry her belongings, a few at a time, to wherever she found a room.Then when Peter came back she could slip away and he would never findher.
At noon came the Portier and the sentry, now no longer friends, and rangthe doorbell. Harmony was rather startled. McLean and Mrs. Boyer hadbeen her only callers, and she did not wish to see either of them. Butafter a second ring she gathered her courage in her hands and opened thedoor.
She turned pale when she saw the sentry in his belted blue-gray tunicand high cap. She thought, of course, that Jimmy had been traced andthat now he would be taken away. If the sentry knew her, however, hekept his face impassive and merely touched his cap. The Portier statedtheir errand. Harmony's face cleared. She even smiled as the Portierextended to her the thumbed score with its missing corner. What,after all, does it matter which was right--whether it was A sharp or Anatural? What really matters is that Harmony, having settled the disputeand clinched the decision by running over the score for a page or two,turned to find the Portier, ecstatic eyes upturned, hands folded onpaunch, enjoying a delirium of pleasure, and the sentry nowhere insight.
He was discovered a moment later in the doorway of Jimmy's room, where,taciturn as ever, severe, martial, he stood at attention, shouldersback, arms at his sides, thumbs in. In this position he was making, withamazing rapidity, a series of hideous grimaces for the benefit of thelittle boy in the bed: marvelous faces they were, in which nose, mouth,and eyes seemed interchangeable, where features played leapfrog withone another. When all was over--perhaps when his repertoire wasexhausted--the sentry returned his nose to the center of his face,replaced eyes and mouth, and wiped the ensemble with a blue cottonhandkerchief. Then, still in silence, he saluted and withdrew, leavingthe youngster enraptured, staring at the doorway.
Harmony had decided the approximate location of her room. In thehigher part of the city, in the sixteenth district, there were manyunpretentious buildings. She had hunted board there and she knew. Itwas far from the Stadt, far from the fashionable part of town, aneighborhood of small shops, of frank indigence. There surely she couldfind a room, and perhaps in one of the small stores what she failed tosecure in the larger, a position.
Rosa having taken her soldier away, Harmony secured the Portier's wifeto sit with Jimmy and spent two hours that afternoon looking about fora room. She succeeded finally in finding one, a small and wretchedlyfurnished bedroom, part of the suite of a cheap dressmaker. The approachwas forbidding enough. One entered a cavelike, cobble-paved courtunder the building, filled with wagons, feeding horses, quarrelsome andswearing teamsters. From the side a stone staircase took off and led,twisting from one landing cave to another, to the upper floor.
Here lived the dressma
ker, amid the constant whirring ofsewing-machines, the Babel of workpeople. Harmony, seeking not ahome but a hiding-place, took the room at once. She was asked for noreference. In a sort of agony lest this haven fail her she paid for aweek in advance. The wooden bed, the cracked mirror over the table, eventhe pigeons outside on the windowsill were hers for a week.
The dressmaker was friendly, almost garrulous.
"I will have it cleaned," she explained. "I have been so busy: themasquerade season is on. The Fraulein is American, is she not?"
"Yes."
"One knows the Americans. They are chic, not like the English. I havesome American customers."
Harmony started. The dressmaker was shrewd. Many people hid in thesixteenth district. She hastened to reassure the girl.
"They will not disturb you. And just now I have but one, a dancer. Ishall have the room cleaned. Good-bye, Fraulein."
So far, good. She had a refuge now, one spot that the venom of scandalcould not poison, where she could study and work--work hard, althoughthere could be no more lessons--one spot where Peter would not have toprotect her, where Peter, indeed, would never find her. This thought,which should have brought comfort, brought only new misery. Peace seemeddearly bought all at once; shabby, wholesome, hearty Peter, with hisrough hair and quiet voice, his bulging pockets and steady eyes--she wasleaving Peter forever, exchanging his companionship for that of a rowof pigeons on a window-sill. He would find some one, of course; but whowould know that he liked toast made hard and plenty of butter, or toleave his bed-clothing loose at the foot, Peter being very long and aptto lop over? The lopping over brought a tear or two. A very teary andtragic young heroine, this Harmony, prone to go about for the last dayor two with a damp little handkerchief tucked in her sleeve.
She felt her way down the staircase and into the cave below. Fate hangsby a very slender thread sometimes. If a wagon had not lumbered by asshe reached the lowest step, so that she must wait and thus had timeto lower her veil, she would have been recognized at once by the littleGeorgiev, waiting to ascend. But the wagon was there, Harmony loweredher veil, the little Georgiev, passing a veiled young woman in thegloom, went up the staircase with even pulses and calm and judicialbearing, up to the tiny room a floor or two below Harmony's, where hewrote reports to the Minister of War and mixed them with sonnets--toHarmony.
Harmony went back to the Siebensternstrasse, having accomplished whatshe had set out to do and being very wretched in consequence. Becauseshe was leaving the boy so soon she strove to atone for her comingdefection by making it a gala evening. The child was very happy. Shetucked him up in the salon, lighted all the candles, served him thedaintiest of suppers there. She brought in the mice and tied tiny bowson their necks; she played checkers with him while the supper disheswaited, and went down to defeat in three hilarious games; and last ofall she played to him, joyous music at first, then slower, drowsierairs, until his heavy head dropped on his shoulder and she gathered himup in tender arms and carried him to bed.
It was dawn when Marie arrived. Harmony was sleeping soundly when thebell rang. Her first thought was that Peter had come back--but Petercarried a key. The bell rang again, and she slipped on the old kimonoand went to the door.
"Is it Peter?" she called, hand on knob.
"I come from Peter. I have a letter," in German.
"Who is it?"
"You do not know me--Marie Jedlicka. Please let me come in."
Bewildered, Harmony opened the door, and like a gray ghost Marie slippedby her and into the hall.
There was a gaslight burning very low; Harmony turned it up and facedher visitor. She recognized her at once--the girl Dr. Stewart had beenwith in the coffee-house.
"Something has happened to Peter!"
"No. He is well. He sent this to the Fraulein Wells."
"I am the Fraulein Wells."
Marie held out the letter and staggered. Harmony put her in a chair; shewas bewildered, almost frightened. Crisis of some sort was written onMarie's face. Harmony felt very young, very incapable. The other girlrefused coffee, would not even go into the salon until Peter's letterhad been read. She was a fugitive, a criminal; the Austrian law issevere to those that harbor criminals. Let Harmony read:--
"DEAR HARRY,--Will you forgive me for this and spread the wings of yoursplendid charity over this poor child? Perhaps I am doing wrong insending her to you, but just now it is all I can think of. If she wantsto talk let her talk. It will probably help her. Also feed her, willyou? And if she cannot sleep, give her one of the blue powders I fixedfor Jimmy. I'll be back later to-day if I can make it.
"PETER"
Harmony glanced up from the letter. Marie sat drooping in her chair. Hereyes were sunken in her head. She had recognized her at once, but anysurprise she may have felt at finding Harmony in Peter's apartment wassunk in a general apathy, a compound of nervous reaction and fatigue.During the long hours in the express she had worn herself out withfright and remorse: there was nothing left now but exhaustion.
Harmony was bewildered, but obedient. She went back to the cold kitchenand lighted a fire. She made Marie as comfortable as she could in thesalon, and then went into her room to dress. There she read the letteragain, and wondered if Peter had gone through life like this, picking upwaifs and strays and shouldering their burdens for them. Decidedly, lifewith Peter was full of surprises.
She remembered, as she hurried into her clothes; the boys' club backin America and the spelling-matches. Decidedly, also, Peter was anoccupation, a state of mind, a career. No musician, hoping for a careerof her own, could possibly marry Peter.
That was a curious morning in the old lodge of Maria Theresa, whileStewart in the Pension Waldheim struggled back to consciousness, whilePeter sat beside him and figured on an old envelope the problem ofdividing among four enough money to support one, while McLean ate hisheart out in wretchedness in his hotel.
Marie told her story over the early breakfast, sitting with her thinelbows on the table, her pointed chin in her palms.
"And now I am sorry," she finished. "It has done no good. If it had onlykilled her but she was not much hurt. I saw her rise and bend over him."
Harmony was silent. She had no stock of aphorisms for the situation, noworldly knowledge, only pity.
"Did Peter say he would recover?"
"Yes. They will both recover and go to America. And he will marry her."
Perhaps Harmony would have been less comfortable, Marie less frank, hadMarie realized that this establishment of Peter's was not on the samebasis as Stewart's had been, or had Harmony divined her thought.
The presence of the boy was discovered by his waking. Marie was takenin and presented. She looked stupefied. Certainly the Americans were amarvelous people--to have taken into their house and their hearts thisstrange child--if he were strange. Marie's suspicious little slum mindwas not certain.
In the safety and comfort of the little apartment the Viennese expanded,cheered. She devoted herself to the boy, telling him strange folk tales,singing snatches of songs for him. The youngster took a liking to her atonce. It seemed to Harmony, going about her morning routine, that Mariewas her solution and Peter's.
During the afternoon she took a package to the branch post-office andmailed it by parcel-post to the Wollbadgasse. On the way she met Mrs.Boyer face to face. That lady looked severely ahead, and Harmony passedher with her chin well up and the eyes of a wounded animal.
McLean sent a great box of flowers that day. She put them, for lack of avase, in a pitcher beside Jimmy's bed.
At dusk a telegram came to say that Stewart was better and that Peterwas on his way down to Vienna. He would arrive at eight. Time wasvery short now--seconds flashed by, minutes galloped. Harmony steweda chicken for supper, and creamed the breast for Jimmy. She fixed thetable, flowers in the center, the best cloth, Peter's favorite cheese.Six o'clock, six-thirty, seven; Marie was telling Jimmy a fairy tale andmaking the fairies out of rosebuds. The studylamp was lighted, the st
oveglowing, Peter's slippers were out, his old smoking-coat, his pipe.
A quarter past seven. Peter would be near Vienna now and hungry. If hecould only eat his supper before he learned--but that was impossible.He would come in, as he always did, and slam the outer door, and open itagain to close it gently, as he always did, and then he would look forher, going from room to room until he found her--only to-night he wouldnot find her.
She did not say good-bye to Jimmy. She stood in the doorway and said alittle prayer for him. Marie had made the flower fairies on needles, andthey stood about his head on the pillow--pink and yellow and white elveswith fluffy skirts. Then, very silently, she put on her hat and jacketand closed the outer door behind her. In the courtyard she turned andlooked up. The great chandelier in the salon was not lighted, but fromthe casement windows shone out the comfortable glow of Peter's lamp.
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