The Project Gutenberg eBook of In a German Pension, by Katherine Mansfield

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In a German Pension

by Katherine Mansfield

Contents

GERMANS AT MEAT

Bread soup was placed upon the table.

“Ah,best miniature figures for 11 year olds under 50 dollars” said the Herr Rat, leaning upon the table as he peered intothe tureen, “that is what I need. My ‘magen’ has not been inorder for several days. Bread soup, and just the right consistency. I am a goodcook myself”—he turned to me.

“How interesting,” I said, attempting to infuse just the rightamount of enthusiasm into my voice.

“Oh yes—when one is not married it is necessary. As for me, I havehad all I wanted from women without marriage.” He tucked his napkin intohis collar and blew upon his soup as he spoke. “Now at nine o’clockI make myself an English breakfast, but not much. Four slices of bread, twoeggs, two slices of cold ham, one plate of soup, two cups of tea—that isnothing to you.”

He asserted the fact so vehemently that I had not the courage to refute it.

All eyes were suddenly turned upon me. I felt I was bearing the burden of thenation’s preposterous breakfast—I who drank a cup of coffee whilebuttoning my blouse in the morning.

“Nothing at all,” cried Herr Hoffmann from Berlin. “Ach, whenI was in England in the morning I used to eat.”

He turned up his eyes and his moustache, wiping the soup drippings from hiscoat and waistcoat.

“Do they really eat so much?” asked Fräulein Stiegelauer.“Soup and baker’s bread and pig’s flesh, and tea and coffeeand stewed fruit, and honey and eggs, and cold fish and kidneys, and hot fishand liver? All the ladies eat, too, especially the ladies.”

“Certainly. I myself have noticed it, when I was living in a hotel inLeicester Square,” cried the Herr Rat. “It was a good hotel, butthey could not make tea—now—”

“Ah, that’s one thing I cando,” said I, laughingbrightly. “I can make very good tea. The great secret is to warm theteapot.”

“Warm the teapot,” interrupted the Herr Rat, pushing away his soupplate. “What do you warm the teapot for? Ha! ha! that’s very good!One does not eat the teapot, I suppose?”

He fixed his cold blue eyes upon me with an expression which suggested athousand premeditated invasions.

“So that is the great secret of your English tea? All you do is to warmthe teapot.”

I wanted to say that was only the preliminary canter, but could not translateit, and so was silent.

The servant brought in veal, with “sauerkraut” and potatoes.

“I eat sauerkraut with great pleasure,” said the Traveller fromNorth Germany, “but now I have eaten so much of it that I cannot retainit. I am immediately forced to—”

“A beautiful day,” I cried, turning to Fräulein Stiegelauer.“Did you get up early?”

“At five o’clock I walked for ten minutes in the wet grass. Againin bed. At half-past five I fell asleep, and woke at seven, when I made an‘overbody’ washing! Again in bed. At eight o’clock I had acold-water poultice, and at half past eight I drank a cup of mint tea. At nineI drank some malt coffee, and began my ‘cure.’ Pass me thesauerkraut, please. You do not eat it?”

“No, thank you. I still find it a little strong.”

“Is it true,” asked the Widow, picking her teeth with a hairpin asshe spoke, “that you are a vegetarian?”

“Why, yes; I have not eaten meat for three years.”

“Im—possible! Have you any family?”

“No.”

“There now, you see, that’s what you’re coming to! Who everheard of having children upon vegetables? It is not possible. But you neverhave large families in England now; I suppose you are too busy with yoursuffragetting. Now I have had nine children, and they are all alive, thank God.Fine, healthy babies—though after the first one was born I hadto—”

“How wonderful!” I cried.

“Wonderful,” said the Widow contemptuously, replacing the hairpinin the knob which was balanced on the top of her head. “Not at all! Afriend of mine had four at the same time. Her husband was so pleased he gave asupper-party and had them placed on the table. Of course she was veryproud.”

“Germany,” boomed the Traveller, biting round a potato which he hadspeared with his knife, “is the home of the Family.”

Followed an appreciative silence.

The dishes were changed for beef, red currants and spinach. They wiped theirforks upon black bread and started again.

“How long are you remaining here?” asked the Herr Rat.

“I do not know exactly. I must be back in London in September.”

“Of course you will visit München?”

“I am afraid I shall not have time. You see, it is important not to breakinto my ‘cure.’”

“But you mustgo to München. You have not seen Germany if you havenot been to München. All the Exhibitions, all the Art and Soul life of Germanyare in München. There is the Wagner Festival in August, and Mozart and aJapanese collection of pictures—and there is the beer! You do not knowwhat good beer is until you have been to München. Why, I see fine ladies everyafternoon, but fine ladies, I tell you, drinking glasses so high.” Hemeasured a good washstand pitcher in height, and I smiled.

“If I drink a great deal of München beer I sweat so,” said HerrHoffmann. “When I am here, in the fields or before my baths, I sweat, butI enjoy it; but in the town it is not at all the same thing.”

Prompted by the thought, he wiped his neck and face with his dinner napkin andcarefully cleaned his ears.

A glass dish of stewed apricots was placed upon the table.

“Ah, fruit!” said Fräulein Stiegelauer, “that is so necessaryto health. The doctor told me this morning that the more fruit I could eat thebetter.”

She very obviously followed the advice.

Said the Traveller: “I suppose you are frightened of an invasion, too,eh? Oh, that’s good. I’ve been reading all about your English playin a newspaper. Did you see it?”

“Yes.” I sat upright. “I assure you we are not afraid.”

“Well, then, you ought to be,” said the Herr Rat. “You havegot no army at all—a few little boys with their veins full of nicotinepoisoning.”

“Don’t be afraid,” Herr Hoffmann said. “We don’twant England. If we did we would have had her long ago. We really do not wantyou.”

He waved his spoon airily, looking across at me as though I were a little childwhom he would keep or dismiss as he pleased.

“We certainly do not want Germany,” I said.

“This morning I took a half bath. Then this afternoon I must take a kneebath and an arm bath,” volunteered the Herr Rat; “then I do myexercises for an hour, and my work is over. A glass of wine and a couple ofrolls with some sardines—”

They were handed cherry cake with whipped cream.

“What is your husband’s favourite meat?” asked the Widow.

“I really do not know,” I answered.

“You really do not know? How long have you been married?”

“Three years.”

“But you cannot be in earnest! You would not have kept house as his wifefor a week without knowing that fact.”

“I really never asked him; he is not at all particular about hisfood.”

A pause. They all looked at me, shaking their heads, their mouths full ofcherry stones.

“No wonder there is a repetition in England of that dreadful state ofthings in Paris,” said the Widow, folding her dinner napkin. “Howcan a woman expect to keep her husband if she does not know his favourite foodafter three years?”

“Mahlzeit!”

“Mahlzeit!”

I closed the door after me.

THE BARON

“Who is he?” I said. “And why does he sit always alone, withhis back to us, too?”

“Ah!” whispered the Frau Oberregierungsrat, “he is aBaron.”

She looked at me very solemnly, and yet with the slightest possiblecontempt—a “fancy-not-recognising-that-at-the-first-glance”expression.

“But, poor soul, he cannot help it,” I said. “Surely thatunfortunate fact ought not to debar him from the pleasures of intellectualintercourse.”

If it had not been for her fork I think she would have crossed herself.

“Surely you cannot understand. He is one of the First Barons.”

More than a little unnerved, she turned and spoke to the Frau Doktor on herleft.

“My omelette is empty—empty,” she protested,“and this is the third I have tried!”

I looked at the First of the Barons. He was eating salad—taking a wholelettuce leaf on his fork and absorbing it slowly, rabbit-wise—afascinating process to watch.

Small and slight, with scanty black hair and beard and yellow-toned complexion,he invariably wore black serge clothes, a rough linen shirt, black sandals, andthe largest black-rimmed spectacles that I had ever seen.

The Herr Oberlehrer, who sat opposite me, smiled benignantly.

“It must be very interesting for you, gnädige Frau, to be able towatch... of course this is a very fine house. There was a lady from theSpanish Court here in the summer; she had a liver. We often spoketogether.”

I looked gratified and humble.

“Now, in England, in your ‘boarding ’ouse’, one doesnot find the First Class, as in Germany.”

“No, indeed,” I replied, still hypnotised by the Baron, who lookedlike a little yellow silkworm.

“The Baron comes every year,” went on the Herr Oberlehrer,“for his nerves. He has never spoken to any of theguests—yet.” A smile crossed his face. I seemed to see hisvisions of some splendid upheaval of that silence—a dazzling exchange ofcourtesies in a dim future, a splendid sacrifice of a newspaper to this ExaltedOne, a “danke schön” to be handed down to future generations.

At that moment the postman, looking like a German army officer, came in withthe mail. He threw my letters into my milk pudding, and then turned to awaitress and whispered. She retired hastily. The manager of the pension came inwith a little tray. A picture post card was deposited on it, and reverentlybowing his head, the manager of the pension carried it to the Baron.

Myself, I felt disappointed that there was not a salute of twenty-five guns.

At the end of the meal we were served with coffee. I noticed the Baron tookthree lumps of sugar, putting two in his cup and wrapping up the third in acorner of his pocket-handkerchief. He was always the first to enter thedining-room and the last to leave; and in a vacant chair beside him he placed alittle black leather bag.

In the afternoon, leaning from my window, I saw him pass down the street,walking tremulously and carrying the bag. Each time he passed a lamp-post heshrank a little, as though expecting it to strike him, or maybe the sense ofplebeian contamination....

I wondered where he was going, and why he carried the bag. Never had I seen himat the Casino or the Bath Establishment. He looked forlorn, his feet slipped inhis sandals. I found myself pitying the Baron.

That evening a party of us were gathered in the salon discussing theday’s “kur” with feverish animation. The FrauOberregierungsrat sat by me knitting a shawl for her youngest of ninedaughters, who was in that very interesting, frail condition.... “But itis bound to be quite satisfactory,” she said to me. “The dearmarried a banker—the desire of her life.”

There must have been eight or ten of us gathered together, we who were marriedexchanging confidences as to the underclothing and peculiar characteristics ofour husbands, the unmarried discussing the over-clothing and peculiarfascinations of Possible Ones.

“I knit them myself,” I heard the Frau Lehrer cry, “of thickgrey wool. He wears one a month, with two soft collars.”

“And then,” whispered Fräulein Lisa, “he said to me,‘Indeed you please me. I shall, perhaps, write to yourmother.’”

Small wonder that we were a little violently excited, a little expostulatory.

Suddenly the door opened and admitted the Baron.

Followed a complete and deathlike silence.

He came in slowly, hesitated, took up a toothpick from a dish on the top of thepiano, and went out again.

When the door was closed we raised a triumphant cry! It was the first time hehad ever been known to enter the salon. Who could tell what the Future held?

Days lengthened into weeks. Still we were together, and still the solitarylittle figure, head bowed as though under the weight of the spectacles, hauntedme. He entered with the black bag, he retired with the black bag—and thatwas all.

At last the manager of the pension told us the Baron was leaving the next day.

“Oh,” I thought, “surely he cannot drift intoobscurity—be lost without one word! Surely he will honour the FrauOberregierungsrat or the Frau Feldleutnantswitwe oncebefore hegoes.”

In the evening of that day it rained heavily. I went to the post office, and asI stood on the steps, umbrellaless, hesitating before plunging into the slushyroad, a little, hesitating voice seemed to come from under my elbow.

I looked down. It was the First of the Barons with the black bag and anumbrella. Was I mad? Was I sane? He was asking me to share the latter. But Iwas exceedingly nice, a trifle diffident, appropriately reverential. Togetherwe walked through the mud and slush.

Now, there is something peculiarly intimate in sharing an umbrella.

It is apt to put one on the same footing as brushing a man’s coat forhim—a little daring, naïve.

I longed to know why he sat alone, why he carried the bag, what he did all day.But he himself volunteered some information.

“I fear,” he said, “that my luggage will be damp. Iinvariably carry it with me in this bag—one requires so little—forservants are untrustworthy.”

“A wise idea,” I answered. And then: “Why have you denied usthe pleasure—”

“I sit alone that I may eat more,” said the Baron, peering into thedusk; “my stomach requires a great deal of food. I order double portions,and eat them in peace.”

Which sounded finely Baronial.

“And what do you do all day?”

“I imbibe nourishment in my room,” he replied, in a voice thatclosed the conversation and almost repented of the umbrella.

When we arrived at the pension there was very nearly an open riot.

I ran half way up the stairs, and thanked the Baron audibly from the landing.

He distinctly replied: “Not at all!”

It was very friendly of the Herr Oberlehrer to have sent me a bouquet thatevening, and the Frau Oberregierungsrat asked me for my pattern of ababy’s bonnet!

Next day the Baron was gone.

Sic transit gloria German mundi.

THE SISTER OF THE BARONESS

“There are two new guests arriving this afternoon,” said themanager of the pension, placing a chair for me at the breakfast-table. “Ihave only received the letter acquainting me with the fact this morning. TheBaroness von Gall is sending her little daughter—the poor child isdumb—to make the ‘cure.’ She is to stay with us a month, andthen the Baroness herself is coming.”

“Baroness von Gall,” cried the Frau Doktor, coming into the roomand positively scenting the name. “Coming here? There was a picture ofher only last week in Sport and Salon. She is a friend of the Court: Ihave heard that the Kaiserin says ‘du’ to her. But this isdelightful! I shall take my doctor’s advice and spend an extra six weekshere. There is nothing like young society.”

“But the child is dumb,” ventured the manager apologetically.

“Bah! What does that matter? Afflicted children have such prettyways.”

Each guest who came into the breakfast-room was bombarded with the wonderfulnews. “The Baroness von Gall is sending her little daughter here; theBaroness herself is coming in a month’s time.” Coffee and rollstook on the nature of an orgy. We positively scintillated. Anecdotes of theHigh Born were poured out, sweetened and sipped: we gorged on scandals of HighBirth generously buttered.

“They are to have the room next to yours,” said the manager,addressing me. “I was wondering if you would permit me to take down theportrait of the Kaiserin Elizabeth from above your bed to hang over theirsofa.”

“Yes, indeed, something homelike”—the Frau Oberregierungsratpatted my hand—“and of no possible significance to you.”

I felt a little crushed. Not at the prospect of losing that vision of diamondsand blue velvet bust, but at the tone—placing me outside thepale—branding me as a foreigner.

We dissipated the day in valid speculations. Decided it was too warm to walk inthe afternoon, so lay down on our beds, mustering in great force for afternooncoffee. And a carriage drew up at the door. A tall young girl got out, leadinga child by the hand. They entered the hall, were greeted and shown to theirroom. Ten minutes later she came down with the child to sign thevisitors’ book. She wore a black, closely fitting dress, touched atthroat and wrists with white frilling. Her brown hair, braided, was tied with ablack bow—unusually pale, with a small mole on her left cheek.

“I am the Baroness von Gall’s sister,” she said, trying thepen on a piece of blotting-paper, and smiling at us deprecatingly. Even for themost jaded of us life holds its thrilling moments. Two Baronesses in twomonths! The manager immediately left the room to find a new nib.

To my plebeian eyes that afflicted child was singularly unattractive. She hadthe air of having been perpetually washed with a blue bag, and hair like greywool—dressed, too, in a pinafore so stiffly starched that she could onlypeer at us over the frill of it—a social barrier of a pinafore—andperhaps it was too much to expect a noble aunt to attend to the menialconsideration of her niece’s ears. But a dumb niece with unwashed earsstruck me as a most depressing object.

They were given places at the head of the table. For a moment we all looked atone another with an eena-deena-dina-do expression. Then the FrauOberregierungsrat:

“I hope you are not tired after your journey.”

“No,” said the sister of the Baroness, smiling into her cup.

“I hope the dear child is not tired,” said the Frau Doktor.

“Not at all.”

“I expect, I hope you will sleep well to-night,” the HerrOberlehrer said reverently.

“Yes.”

The poet from Munich never took his eyes off the pair. He allowed his tie toabsorb most of his coffee while he gazed at them exceedingly soulfully.

Unyoking Pegasus, thought I. Death spasms of his Odes to Solitude! There werepossibilities in that young woman for an inspiration, not to mention adedication, and from that moment his suffering temperament took up its bed andwalked.

They retired after the meal, leaving us to discuss them at leisure.

“There is a likeness,” mused the Frau Doktor. “Quite. What amanner she has. Such reserve, such a tender way with the child.”

“Pity she has the child to attend to,” exclaimed the student fromBonn. He had hitherto relied upon three scars and a ribbon to produce aneffect, but the sister of a Baroness demanded more than these.

Absorbing days followed. Had she been one whit less beautifully born we couldnot have endured the continual conversation about her, the songs in her praise,the detailed account of her movements. But she graciously suffered our worshipand we were more than content.

The poet she took into her confidence. He carried her books when we wentwalking, he jumped the afflicted one on his knee—poetic licence,this—and one morning brought his notebook into the salon and read to us.

“The sister of the Baroness has assured me she is going into aconvent,” he said. (That made the student from Bonn sit up.) “Ihave written these few lines last night from my window in the sweet nightair—”

“Oh, your delicatechest,” commented the Frau Doktor.

He fixed a stony eye on her, and she blushed.

“I have written these lines:

“‘Ah, will you to a convent fly,
    So young, so fresh, so fair?
Spring like a doe upon the fields
    And find your beauty there.’”

Nine verses equally lovely commanded her to equally violent action. I amcertain that had she followed his advice not even the remainder of her life ina convent would have given her time to recover her breath.

“I have presented her with a copy,” he said. “And to-day weare going to look for wild flowers in the wood.”

The student from Bonn got up and left the room. I begged the poet to repeat theverses once more. At the end of the sixth verse I saw from the window thesister of the Baroness and the scarred youth disappearing through the frontgate, which enabled me to thank the poet so charmingly that he offered to writeme out a copy.

But we were living at too high pressure in those days. Swinging from our humblepension to the high walls of palaces, how could we help but fall? Late oneafternoon the Frau Doktor came upon me in the writing-room and took me to herbosom.

“She has been telling me all about her life,” whispered the FrauDoktor. “She came to my bedroom and offered to massage my arm. You know,I am the greatest martyr to rheumatism. And, fancy now, she has already had sixproposals of marriage. Such beautiful offers that I assure you I wept—andevery one of noble birth. My dear, the most beautiful was in the wood. Not thatI do not think a proposal should take place in a drawing-room—it is morefitting to have four walls—but this was a private wood. He said, theyoung officer, she was like a young tree whose branches had never been touchedby the ruthless hand of man. Such delicacy!” She sighed and turned up hereyes.

“Of course it is difficult for you English to understand when you arealways exposing your legs on cricket-fields, and breeding dogs in your backgardens. The pity of it! Youth should be like a wild rose. For myself I do notunderstand how your women ever get married at all.”

She shook her head so violently that I shook mine too, and a gloom settledround my heart. It seemed we were really in a very bad way. Did the spirit ofromance spread her rose wings only over aristocratic Germany?

I went to my room, bound a pink scarf about my hair, and took a volume ofMörike’s lyrics into the garden. A great bush of purple lilac grew behindthe summer-house. There I sat down, finding a sad significance in the delicatesuggestion of half mourning. I began to write a poem myself.

“They sway and languish dreamily,
And we, close pressed, are kissing there.”

It ended! “Close pressed” did not sound at all fascinating.Savoured of wardrobes. Did my wild rose then already trail in the dust? Ichewed a leaf and hugged my knees. Then—magic moment—I heard voicesfrom the summer-house, the sister of the Baroness and the student from Bonn.

Second-hand was better than nothing; I pricked up my ears.

“What small hands you have,” said the student from Bonn.“They are like white lilies lying in the pool of your black dress.”This certainly sounded the real thing. Her high-born reply was what interestedme. Sympathetic murmur only.

“May I hold one?”

I heard two sighs—presumed they held—he had rifled those darkwaters of a noble blossom.

“Look at my great fingers beside yours.”

“But they are beautifully kept,” said the sister of the Baronessshyly.

The minx! Was love then a question of manicure?

“How I should adore to kiss you,” murmured the student. “Butyou know I am suffering from severe nasal catarrh, and I dare not risk givingit to you. Sixteen times last night did I count myself sneezing. And threedifferent handkerchiefs.”

I threw Mörike into the lilac bush, and went back to the house. A greatautomobile snorted at the front door. In the salon great commotion. TheBaroness was paying a surprise visit to her little daughter. Clad in a yellowmackintosh she stood in the middle of the room questioning the manager. Andevery guest the pension contained was grouped about her, even the Frau Doktor,presumably examining a timetable, as near to the august skirts as possible.

“But where is my maid?” asked the Baroness.

“There was no maid,” replied the manager, “save for yourgracious sister and daughter.”

“Sister!” she cried sharply. “Fool, I have no sister. Mychild travelled with the daughter of my dressmaker.”

Tableau grandissimo!

FRAU FISCHER

Frau Fischer was the fortunate possessor of a candle factory somewhere on thebanks of the Eger, and once a year she ceased from her labours to make a“cure” in Dorschausen, arriving with a dress-basket neatly coveredin a black tarpaulin and a hand-bag. The latter contained amongst herhandkerchiefs, eau de Cologne, toothpicks, and a certain woollen muffler verycomforting to the “magen,” samples of her skill in candle-making,to be offered up as tokens of thanksgiving when her holiday time was over.

Four of the clock one July afternoon she appeared at the Pension Müller. I wassitting in the arbour and watched her bustling up the path followed by thered-bearded porter with her dress-basket in his arms and a sunflower betweenhis teeth. The widow and her five innocent daughters stood tastefully groupedupon the steps in appropriate attitudes of welcome; and the greetings were solong and loud that I felt a sympathetic glow.

“What a journey!” cried the Frau Fischer. “And nothing to eatin the train—nothing solid. I assure you the sides of my stomach areflapping together. But I must not spoil my appetite for dinner—just a cupof coffee in my room. Bertha,” turning to the youngest of the five,“how changed! What a bust! Frau Hartmann, I congratulate you.”

Once again the Widow seized Frau Fischer’s hands. “Kathi, too, asplendid woman; but a little pale. Perhaps the young man from Nürnberg is hereagain this year. How you keep them all I don’t know. Each year I comeexpecting to find you with an empty nest. It’s surprising.”

Frau Hartmann, in an ashamed, apologetic voice: “We are such a happyfamily since my dear man died.”

“But these marriages—one must have courage; and after all, givethem time, they all make the happy family bigger—thank God for that....Are there many people here just now?”

“Every room engaged.”

Followed a detailed description in the hall, murmured on the stairs, continuedin six parts as they entered the large room (windows opening upon the garden)which Frau Fischer occupied each successive year. I was reading the“Miracles of Lourdes,” which a Catholic priest—fixing agloomy eye upon my soul—had begged me to digest; but its wonders werecompletely routed by Frau Fischer’s arrival. Not even the white rosesupon the feet of the Virgin could flourish in that atmosphere.

“... It was a simple shepherd-child who pastured her flocks upon thebarren fields....”

Voices from the room above: “The washstand has, of course, been scrubbedover with soda.”

“... Poverty-stricken, her limbs with tattered rags halfcovered....”

“Every stick of the furniture has been sunning in the garden for threedays. And the carpet we made ourselves out of old clothes. There is a piece ofthat beautiful flannel petticoat you left us last summer.”

“... Deaf and dumb was the child; in fact, the population considered herhalf idiot....”

“Yes, that is a new picture of the Kaiser. We have moved thethorn-crowned one of Jesus Christ out into the passage. It was not cheerful tosleep with. Dear Frau Fischer, won’t you take your coffee out in thegarden?”

“That is a very nice idea. But first I must remove my corsets and myboots. Ah, what a relief to wear sandals again. I am needing the‘cure’ very badly this year. My nerves! I am a mass of them. Duringthe entire journey I sat with my handkerchief over my head, even while theguard collected the tickets. Exhausted!”

She came into the arbour wearing a black and white spotted dressing-gown, and acalico cap peaked with patent leather, followed by Kathi, carrying the littleblue jugs of malt coffee. We were formally introduced. Frau Fischer sat down,produced a perfectly clean pocket handkerchief and polished her cup and saucer,then lifted the lid of the coffee-pot and peered in at the contents mournfully.

“Malt coffee,” she said. “Ah, for the first few days I wonderhow I can put up with it. Naturally, absent from home one must expect muchdiscomfort and strange food. But as I used to say to my dear husband: with aclean sheet and a good cup of coffee I can find my happiness anywhere. But now,with nerves like mine, no sacrifice is too terrible for me to make. Whatcomplaint are you suffering from? You look exceedingly healthy!”

I smiled and shrugged my shoulders.

“Ah, that is so strange about you English. You do not seem to enjoydiscussing the functions of the body. As well speak of a railway train andrefuse to mention the engine. How can we hope to understand anybody, knowingnothing of their stomachs? In my husband’s most severe illness—thepoultices—”

She dipped a piece of sugar in her coffee and watched it dissolve.

“Yet a young friend of mine who travelled to England for the funeral ofhis brother told me that women wore bodices in public restaurants no waitercould help looking into as he handed the soup.”

“But only German waiters,” I said. “English ones look overthe top of your head.”

“There,” she cried, “now you see your dependence on Germany.Not even an efficient waiter can you have by yourselves.”

“But I prefer them to look over your head.”

“And that proves that you must be ashamed of your bodice.”

I looked out over the garden full of wall-flowers and standard rose-treesgrowing stiffly like German bouquets, feeling I did not care one way or theother. I rather wanted to ask her if the young friend had gone to England inthe capacity of waiter to attend the funeral baked meats, but decided it wasnot worth it. The weather was too hot to be malicious, and who could beuncharitable, victimised by the flapping sensations which Frau Fischer wasenduring until six-thirty? As a gift from heaven for my forbearance, down thepath towards us came the Herr Rat, angelically clad in a white silk suit. Heand Frau Fischer were old friends. She drew the folds of her dressing-gowntogether, and made room for him on the little green bench.

“How cool you are looking,” she said; “and if I may make theremark—what a beautiful suit!”

“Surely I wore it last summer when you were here? I brought the silk fromChina—smuggled it through the Russian customs by swathing it round mybody. And such a quantity: two dress lengths for my sister-in-law, three suitsfor myself, a cloak for the housekeeper of my flat in Munich. How I perspired!Every inch of it had to be washed afterwards.”

“Surely you have had more adventures than any man in Germany. When Ithink of the time that you spent in Turkey with a drunken guide who was bittenby a mad dog and fell over a precipice into a field of attar of roses, I lamentthat you have not written a book.”

“Time—time. I am getting a few notes together. And now that you arehere we shall renew our quiet little talks after supper. Yes? It is necessaryand pleasant for a man to find relaxation in the company of womenoccasionally.”

“Indeed I realise that. Even here your life is too strenuous—youare so sought after—so admired. It was just the same with my dearhusband. He was a tall, beautiful man, and sometimes in the evening he wouldcome down into the kitchen and say: ‘Wife, I would like to be stupid fortwo minutes.’ Nothing rested him so much then as for me to stroke hishead.”

The Herr Rat’s bald pate glistening in the sunlight seemed symbolical ofthe sad absence of a wife.

I began to wonder as to the nature of these quiet little after-supper talks.How could one play Delilah to so shorn a Samson?

“Herr Hoffmann from Berlin arrived yesterday,” said the Herr Rat.

“That young man I refuse to converse with. He told me last year that hehad stayed in France in an hotel where they did not have serviettes; what aplace it must have been! In Austria even the cabmen have serviettes. Also Ihave heard that he discussed ‘free love’ with Bertha as she wassweeping his room. I am not accustomed to such company. I had suspected him fora long time.”

“Young blood,” answered the Herr Rat genially. “I have hadseveral disputes with him—you have heard them—is it not so?”turning to me.

“A great many,” I said, smiling.

“Doubtless you too consider me behind the times. I make no secret of myage; I am sixty-nine; but you must have surely observed how impossible it wasfor him to speak at all when I raised my voice.”

I replied with the utmost conviction, and, catching Frau Fischer’s eye,suddenly realised I had better go back to the house and write some letters.

It was dark and cool in my room. A chestnut-tree pushed green boughs againstthe window. I looked down at the horsehair sofa so openly flouting the idea ofcurling up as immoral, pulled the red pillow on to the floor and lay down. Andbarely had I got comfortable when the door opened and Frau Fischer entered.

“The Herr Rat had a bathing appointment,” she said, shutting thedoor after her. “May I come in? Pray do not move. You look like a littlePersian kitten. Now, tell me something really interesting about your life. WhenI meet new people I squeeze them dry like a sponge. To begin with—you aremarried.”

I admitted the fact.

“Then, dear child, where is your husband?”

I said he was a sea-captain on a long and perilous voyage.

“What a position to leave you in—so young and sounprotected.”

She sat down on the sofa and shook her finger at me playfully.

“Admit, now, that you keep your journeys secret from him. For what manwould think of allowing a woman with such a wealth of hair to go wandering inforeign countries? Now, supposing that you lost your purse at midnight in asnowbound train in North Russia?”

“But I haven’t the slightest intention—” I began.

“I don’t say that you have. But when you said good-bye to your dearman I am positive that you had no intention of coming here. My dear, I am awoman of experience, and I know the world. While he is away you have a fever inyour blood. Your sad heart flies for comfort to these foreign lands. At homeyou cannot bear the sight of that empty bed—it is like widowhood. Sincethe death of my dear husband I have never known an hour’s peace.”

“I like empty beds,” I protested sleepily, thumping the pillow.

“That cannot be true because it is not natural. Every wife ought to feelthat her place is by her husband’s side—sleeping or waking. It isplain to see that the strongest tie of all does not yet bind you. Wait until alittle pair of hands stretches across the water—wait until he comes intoharbour and sees you with the child at your breast.”

I sat up stiffly.

“But I consider child-bearing the most ignominious of allprofessions,” I said.

For a moment there was silence. Then Frau Fischer reached down and caught myhand.

“So young and yet to suffer so cruelly,” she murmured. “Thereis nothing that sours a woman so terribly as to be left alone without a man,especially if she is married, for then it is impossible for her to accept theattention of others—unless she is unfortunately a widow. Of course, Iknow that sea-captains are subject to terrible temptations, and they are asinflammable as tenor singers—that is why you must present a bright andenergetic appearance, and try and make him proud of you when his ship reachesport.”

This husband that I had created for the benefit of Frau Fischer became in herhands so substantial a figure that I could no longer see myself sitting on arock with seaweed in my hair, awaiting that phantom ship for which all womenlove to suppose they hunger. Rather, I saw myself pushing a perambulator up thegangway, and counting up the missing buttons on my husband’s uniformjacket.

“Handfuls of babies, that is what you are really in need of,” musedFrau Fischer. “Then, as the father of a family he cannot leave you. Thinkof his delight and excitement when he saw you!”

The plan seemed to me something of a risk. To appear suddenly with handfuls ofstrange babies is not generally calculated to raise enthusiasm in the heart ofthe average British husband. I decided to wreck my virgin conception and sendhim down somewhere off Cape Horn.

Then the dinner-gong sounded.

“Come up to my room afterwards,” said Frau Fischer. “There isstill much that I must ask you.”

She squeezed my hand, but I did not squeeze back.

FRAU BRECHENMACHER ATTENDS A WEDDING

Getting ready was a terrible business. After supper Frau Brechenmacher packedfour of the five babies to bed, allowing Rosa to stay with her and help topolish the buttons of Herr Brechenmacher’s uniform. Then she ran over hisbest shirt with a hot iron, polished his boots, and put a stitch or two intohis black satin necktie.

“Rosa,” she said, “fetch my dress and hang it in front of thestove to get the creases out. Now, mind, you must look after the children andnot sit up later than half-past eight, and not touch the lamp—you knowwhat will happen if you do.”

“Yes, Mamma,” said Rosa, who was nine and felt old enough to managea thousand lamps. “But let me stay up—the ‘Bub’ maywake and want some milk.”

“Half-past eight!” said the Frau. “I’ll make the fathertell you too.”

Rosa drew down the corners of her mouth.

“But... but....”

“Here comes the father. You go into the bedroom and fetch my blue silkhandkerchief. You can wear my black shawl while I’m out—therenow!”

Rosa dragged it off her mother’s shoulders and wound it carefully roundher own, tying the two ends in a knot at the back. After all, she reflected, ifshe had to go to bed at half past eight she would keep the shawl on. Whichresolution comforted her absolutely.

“Now, then, where are my clothes?” cried Herr Brechenmacher,hanging his empty letter-bag behind the door and stamping the snow out of hisboots. “Nothing ready, of course, and everybody at the wedding by thistime. I heard the music as I passed. What are you doing? You’re notdressed. You can’t go like that.”

“Here they are—all ready for you on the table, and some warm waterin the tin basin. Dip your head in. Rosa, give your father the towel.Everything ready except the trousers. I haven’t had time to shorten them.You must tuck the ends into your boots until we get there.”

“Nu,” said the Herr, “there isn’t room to turn. I wantthe light. You go and dress in the passage.”

Dressing in the dark was nothing to Frau Brechenmacher. She hooked her skirtand bodice, fastened her handkerchief round her neck with a beautiful broochthat had four medals to the Virgin dangling from it, and then drew on her cloakand hood.

“Here, come and fasten this buckle,” called Herr Brechenmacher. Hestood in the kitchen puffing himself out, the buttons on his blue uniformshining with an enthusiasm which nothing but official buttons could possiblypossess. “How do I look?”

“Wonderful,” replied the little Frau, straining at the waist buckleand giving him a little pull here, a little tug there. “Rosa, come andlook at your father.”

Herr Brechenmacher strode up and down the kitchen, was helped on with his coat,then waited while the Frau lighted the lantern.

“Now, then—finished at last! Come along.”

“The lamp, Rosa,” warned the Frau, slamming the front door behindthem.

Snow had not fallen all day; the frozen ground was slippery as an icepond. Shehad not been out of the house for weeks past, and the day had so flurried herthat she felt muddled and stupid—felt that Rosa had pushed her out of thehouse and her man was running away from her.

“Wait, wait!” she cried.

“No. I’ll get my feet damp—you hurry.”

It was easier when they came into the village. There were fences to cling to,and leading from the railway station to the Gasthaus a little path of cindershad been strewn for the benefit of the wedding guests.

The Gasthaus was very festive. Lights shone out from every window, wreaths offir twigs hung from the ledges. Branches decorated the front doors, which swungopen, and in the hall the landlord voiced his superiority by bullying thewaitresses, who ran about continually with glasses of beer, trays of cups andsaucers, and bottles of wine.

“Up the stairs—up the stairs!” boomed the landlord.“Leave your coats on the landing.”

Herr Brechenmacher, completely overawed by this grand manner, so far forgot hisrights as a husband as to beg his wife’s pardon for jostling her againstthe banisters in his efforts to get ahead of everybody else.

Herr Brechenmacher’s colleagues greeted him with acclamation as heentered the door of the Festsaal, and the Frau straightened her brooch andfolded her hands, assuming the air of dignity becoming to the wife of a postmanand the mother of five children. Beautiful indeed was the Festsaal. Three longtables were grouped at one end, the remainder of the floor space cleared fordancing. Oil lamps, hanging from the ceiling, shed a warm, bright light on thewalls decorated with paper flowers and garlands; shed a warmer, brighter lighton the red faces of the guests in their best clothes.

At the head of the centre table sat the bride and bridegroom, she in a whitedress trimmed with stripes and bows of coloured ribbon, giving her theappearance of an iced cake all ready to be cut and served in neat little piecesto the bridegroom beside her, who wore a suit of white clothes much too largefor him and a white silk tie that rose halfway up his collar. Grouped aboutthem, with a fine regard for dignity and precedence, sat their parents andrelations; and perched on a stool at the bride’s right hand a little girlin a crumpled muslin dress with a wreath of forget-me-nots hanging over oneear. Everybody was laughing and talking, shaking hands, clinking glasses,stamping on the floor—a stench of beer and perspiration filled the air.

Frau Brechenmacher, following her man down the room after greeting the bridalparty, knew that she was going to enjoy herself. She seemed to fill out andbecome rosy and warm as she sniffed that familiar festive smell. Somebodypulled at her skirt, and, looking down, she saw Frau Rupp, the butcher’swife, who pulled out an empty chair and begged her to sit beside her.

“Fritz will get you some beer,” she said. “My dear, yourskirt is open at the back. We could not help laughing as you walked up the roomwith the white tape of your petticoat showing!”

“But how frightful!” said Frau Brechenmacher, collapsing into herchair and biting her lip.

“Na, it’s over now,” said Frau Rupp, stretching her fat handsover the table and regarding her three mourning rings with intense enjoyment;“but one must be careful, especially at a wedding.”

“And such a wedding as this,” cried Frau Ledermann, who sat on theother side of Frau Brechenmacher. “Fancy Theresa bringing that child withher. It’s her own child, you know, my dear, and it’s going to livewith them. That’s what I call a sin against the Church for a free-bornchild to attend its own mother’s wedding.”

The three women sat and stared at the bride, who remained very still, with alittle vacant smile on her lips, only her eyes shifting uneasily from side toside.

“Beer they’ve given it, too,” whispered Frau Rupp, “andwhite wine and an ice. It never did have a stomach; she ought to have left itat home.”

Frau Brechenmacher turned round and looked towards the bride’s mother.She never took her eyes off her daughter, but wrinkled her brown forehead likean old monkey, and nodded now and again very solemnly. Her hands shook as sheraised her beer mug, and when she had drunk she spat on the floor and savagelywiped her mouth with her sleeve. Then the music started and she followedTheresa with her eyes, looking suspiciously at each man who danced with her.

“Cheer up, old woman,” shouted her husband, digging her in theribs; “this isn’t Theresa’s funeral.” He winked at theguests, who broke into loud laughter.

“I amcheerful,” mumbled the old woman, and beat upon thetable with her fist, keeping time to the music, proving she was not out of thefestivities.

“She can’t forget how wild Theresa has been,” said FrauLedermann. “Who could—with the child there? I heard that lastSunday evening Theresa had hysterics and said that she would not marry thisman. They had to get the priest to her.”

“Where is the other one?” asked Frau Brechenmacher. “Whydidn’t he marry her?”

The woman shrugged her shoulders.

“Gone—disappeared. He was a traveller, and only stayed at theirhouse two nights. He was selling shirt buttons—I bought some myself, andthey were beautiful shirt buttons—but what a pig of a fellow! Ican’t think what he saw in such a plain girl—but you never know.Her mother says she’s been like fire ever since she was sixteen!”

Frau Brechenmacher looked down at her beer and blew a little hole in the froth.

“That’s not how a wedding should be,” she said;“it’s not religion to love two men.”

“Nice time she’ll have with this one,” Frau Rupp exclaimed.“He was lodging with me last summer and I had to get rid of him. He neverchanged his clothes once in two months, and when I spoke to him of the smell inhis room he told me he was sure it floated up from the shop. Ah, every wife hasher cross. Isn’t that true, my dear?”

Frau Brechenmacher saw her husband among his colleagues at the next table. Hewas drinking far too much, she knew—gesticulating wildly, the salivaspluttering out of his mouth as he talked.

“Yes,” she assented, “that’s true. Girls have a lot tolearn.”

Wedged in between these two fat old women, the Frau had no hope of being askedto dance. She watched the couples going round and round; she forgot her fivebabies and her man and felt almost like a girl again. The music sounded sad andsweet. Her roughened hands clasped and unclasped themselves in the folds of herskirt. While the music went on she was afraid to look anybody in the face, andshe smiled with a little nervous tremor round the mouth.

“But, my God,” Frau Rupp cried, “they’ve given thatchild of Theresa’s a piece of sausage. It’s to keep her quiet.There’s going to be a presentation now—your man has tospeak.”

Frau Brechenmacher sat up stiffly. The music ceased, and the dancers took theirplaces again at the tables.

Herr Brechenmacher alone remained standing—he held in his hands a bigsilver coffee-pot. Everybody laughed at his speech, except the Frau; everybodyroared at his grimaces, and at the way he carried the coffee-pot to the bridalpair, as if it were a baby he was holding.

She lifted the lid, peeped in, then shut it down with a little scream and satbiting her lips. The bridegroom wrenched the pot away from her and drew forth ababy’s bottle and two little cradles holding china dolls. As he dandledthese treasures before Theresa the hot room seemed to heave and sway withlaughter.

Frau Brechenmacher did not think it funny. She stared round at the laughingfaces, and suddenly they all seemed strange to her. She wanted to go home andnever come out again. She imagined that all these people were laughing at her,more people than there were in the room even—all laughing at her becausethey were so much stronger than she was.

They walked home in silence. Herr Brechenmacher strode ahead, she stumbledafter him. White and forsaken lay the road from the railway station to theirhouse—a cold rush of wind blew her hood from her face, and suddenly sheremembered how they had come home together the first night. Now they had fivebabies and twice as much money; but—

“Na, what is it all for?” she muttered, and not until she hadreached home, and prepared a little supper of meat and bread for her man didshe stop asking herself that silly question.

Herr Brechenmacher broke the bread into his plate, smeared it round with hisfork and chewed greedily.

“Good?” she asked, leaning her arms on the table and pillowing herbreast against them.

“But fine!”

He took a piece of the crumb, wiped it round his plate edge, and held it up toher mouth. She shook her head.

“Not hungry,” she said.

“But it is one of the best pieces, and full of the fat.”

He cleared the plate; then pulled off his boots and flung them into a corner.

“Not much of a wedding,” he said, stretching out his feet andwriggling his toes in the worsted socks.

“N—no,” she replied, taking up the discarded boots andplacing them on the oven to dry.

Herr Brechenmacher yawned and stretched himself, and then looked up at her,grinning.

“Remember the night that we came home? You were an innocent one, youwere.”

“Get along! Such a time ago I forget.” Well she remembered.

“Such a clout on the ear as you gave me.... But I soon taught you.”

“Oh, don’t start talking. You’ve too much beer. Come tobed.”

He tilted back in his chair, chuckling with laughter.

“That’s not what you said to me that night. God, the trouble yougave me!”

But the little Frau seized the candle and went into the next room. The childrenwere all soundly sleeping. She stripped the mattress off the baby’s bedto see if he was still dry, then began unfastening her blouse and skirt.

“Always the same,” she said—“all over the world thesame; but, God in heaven—but stupid.”

Then even the memory of the wedding faded quite. She lay down on the bed andput her arm across her face like a child who expected to be hurt as HerrBrechenmacher lurched in.

THE MODERN SOUL

“Good-evening,” said the Herr Professor, squeezing my hand;“wonderful weather! I have just returned from a party in the wood. I havebeen making music for them on my trombone. You know, these pine-trees providemost suitable accompaniment for a trombone! They are sighing delicacy againstsustained strength, as I remarked once in a lecture on wind instruments inFrankfort. May I be permitted to sit beside you on this bench, gnädigeFrau?”

He sat down, tugging at a white-paper package in the tail pocket of his coat.

“Cherries,” he said, nodding and smiling. “There is nothinglike cherries for producing free saliva after trombone playing, especiallyafter Grieg’s ‘Ich Liebe Dich.’ Those sustained blasts on‘liebe’ make my throat as dry as a railway tunnel. Havesome?” He shook the bag at me.

“I prefer watching you eat them.”

“Ah, ha!” He crossed his legs, sticking the cherry bag between hisknees, to leave both hands free. “Psychologically I understood yourrefusal. It is your innate feminine delicacy in preferring etherealisedsensations.... Or perhaps you do not care to eat the worms. All cherriescontain worms. Once I made a very interesting experiment with a colleague ofmine at the university. We bit into four pounds of the best cherries and didnot find one specimen without a worm. But what would you? As I remarked to himafterwards—dear friend, it amounts to this: if one wishes to satisfy thedesires of nature one must be strong enough to ignore the facts of nature....The conversation is not out of your depth? I have so seldom the time oropportunity to open my heart to a woman that I am apt to forget.”

I looked at him brightly.

“See what a fat one!” cried the Herr Professor. “That isalmost a mouthful in itself; it is beautiful enough to hang from awatch-chain.” He chewed it up and spat the stone an incredibledistance—over the garden path into the flower bed. He was proud of thefeat. I saw it. “The quantity of fruit I have eaten on this bench,”he sighed; “apricots, peaches and cherries. One day that garden bed willbecome an orchard grove, and I shall allow you to pick as much as you please,without paying me anything.”

I was grateful, without showing undue excitement.

“Which reminds me”—he hit the side of his nose with onefinger—“the manager of the pension handed me my weekly bill afterdinner this evening. It is almost impossible to credit. I do not expect you tobelieve me—he has charged me extra for a miserable little glass of milk Idrink in bed at night to prevent insomnia. Naturally, I did not pay. But thetragedy of the story is this: I cannot expect the milk to produce somnolenceany longer; my peaceful attitude of mind towards it is completely destroyed. Iknow I shall throw myself into a fever in attempting to plumb this want ofgenerosity in so wealthy a man as the manager of a pension. Think of meto-night”—he ground the empty bag under his heel—“thinkthat the worst is happening to me as your head drops asleep on yourpillow.”

Two ladies came on the front steps of the pension and stood, arm in arm,looking over the garden. The one, old and scraggy, dressed almost entirely inblack bead trimming and a satin reticule; the other, young and thin, in a whitegown, her yellow hair tastefully garnished with mauve sweet peas.

The Professor drew in his feet and sat up sharply, pulling down his waistcoat.

“The Godowskas,” he murmured. “Do you know them? A mother anddaughter from Vienna. The mother has an internal complaint and the daughter isan actress. Fräulein Sonia is a very modern soul. I think you would find hermost sympathetic. She is forced to be in attendance on her mother just now. Butwhat a temperament! I have once described her in her autograph album as atigress with a flower in the hair. Will you excuse me? Perhaps I can persuadethem to be introduced to you.”

I said, “I am going up to my room.” But the Professor rose andshook a playful finger at me. “Na,” he said, “we are friends,and, therefore, I shall speak quite frankly to you. I think they would considerit a little ‘marked’ if you immediately retired to the house attheir approach, after sitting here alone with me in the twilight. You know thisworld. Yes, you know it as I do.”

I shrugged my shoulders, remarking with one eye that while the Professor hadbeen talking the Godowskas had trailed across the lawn towards us. Theyconfronted the Herr Professor as he stood up.

“Good-evening,” quavered Frau Godowska. “Wonderful weather!It has given me quite a touch of hay fever!” Fräulein Godowska saidnothing. She swooped over a rose growing in the embryo orchard, then stretchedout her hand with a magnificent gesture to the Herr Professor. He presented me.

“This is my little English friend of whom I have spoken. She is thestranger in our midst. We have been eating cherries together.”

“How delightful,” sighed Frau Godowska. “My daughter and Ihave often observed you through the bedroom window. Haven’t we,Sonia?”

Sonia absorbed my outward and visible form with an inward and spiritual glance,then repeated the magnificent gesture for my benefit. The four of us sat on thebench, with that faint air of excitement of passengers established in a railwaycarriage on the qui vive for the train whistle. Frau Godowska sneezed. “Iwonder if it is hay fever,” she remarked, worrying the satin reticule forher handkerchief, “or would it be the dew. Sonia, dear, is the dewfalling?”

Fräulein Sonia raised her face to the sky, and half closed her eyes. “No,mamma, my face is quite warm. Oh, look, Herr Professor, there are swallows inflight; they are like a little flock of Japanese thoughts—nichtwahr?”

“Where?” cried the Herr Professor. “Oh yes, I see, by thekitchen chimney. But why do you say ‘Japanese’? Could you notcompare them with equal veracity to a little flock of German thoughts inflight?” He rounded on me. “Have you swallows in England?”

“I believe there are some at certain seasons. But doubtless they have notthe same symbolical value for the English. In Germany—”

“I have never been to England,” interrupted Fräulein Sonia,“but I have many English acquaintances. They are so cold!” Sheshivered.

“Fish-blooded,” snapped Frau Godowska. “Without soul, withoutheart, without grace. But you cannot equal their dress materials. I spent aweek in Brighton twenty years ago, and the travelling cape I bought there isnot yet worn out—the one you wrap the hot-water bottle in, Sonia. Mylamented husband, your father, Sonia, knew a great deal about England. But themore he knew about it the oftener he remarked to me, ‘England is merelyan island of beef flesh swimming in a warm gulf sea of gravy.’ Such abrilliant way of putting things. Do you remember, Sonia?”

“I forget nothing, mamma,” answered Sonia.

Said the Herr Professor: “That is the proof of your calling, gnädigesFräulein. Now I wonder—and this is a very interestingspeculation—is memory a blessing or—excuse the word—acurse?”

Frau Godowska looked into the distance, then the corners of her mouth droppedand her skin puckered. She began to shed tears.

“Ach Gott! Gracious lady, what have I said?” exclaimed the HerrProfessor.

Sonia took her mother’s hand. “Do you know,” she said,“to-night it is stewed carrots and nut tart for supper. Suppose we go inand take our places,” her sidelong, tragic stare accusing the Professorand me the while.

I followed them across the lawn and up the steps. Frau Godowska was murmuring,“Such a wonderful, beloved man”; with her disengaged hand FräuleinSonia was arranging the sweet-pea “garniture.”

“A concert for the benefit of afflicted Catholic infants will take placein the salon at eight-thirty P.M. Artists: Fräulein Sonia Godowska, fromVienna; Herr Professor Windberg and his trombone; Frau Oberlehrer Weidel, andothers.”

This notice was tied round the neck of the melancholy stag’s head in thedining-room. It graced him like a red and white “dinner bib” fordays before the event, causing the Herr Professor to bow before it and say“good appetite” until we sickened of his pleasantry and left thesmiling to be done by the waiter, who was paid to be pleasing to the guests.

On the appointed day the married ladies sailed about the pension dressed likeupholstered chairs, and the unmarried ladies like draped muslin dressing-tablecovers. Frau Godowska pinned a rose in the centre of her reticule; anotherblossom was tucked in the mazy folds of a white antimacassar thrown across herbreast. The gentlemen wore black coats, white silk ties and ferny buttonholestickling the chin.

The floor of the salon was freshly polished, chairs and benches arranged, and arow of little flags strung across the ceiling—they flew and jigged in thedraught with all the enthusiasm of family washing. It was arranged that Ishould sit beside Frau Godowska, and that the Herr Professor and Sonia shouldjoin us when their share of the concert was over.

“That will make you feel quite one of the performers,” said theHerr Professor genially. “It is a great pity that the English nation isso unmusical. Never mind! To-night you shall hear something—we havediscovered a nest of talent during the rehearsals.”

“What do you intend to recite, Fräulein Sonia?”

She shook back her hair. “I never know until the last moment. When I comeon the stage I wait for one moment and then I have the sensation as thoughsomething struck me here,”—she placed her hand upon her collarbrooch—“and... words come!”

“Bend down a moment,” whispered her mother. “Sonia, love,your skirt safety-pin is showing at the back. Shall I come outside and fastenit properly for you, or will you do it yourself?”

“Oh, mamma, please don’t say such things,” Sonia flushed andgrew very angry. “You know how sensitive I am to the slightestunsympathetic impression at a time like this.... I would rather my skirtdropped off my body—”

“Sonia—my heart!”

A bell tinkled.

The waiter came in and opened the piano. In the heated excitement of the momenthe entirely forgot what was fitting, and flicked the keys with the grimy tablenapkin he carried over his arm. The Frau Oberlehrer tripped on the platformfollowed by a very young gentleman, who blew his nose twice before he hurledhis handkerchief into the bosom of the piano.

“Yes, I know you have no love for me,
And no forget-me-not.
No love, no heart, and no forget-me-not.”

sang the Frau Oberlehrer, in a voice that seemed to issue from her forgottenthimble and have nothing to do with her.

“Ach, how sweet, how delicate,” we cried, clapping her soothingly.She bowed as though to say, “Yes, isn’t it?” and retired, thevery young gentleman dodging her train and scowling.

The piano was closed, an arm-chair was placed in the centre of the platform.Fräulein Sonia drifted towards it. A breathless pause. Then, presumably, thewinged shaft struck her collar brooch. She implored us not to go into the woodsin trained dresses, but rather as lightly draped as possible, and bed with heramong the pine needles. Her loud, slightly harsh voice filled the salon. Shedropped her arms over the back of the chair, moving her lean hands from thewrists. We were thrilled and silent. The Herr Professor, beside me, abnormallyserious, his eyes bulging, pulled at his moustache ends. Frau Godowska adoptedthat peculiarly detached attitude of the proud parent. The only soul whoremained untouched by her appeal was the waiter, who leaned idly against thewall of the salon and cleaned his nails with the edge of a programme. He was“off duty” and intended to show it.

“What did I say?” shouted the Herr Professor under cover oftumultuous applause, “tem-per-ament! There you have it. She is a flame inthe heart of a lily. I know I am going to play well. It is my turn now. I aminspired. Fräulein Sonia”—as that lady returned to us, pale anddraped in a large shawl—“you are my inspiration. To-night you shallbe the soul of my trombone. Wait only.”

To right and left of us people bent over and whispered admiration down FräuleinSonia’s neck. She bowed in the grand style.

“I am always successful,” she said to me. “You see, when Iact I am. In Vienna, in the plays of Ibsen we had so many bouquets thatthe cook had three in the kitchen. But it is difficult here. There is so littlemagic. Do you not feel it? There is none of that mysterious perfume whichfloats almost as a visible thing from the souls of the Viennese audiences. Myspirit starves for want of that.” She leaned forward, chin on hand.“Starves,” she repeated.

The Professor appeared with his trombone, blew into it, held it up to one eye,tucked back his shirt cuffs and wallowed in the soul of Sonia Godowska. Such asensation did he create that he was recalled to play a Bavarian dance, which heacknowledged was to be taken as a breathing exercise rather than an artisticachievement. Frau Godowska kept time to it with a fan.

Followed the very young gentleman who piped in a tenor voice that he lovedsomebody, “with blood in his heart and a thousand pains.” FräuleinSonia acted a poison scene with the assistance of her mother’s pill vialand the arm-chair replaced by a “chaise longue”; a young girlscratched a lullaby on a young fiddle; and the Herr Professor performed thelast sacrificial rites on the altar of the afflicted children by playing theNational Anthem.

“Now I must put mamma to bed,” whispered Fräulein Sonia. “Butafterwards I must take a walk. It is imperative that I free my spirit in theopen air for a moment. Would you come with me as far as the railway station andback?”

“Very well, then, knock on my door when you’re ready.”

Thus the modern soul and I found ourselves together under the stars.

“What a night!” she said. “Do you know that poem of Sapphoabout her hands in the stars.... I am curiously sapphic. And this is soremarkable—not only am I sapphic, I find in all the works of all thegreatest writers, especially in their unedited letters, some touch, some signof myself—some resemblance, some part of myself, like a thousandreflections of my own hands in a dark mirror.”

“But what a bother,” said I.

“I do not know what you mean by ‘bother’; is it rather thecurse of my genius....” She paused suddenly, staring at me. “Do youknow my tragedy?” she asked.

I shook my head.

“My tragedy is my mother. Living with her I live with the coffin of myunborn aspirations. You heard that about the safety-pin to-night. It may seemto you a little thing, but it ruined my three first gestures. Theywere—”

“Impaled on a safety-pin,” I suggested.

“Yes, exactly that. And when we are in Vienna I am the victim of moods,you know. I long to do wild, passionate things. And mamma says, ‘Pleasepour out my mixture first.’ Once I remember I flew into a rage and threwa washstand jug out of the window. Do you know what she said? ‘Sonia, itis not so much throwing things out of windows, if only youwould—’”

“Choose something smaller?” said I.

“No... ‘tell me about it beforehand.’ Humiliating! And I donot see any possible light out of this darkness.”

“Why don’t you join a touring company and leave your mother inVienna?”

“What! Leave my poor, little, sick, widowed mother in Vienna! Sooner thanthat I would drown myself. I love my mother as I love nobody else in theworld—nobody and nothing! Do you think it is impossible to loveone’s tragedy? ‘Out of my great sorrows I make my littlesongs,’ that is Heine or myself.”

“Oh, well, that’s all right,” I said cheerfully.

“But it is not all right!”

I suggested we should turn back. We turned.

“Sometimes I think the solution lies in marriage,” said FräuleinSonia. “If I find a simple, peaceful man who adores me and will lookafter mamma—a man who would be for me a pillow—for genius cannothope to mate—I shall marry him.... You know the Herr Professor has paidme very marked attentions.”

“Oh, Fräulein Sonia,” I said, very pleased with myself, “whynot marry him to your mother?” We were passing the hairdresser’sshop at the moment. Fräulein Sonia clutched my arm.

“You, you,” she stammered. “The cruelty. I am going to faint.Mamma to marry again before I marry—the indignity. I am going to fainthere and now.”

I was frightened. “You can’t,” I said, shaking her.

“Come back to the pension and faint as much as you please. But youcan’t faint here. All the shops are closed. There is nobody about. Pleasedon’t be so foolish.”

“Here and here only!” She indicated the exact spot and droppedquite beautifully, lying motionless.

“Very well,” I said, “faint away; but please hurry overit.”

She did not move. I began to walk home, but each time I looked behind me I sawthe dark form of the modern soul prone before the hairdresser’s window.Finally I ran, and rooted out the Herr Professor from his room. “FräuleinSonia has fainted,” I said crossly.

“Du lieber Gott! Where? How?”

“Outside the hairdresser’s shop in the Station Road.”

“Jesus and Maria! Has she no water with her?”—he seized hiscarafe—“nobody beside her?”

“Nothing.”

“Where is my coat? No matter, I shall catch a cold on the chest.Willingly, I shall catch one.... You are ready to come with me?”

“No,” I said; “you can take the waiter.”

“But she must have a woman. I cannot be so indelicate as to attempt toloosen her stays.”

“Modern souls oughtn’t to wear them,” said I. He pushed pastme and clattered down the stairs.

When I came down to breakfast next morning there were two places vacant attable. Fräulein Sonia and Herr Professor had gone off for a day’sexcursion in the woods.

I wondered.

AT “LEHMANN’S”

Certainly Sabina did not find life slow. She was on the trot from early morninguntil late at night. At five o’clock she tumbled out of bed, buttoned onher clothes, wearing a long-sleeved alpaca pinafore over her black frock, andgroped her way downstairs into the kitchen.

Anna, the cook, had grown so fat during the summer that she adored her bedbecause she did not have to wear her corsets there, but could spread as much asshe liked, roll about under the great mattress, calling upon Jesus and HolyMary and Blessed Anthony himself that her life was not fit for a pig in acellar.

Sabina was new to her work. Pink colour still flew in her cheeks; there was alittle dimple on the left side of her mouth that even when she was mostserious, most absorbed, popped out and gave her away. And Anna blessed thatdimple. It meant an extra half-hour in bed for her; it made Sabina light thefire, turn out the kitchen and wash endless cups and saucers that had been leftover from the evening before. Hans, the scullery boy, did not come until seven.He was the son of the butcher—a mean, undersized child very much like oneof his father’s sausages, Sabina thought. His red face was covered withpimples, and his nails indescribably filthy. When Herr Lehmann himself toldHans to get a hairpin and clean them he said they were stained from birthbecause his mother had always got so inky doing the accounts—and Sabinabelieved him and pitied him.

Winter had come very early to Mindelbau. By the end of October the streets werebanked waist-high with snow, and the greater number of the “CureGuests,” sick unto death of cold water and herbs, had departed in nothingapproaching peace. So the large salon was shut at Lehmann’s and thebreakfast-room was all the accommodation the café afforded. Here the floor hadto be washed over, the tables rubbed, coffee-cups set out, each with its littlechina platter of sugar, and newspapers and magazines hung on their hooks alongthe walls before Herr Lehmann appeared at seven-thirty and opened business.

As a rule his wife served in the shop leading into the café, but she had chosenthe quiet season to have a baby, and, a big woman at the best of times, she hadgrown so enormous in the process that her husband told her she lookedunappetising, and had better remain upstairs and sew.

Sabina took on the extra work without any thought of extra pay. She loved tostand behind the counter, cutting up slices of Anna’s marvellouschocolate-spotted confections, or doing up packets of sugar almonds in pink andblue striped bags.

“You’ll get varicose veins, like me,” said Anna.“That’s what the Frau’s got, too. No wonder the babydoesn’t come! All her swelling’s got into her legs.” And Hanswas immensely interested.

During the morning business was comparatively slack. Sabina answered the shopbell, attended to a few customers who drank a liqueur to warm their stomachsbefore the midday meal, and ran upstairs now and again to ask the Frau if shewanted anything. But in the afternoon six or seven choice spirits played cards,and everybody who was anybody drank tea or coffee.

“Sabina... Sabina....”

She flew from one table to the other, counting out handfuls of small change,giving orders to Anna through the “slide,” helping the men withtheir heavy coats, always with that magical child air about her, thatdelightful sense of perpetually attending a party.

“How is the Frau Lehmann?” the women would whisper.

“She feels rather low, but as well as can be expected,” Sabinawould answer, nodding confidentially.

Frau Lehmann’s bad time was approaching. Anna and her friends referred toit as her “journey to Rome,” and Sabina longed to ask questions,yet, being ashamed of her ignorance, was silent, trying to puzzle it out forherself. She knew practically nothing except that the Frau had a baby insideher, which had to come out—very painful indeed. One could not have onewithout a husband—that she also realised. But what had the man got to dowith it? So she wondered as she sat mending tea towels in the evening, headbent over her work, light shining on her brown curls. Birth—what was it?wondered Sabina. Death—such a simple thing. She had a little picture ofher dead grandmother dressed in a black silk frock, tired hands clasping thecrucifix that dragged between her flattened breasts, mouth curiously tight, yetalmost secretly smiling. But the grandmother had been born once—that wasthe important fact.

As she sat there one evening, thinking, the Young Man entered the café, andcalled for a glass of port wine. Sabina rose slowly. The long day and the hotroom made her feel a little languid, but as she poured out the wine she feltthe Young Man’s eyes fixed on her, looked down at him and dimpled.

“It’s cold out,” she said, corking the bottle.

The Young Man ran his hands through his snow-powdered hair and laughed.

“I wouldn’t call it exactly tropical,” he said. “Butyou’re very snug in here—look as though you’ve beenasleep.”

Very languid felt Sabina in the hot room, and the Young Man’s voice wasstrong and deep. She thought she had never seen anybody who looked sostrong—as though he could take up the table in one hand—and hisrestless gaze wandering over her face and figure gave her a curious thrill deepin her body, half pleasure, half pain.... She wanted to stand there, closebeside him, while he drank his wine. A little silence followed. Then he took abook out of his pocket, and Sabina went back to her sewing. Sitting there inthe corner, she listened to the sound of the leaves being turned and the loudticking of the clock that hung over the gilt mirror. She wanted to look at himagain—there was a something about him, in his deep voice, even in the wayhis clothes fitted. From the room above she heard the heavy dragging sound ofFrau Lehmann’s footsteps, and again the old thoughts worried Sabina. Ifshe herself should one day look like that—feel like that! Yet it would bevery sweet to have a little baby to dress and jump up and down.

“Fräulein—what’s your name—what are you smilingat?” called the Young Man.

She blushed and looked up, hands quiet in her lap, looked across the emptytables 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 colouredsketch of a naked girl sitting on the edge of a great, crumpled bed, aman’s opera hat on the back of her head.

He put his hand over the body, leaving only the face exposed, then scrutinisedSabina closely.

“Well?”

“What do you mean?” she asked, knowing perfectly well.

“Why, it might be your own photograph—the face, Imean—that’s as far as I can judge.”

“But the hair’s done differently,” said Sabina, laughing. Shethrew back her head, and the laughter bubbled in her round white throat.

“It’s rather a nice picture, don’t you think?” heasked. But she was looking at a curious ring he wore on the hand that coveredthe girl’s body, and only nodded.

“Ever seen anything like it before?”

“Oh, there’s plenty of those funny ones in the illustratedpapers.”

“How would you like to have your picture taken that way?”

“Me? I’d never let anybody see it. Besides, I haven’t got ahat 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 hershoulders, her feet encased in red woollen slippers. The girl put the milk on atable by her, then stood, polishing a spoon on her apron.

“Nothing else?”

“Na,” said the Frau, heaving up in her chair. “Where’smy man?”

“He’s playing cards over at Snipold’s. Do you wanthim?”

“Dear heaven, leave him alone. I’m nothing. I don’tmatter.... 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 thesugar—give him one on the ear.”

“Ugly—ugly—ugly,” muttered Sabina, returning to thecafé where the Young Man stood coat-buttoned, ready for departure.

“I’ll come again to-morrow,” said he. “Don’ttwist 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 longhair and gathered it in her hands.... Perhaps it would be a pity if it lost allits curl. Then she looked down at her straight chemise, and drawing it off, satdown on the side of the bed.

“I wish,” she whispered, smiling sleepily, “there was a greatbig 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 athousand marks. To look like that.”

And half-dreaming, she imagined herself heaving up in her chair with the portwine bottle in her hand as the Young Man entered the café.

Cold and dark the next morning. Sabina woke, tired, feeling as though somethingheavy had been pressing under her heart all night. There was a sound offootsteps shuffling along the passage. Herr Lehmann! She must have oversleptherself. 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 thenurse.”

“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,” shestuttered.

“Name of God!” said Anna, flinging herself out of bed.

No complaints to-day. Importance—enthusiasm in Anna’s wholebearing.

“You run downstairs and light the oven. Put on a pan ofwater”—speaking to an imaginary sufferer as she fastened herblouse—“Yes, yes, I know—we must be worse before we arebetter—I’m coming—patience.”

It was dark all that day. Lights were turned on immediately the café opened,and business was very brisk. Anna, turned out of the Frau’s room by thenurse, refused to work, and sat in a corner nursing herself, listening tosounds 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 timeabout it.”

“Listen,” said Anna, “they’ve moved her into the backbedroom above here, so as not to disturb the people. That was agroan—that one!”

“Two small beers,” shouted Herr Lehmann through the slide.

“One moment, one moment.”

At eight o’clock the café was deserted. Sabina sat down in the cornerwithout her sewing. Nothing seemed to have happened to the Frau. A doctor hadcome—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, itis too much.” She leaned both elbows on the table—cupped her facein her hands and pouted.

But the outer door suddenly opening, she sprang to her feet and laughed. It wasthe Young Man again. He ordered more port, and brought no book this time.

“Don’t go and sit miles away,” he grumbled. “I want tobe amused. And here, take my coat. Can’t you dry itsomewhere?—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 whereyou 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 morewood on that oven. It doesn’t matter, they’re all busyupstairs.”

She knelt down on the floor, and thrust the wood into the oven, laughing at herown wicked extravagance.

The Frau was forgotten, the stupid day was forgotten. Here was someone besideher laughing, too. They were together in the little warm room stealing HerrLehmann’s wood. It seemed the most exciting adventure in the world. Shewanted to go on laughing—or burst outcrying—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 strangetremor thrilled Sabina.

“Look here,” he said roughly, “are you a child, or are youplaying at being one?”

“I—I—”

Laughter ceased. She looked up at him once, then down at the floor, and beganbreathing 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 swimround 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.

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 myfellow-bathers walking about very nearly “in their nakeds,” itstruck me that the umbrellas gave a distinctly “Little Black Sambo”touch.

Ridiculous dignity in holding over yourself a green cotton thing with a redparroquet handle when you are dressed in nothing larger than a handkerchief.

There are no trees in the “Luft Bad.” It boasts a collection ofplain, 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 tobe used with safety in the cradle.

And there in all weathers we take the air—walking, or sitting in littlecompanies talking over each other’s ailments and measurements and illsthat flesh is heir to.

A high wooden wall compasses us all about; above it the pine-trees look down alittle superciliously, nudging each other in a way that is peculiarly trying toa débutante. Over the wall, on the right side, is the men’ssection. We hear them chopping down trees and sawing through planks, dashingheavy weights to the ground, and singing part songs. Yes, they take it far moreseriously.

On the first day I was conscious of my legs, and went back into my cell threetimes to look at my watch, but when a woman with whom I had played chess forthree weeks cut me dead, I took heart and joined a circle.

We lay curled on the ground while a Hungarian lady of immense proportions toldus what a beautiful tomb she had bought for her second husband.

“A vault it is,” she said, “with nice black railings. And solarge that I can go down there and walk about. Both their photographs arethere, with two very handsome wreaths sent me by my first husband’sbrother. There is an enlargement of a family group photograph, too, and anilluminated address presented to my first husband on his marriage. I am oftenthere; 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 upagain.

“The death agony was dreadful,” she said brightly; “of thesecond, I mean. The ‘first’ was run into by a furniture wagon, andhad fifty marks stolen out of a new waistcoat pocket, but the‘second’ was dying for sixty-seven hours. I never ceased cryingonce—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. “Ican.”

“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 nextten minutes, and then paused, panting, twisting her long hair.

“Isn’t that nice?” she said. “And now I am perspiringso splendidly. I shall go and take a bath.”

Opposite to me was the brownest woman I have ever seen, lying on her back, herarms 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 myown ‘cure,’ and living entirely on raw vegetables and nuts, andeach day I feel my spirit is stronger and purer. After all, what can youexpect? The majority of us are walking about with pig corpuscles and oxenfragments in our brain. The wonder is the world is as good as it is. Now I liveon the simple, provided food”—she pointed to a little bag besideher—“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 theycome 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 turnedround and leaned on one elbow. “You over-eat yourself dreadfully,”she said; “shamelessly! How can you expect the Flame of the Spirit toburn brightly under layers of superfluous flesh?”

I wished she would not stare at me, and thought of going to look at my watchagain 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 wasvery 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 noright to let her daughters wear such short sailor suits. They sit about onbenches, crossing their legs in a most shameless manner. What are you going todo this afternoon, Fräulein Anna?”

“Oh,” said the Coral Necklace, “the Herr Oberleutnant hasasked me to go with him to Landsdorf. He must buy some eggs there to take hometo his mother. He saves a penny on eight eggs by knowing the right peasants tobargain 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 walkingalone several times. You wear your—”

I got up and climbed on to the swing. The air was sweet and cool, rushing pastmy body. Above, white clouds trailed delicately through the blue sky. From thepine 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 closetogether, 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 keepnothing 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 livesin the Luft Bad next door? He buries himself up to the armpits in mud andrefuses to believe in the Trinity.”

The umbrellas are the saving grace of the Luft Bad. Now when I go, I take myhusband’s “storm gamp” and sit in a corner, hiding behind it.

Not that I am in the least ashamed of my legs.

A BIRTHDAY

Andreas Binzer woke slowly. He turned over on the narrow bed and stretchedhimself—yawned—opening his mouth as widely as possible and bringinghis teeth together afterwards with a sharp “click.” The sound ofthat click fascinated him; he repeated it quickly several times, with asnapping movement of the jaws. What teeth! he thought. Sound as a bell, everyman jack of them. Never had one out, never had one stopped. That comes of notomfoolery in eating, and a good regular brushing night and morning. He raisedhimself on his left elbow and waved his right arm over the side of the bed tofeel for the chair where he put his watch and chain overnight. No chair wasthere—of course, he’d forgotten, there wasn’t a chair in thiswretched spare room. Had to put the confounded thing under his pillow.“Half-past eight, Sunday, breakfast at nine—time for thebath”—his brain ticked to the watch. He sprang out of bed and wentover to the window. The venetian blind was broken, hung fan-shaped over theupper pane.... “That blind must be mended. I’ll get the office boyto drop in and fix it on his way home to-morrow—he’s a good hand atblinds. Give him twopence and he’ll do it as well as a carpenter.... Annacould 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.” Helooked up at the sky: it shone, strangely white, unflecked with cloud; helooked down at the row of garden strips and backyards. The fence of thesegardens was built along the edge of a gully, spanned by an iron suspensionbridge, and the people had a wretched habit of throwing their empty tins overthe fence into the gully. Just like them, of course! Andreas started countingthe tins, and decided, viciously, to write a letter to the papers about it andsign 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 atit, sucking in her cheeks. Suddenly she bent forward, spat on the toecap, andstarted polishing with a brush rooted out of her apron pocket.... “Slutof a girl! Heaven knows what infectious disease may be breeding now in thatboot. Anna must get rid of that girl—even if she has to do without onefor a bit—as soon as she’s up and about again. The way she chuckedone boot down and then spat upon the other! She didn’t care whose bootsshe’d got hold of. Shehad no false notions of the respect due tothe master of the house.” He turned away from the window and switched hisbath towel from the washstand rail, sick at heart. “I’m toosensitive for a man—that’s what’s the matter with me. Havebeen from the beginning, and will be to the end.”

There was a gentle knock at the door and his mother came in. She closed thedoor 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; afine network of wrinkles seemed to pull over it from under the skin surface.

“Sit down on the bed a moment,” he said. “Been up allnight?”

“Yes. No, I won’t sit down, I must go back to her. Anna has been inpain all night. She wouldn’t have you disturbed before because she saidyou looked so run down yesterday. You told her you had caught a cold and beenvery worried.”

Straightway Andreas felt that he was being accused.

“Well, she made me tell her, worried it out of me; you know the way shedoes.”

Again Frau Binzer nodded.

“Oh yes, I know. She says, is your cold better, and there’s a warmundervest for you in the left-hand corner of the big drawer.”

Quite automatically Andreas cleared his throat twice.

“Yes,” he answered. “Tell her my throat certainly feelslooser. I suppose I’d better not disturb her?”

“No, and besides, time, Andreas.”

“I’ll be ready in five minutes.”

They went into the passage. As Frau Binzer opened the door of the frontbedroom, a long wail came from the room.

That shocked and terrified Andreas. He dashed into the bathroom, turned on bothtaps as far as they would go, cleaned his teeth and pared his nails while thewater was running.

“Frightful business, frightful business,” he heard himselfwhispering. “And I can’t understand it. It isn’t as though itwere her first—it’s her third. Old Schäfer told me, yesterday, hiswife simply ‘dropped’ her fourth. Anna ought to have had aqualified nurse. Mother gives way to her. Mother spoils her. I wonder what shemeant by saying I’d worried Anna yesterday. Nice remark to make to ahusband at a time like this. Unstrung, I suppose—and my sensitivenessagain.”

When he went into the kitchen for his boots, the servant girl was bent over thestove, cooking breakfast. “Breathing into that, now, I suppose,”thought Andreas, and was very short with the servant girl. She did not notice.She was full of terrified joy and importance in the goings on upstairs. Shefelt she was learning the secrets of life with every breath she drew. Had laidthe table that morning saying, “Boy,” as she put down the firstdish, “Girl,” as she placed the second—it had worked out withthe saltspoon to “Boy.” “For two pins I’d tell themaster that, to comfort him, like,” she decided. But the master gave herno opening.

“Put an extra cup and saucer on the table,” he said; “thedoctor may want some coffee.”

“The doctor, sir?” The servant girl whipped a spoon out of a pan,and spilt two drops of grease on the stove. “Shall I fry somethingextra?” But the master had gone, slamming the door after him. He walkeddown the street—there was nobody about at all—dead and alive thisplace on a Sunday morning. As he crossed the suspension bridge a strong stenchof fennel and decayed refuse streamed from the gulley, and again Andreas beganconcocting a letter. He turned into the main road. The shutters were still upbefore the shops. Scraps of newspaper, hay, and fruit skins strewed thepavement; the gutters were choked with the leavings of Saturday night. Two dogssprawled in the middle of the road, scuffling and biting. Only the public-houseat the corner was open; a young barman slopped water over the doorstep.

Fastidiously, his lips curling, Andreas picked his way through the water.“Extraordinary how I am noticing things this morning. It’s partlythe effect of Sunday. I loathe a Sunday when Anna’s tied by the leg andthe children are away. On Sunday a man has the right to expect his family.Everything here’s filthy, the whole place might be down with the plague,and will be, too, if this street’s not swept away. I’d like to havea hand on the government ropes.” He braced his shoulders. “Now forthis doctor.”

“Doctor Erb is at breakfast,” the maid informed him. She showed himinto the waiting-room, a dark and musty place, with some ferns under aglass-case by the window. “He says he won’t be a minute, please,sir, and there is a paper on the table.”

“Unhealthy hole,” thought Binzer, walking over to the window anddrumming his fingers on the glass fern-shade. “At breakfast, is he?That’s the mistake I made: turning out early on an empty stomach.”

A milk cart rattled down the street, the driver standing at the back, crackinga whip; he wore an immense geranium flower stuck in the lapel of his coat. Firmas a rock he stood, bending back a little in the swaying cart. Andreas cranedhis neck to watch him all the way down the road, even after he had gone,listening for the sharp sound of those rattling cans.

“H’m, not much wrong with him,” he reflected.“Wouldn’t mind a taste of that life myself. Up early, work all overby eleven o’clock, nothing to do but loaf about all day until milkingtime.” Which he knew was an exaggeration, but he wanted to pity himself.

The maid opened the door, and stood aside for Doctor Erb. Andreas wheeledround; the two men shook hands.

“Well, Binzer,” said the doctor jovially, brushing some crumbs froma pearl-coloured waistcoat, “son and heir becoming importunate?”

Up went Binzer’s spirits with a bound. Son and heir, by Jove! He was gladto have to deal with a man again. And a sane fellow this, who came across thissort of thing every day of the week.

“That’s about the measure of it, Doctor,” he answered,smiling and picking up his hat. “Mother dragged me out of bed thismorning with imperative orders to bring you along.”

“Gig will be round in a minute. Drive back with me, won’t you?Extraordinary, sultry day; you’re as red as a beetroot already.”

Andreas affected to laugh. The doctor had one annoying habit—imagined hehad the right to poke fun at everybody simply because he was a doctor.“The man’s riddled with conceit, like all theseprofessionals,” Andreas decided.

“What sort of night did Frau Binzer have?” asked the doctor.“Ah, here’s the gig. Tell me on the way up. Sit as near the middleas you can, will you, Binzer? Your weight tilts it over a bit oneside—that’s the worst of you successful business men.”

“Two stone heavier than I, if he’s a pound,” thought Andreas.“The man may be all right in his profession—but heaven preserveme.”

“Off you go, my beauty.” Doctor Erb flicked the little brown mare.“Did your wife get any sleep last night?”

“No; I don’t think she did,” answered Andreas shortly.“To tell you the truth, I’m not satisfied that she hasn’t anurse.”

“Oh, your mother’s worth a dozen nurses,” cried the doctor,with immense gusto. “To tell you the truth, I’m not keen onnurses—too raw—raw as rump-steak. They wrestle for a baby as thoughthey were wrestling with Death for the body of Patroclus.... Ever seen thatpicture by an English artist. Leighton? Wonderful thing—full ofsinew!”

“There he goes again,” thought Andreas, “airing off hisknowledge to make a fool of me.”

“Now your mother—she’s firm—she’s capable. Doeswhat she’s told with a fund of sympathy. Look at these shops we’repassing—they’re festering sores. How on earth this government cantolerate—”

“They’re not so bad—sound enough—only want a coat ofpaint.”

The doctor whistled a little tune and flicked the mare again.

“Well, I hope the young shaver won’t give his mother too muchtrouble,” he said. “Here we are.”

A skinny little boy, who had been sliding up and down the back seat of the gig,sprang out and held the horse’s head. Andreas went straight into thedining-room and left the servant girl to take the doctor upstairs. He sat down,poured out some coffee, and bit through half a roll before helping himself tofish. Then he noticed there was no hot plate for the fish—the whole housewas at sixes and sevens. He rang the bell, but the servant girl came in with atray holding a bowl of soup and a hot plate.

“I’ve been keeping them on the stove,” she simpered.

“Ah, thanks, that’s very kind of you.” As he swallowed thesoup his heart warmed to this fool of a girl.

“Oh, it’s a good thing Doctor Erb has come,” volunteered theservant girl, who was bursting for want of sympathy.

“H’m, h’m,” said Andreas.

She waited a moment, expectantly, rolling her eyes, then in full loathing ofmenkind went back to the kitchen and vowed herself to sterility.

Andreas cleared the soup bowl, and cleared the fish. As he ate, the room slowlydarkened. A faint wind sprang up and beat the tree branches against the window.The dining-room looked over the breakwater of the harbour, and the sea swungheavily in rolling waves. Wind crept round the house, moaning drearily.

“We’re in for a storm. That means I’m boxed up here all day.Well, there’s one blessing; it’ll clear the air.” He heardthe servant girl rushing importantly round the house, slamming windows. Then hecaught a glimpse of her in the garden, unpegging tea towels from the lineacross the lawn. She was a worker, there was no doubt about that. He took up abook, and wheeled his arm-chair over to the window. But it was useless. Toodark to read; he didn’t believe in straining his eyes, and gas at teno’clock in the morning seemed absurd. So he slipped down in the chair,leaned his elbows on the padded arms and gave himself up, for once, to idledreaming. “A boy? Yes, it was bound to be a boy this time....”“What’s your family, Binzer?” “Oh, I’ve two girlsand a boy!” A very nice little number. Of course he was the last man tohave a favourite child, but a man needed a son. “I’m working up thebusiness for my son! Binzer & Son! It would mean living very tight for thenext ten years, cutting expenses as fine as possible; and then—”

A tremendous gust of wind sprang upon the house, seized it, shook it, dropped,only to grip the more tightly. The waves swelled up along the breakwater andwere whipped with broken foam. Over the white sky flew tattered streamers ofgrey cloud.

Andreas felt quite relieved to hear Doctor Erb coming down the stairs; he gotup and lit the gas.

“Mind if I smoke in here?” asked Doctor Erb, lighting a cigarettebefore Andreas had time to answer. “You don’t smoke, do you? Notime to indulge in pernicious little habits!”

“How is she now?” asked Andreas, loathing the man.

“Oh, well as can be expected, poor little soul. She begged me to comedown and have a look at you. Said she knew you were worrying.” Withlaughing eyes the doctor looked at the breakfast-table. “Managed to pecka bit, I see, eh?”

“Hoo-wih!” shouted the wind, shaking the window-sashes.

“Pity—this weather,” said Doctor Erb.

“Yes, it gets on Anna’s nerves, and it’s just nerve shewants.”

“Eh, what’s that?” retorted the doctor. “Nerve! Manalive! She’s got twice the nerve of you and me rolled into one. Nerve!she’s nothing but nerve. A woman who works as she does about the houseand has three children in four years thrown in with the dusting, so tospeak!”

He pitched his half-smoked cigarette into the fireplace and frowned at thewindow.

“Now he’saccusing me,” thought Andreas.“That’s the second time this morning—first mother and nowthis man taking advantage of my sensitiveness.” He could not trusthimself to speak, and rang the bell for the servant girl.

“Clear away the breakfast things,” he ordered. “I can’thave them messing about on the table till dinner!”

“Don’t be hard on the girl,” coaxed Doctor Erb.“She’s got twice the work to do to-day.”

At that Binzer’s anger blazed out.

“I’ll trouble you, Doctor, not to interfere between me and myservants!” And he felt a fool at the same moment for not saying“servant.”

Doctor Erb was not perturbed. He shook his head, thrust his hands into hispockets, and began balancing himself on toe and heel.

“You’re jagged by the weather,” he said wryly, “nothingelse. A great pity—this storm. You know climate has an immense effectupon birth. A fine day perks a woman—gives her heart for her business.Good weather is as necessary to a confinement as it is to a washing day. Notbad—that last remark of mine—for a professional fossil, eh?”

Andreas made no reply.

“Well, I’ll be getting back to my patient. Why don’t you takea walk, and clear your head? That’s the idea for you.”

“No,” he answered, “I won’t do that; it’s toorough.”

He went back to his chair by the window. While the servant girl cleared away hepretended to read... then his dreams! It seemed years since he had had the timeto himself to dream like that—he never had a breathing space. Saddledwith work all day, and couldn’t shake it off in the evening like othermen. Besides, Anna was interested—they talked of practically nothing elsetogether. Excellent mother she’d make for a boy; she had a grip ofthings.

Church bells started ringing through the windy air, now sounding as though fromvery far away, then again as though all the churches in the town had beensuddenly transplanted into their street. They stirred something in him, thosebells, something vague and tender. Just about that time Anna would call himfrom the hall. “Andreas, come and have your coat brushed. I’mready.” Then off they would go, she hanging on his arm, and looking up athim. She certainly was a little thing. He remembered once saying when they wereengaged, “Just as high as my heart,” and she had jumped on to astool and pulled his head down, laughing. A kid in those days, younger than herchildren in nature, brighter, more “go” and “spirit” inher. The way she’d run down the road to meet him after business! And theway she laughed when they were looking for a house. By Jove! that laugh ofhers! At the memory he grinned, then grew suddenly grave. Marriage certainlychanged a woman far more than it did a man. Talk about sobering down. She hadlost all her go in two months! Well, once this boy business was overshe’d get stronger. He began to plan a little trip for them. He’dtake her away and they’d loaf about together somewhere. After all, dashit, they were young still. She’d got into a groove; he’d have toforce her out of it, that’s all.

He got up and went into the drawing-room, carefully shut the door and tookAnna’s photograph from the top of the piano. She wore a white dress witha big bow of some soft stuff under the chin, and stood, a little stiffly,holding a sheaf of artificial poppies and corn in her hands. Delicate shelooked even then; her masses of hair gave her that look. She seemed to droopunder the heavy braids of it, and yet she was smiling. Andreas caught hisbreath sharply. She was his wife—that girl. Posh! it had only been takenfour years ago. He held it close to him, bent forward and kissed it. Thenrubbed the glass with the back of his hand. At that moment, fainter than he hadheard in the passage, more terrifying, Andreas heard again that wailing cry.The wind caught it up in mocking echo, blew it over the house-tops, down thestreet, far away from him. He flung out his arms, “I’m so damnablyhelpless,” he said, and then, to the picture, “Perhaps it’snot as bad as it sounds; perhaps it is just my sensitiveness.” In thehalf light of the drawing-room the smile seemed to deepen in Anna’sportrait, and to become secret, even cruel. “No,” he reflected,“that smile is not at all her happiest expression—it was a mistaketo let her have it taken smiling like that. She doesn’t look like mywife—like the mother of my son.” Yes, that was it, she did not looklike the mother of a son who was going to be a partner in the firm. The picturegot on his nerves; he held it in different lights, looked at it from adistance, sideways, spent, it seemed to Andreas afterwards, a whole lifetimetrying to fit it in. The more he played with it the deeper grew his dislike ofit. Thrice he carried it over to the fireplace and decided to chuck it behindthe Japanese umbrella in the grate; then he thought it absurd to waste anexpensive frame. There was no good in beating about the bush. Anna looked likea stranger—abnormal, a freak—it might be a picture taken justbefore or after death.

Suddenly he realised that the wind had dropped, that the whole house was still,terribly still. Cold and pale, with a disgusting feeling that spiders werecreeping up his spine and across his face, he stood in the centre of thedrawing-room, hearing Doctor Erb’s footsteps descending the stairs.

He saw Doctor Erb come into the room; the room seemed to change into a greatglass bowl that spun round, and Doctor Erb seemed to swim through this glassbowl towards him, like a goldfish in a pearl-coloured waistcoat.

“My beloved wife has passed away!” He wanted to shout it out beforethe doctor spoke.

“Well, she’s hooked a boy this time!” said Doctor Erb.Andreas staggered forward.

“Look out. Keep on your pins,” said Doctor Erb, catchingBinzer’s arm, and murmuring, as he felt it, “Flabby asbutter.”

A glow spread all over Andreas. He was exultant.

“Well, by God! Nobody can accuse meof not knowing what sufferingis,” he said.

THE CHILD-WHO-WAS-TIRED

She was just beginning to walk along a little white road with tall black treeson either side, a little road that led to nowhere, and where nobody walked atall, when a hand gripped her shoulder, shook her, slapped her ear.

“Oh, oh, don’t stop me,” cried the Child-Who-Was-Tired.“Let me go.”

“Get up, you good-for-nothing brat,” said a voice; “get upand light the oven or I’ll shake every bone out of your body.”

With an immense effort she opened her eyes, and saw the Frau standing by, thebaby bundled under one arm. The three other children who shared the same bedwith the Child-Who-Was-Tired, accustomed to brawls, slept on peacefully. In acorner of the room the Man was fastening his braces.

“What do you mean by sleeping like this the whole nightthrough—like a sack of potatoes? You’ve let the baby wet his bedtwice.”

She did not answer, but tied her petticoat string, and buttoned on her plaidfrock with cold, shaking fingers.

“There, that’s enough. Take the baby into the kitchen with you, andheat that cold coffee on the spirit lamp for the master, and give him the loafof black bread out of the table drawer. Don’t guzzle it yourself orI’ll know.”

The Frau staggered across the room, flung herself on to her bed, drawing thepink bolster round her shoulders.

It was almost dark in the kitchen. She laid the baby on the wooden settle,covering him with a shawl, then poured the coffee from the earthenware jug intothe saucepan, and set it on the spirit lamp to boil.

“I’m sleepy,” nodded the Child-Who-Was-Tired, kneeling on thefloor and splitting the damp pine logs into little chips. “That’swhy I’m not awake.”

The oven took a long time to light. Perhaps it was cold, like herself, andsleepy.... Perhaps it had been dreaming of a little white road with black treeson either side, a little road that led to nowhere.

Then the door was pulled violently open and the Man strode in.

“Here, what are you doing, sitting on the floor?” he shouted.“Give me my coffee. I’ve got to be off. Ugh! You haven’t evenwashed over the table.”

She sprang to her feet, poured his coffee into an enamel cup, and gave himbread and a knife, then, taking a wash rag from the sink, smeared over theblack linoleumed table.

“Swine of a day—swine’s life,” mumbled the Man, sittingby the table and staring out of the window at the bruised sky, which seemed tobulge heavily over the dull land. He stuffed his mouth with bread and thenswilled it down with the coffee.

The Child drew a pail of water, turned up her sleeves, frowning the while ather arms, as if to scold them for being so thin, so much like little stuntedtwigs, and began to mop over the floor.

“Stop sousing about the water while I’m here,” grumbled theMan. “Stop the baby snivelling; it’s been going on like that allnight.”

The Child gathered the baby into her lap and sat rocking him.

“Ts—ts—ts,” she said. “He’s cutting his eyeteeth, that’s what makes him cry so. Anddribble—I neverseen a baby dribble like this one.” She wiped his mouth and nose with acorner of her skirt. “Some babies get their teeth without you knowingit,” she went on, “and some take on this way all the time. I onceheard of a baby that died, and they found all its teeth in its stomach.”

The Man got up, unhooked his cloak from the back of the door, and flung itround him.

“There’s another coming,” said he.

“What—a tooth!” exclaimed the Child, startled for the firsttime that morning out of her dreadful heaviness, and thrusting her finger intothe baby’s mouth.

“No,” he said grimly, “another baby. Now, get on with yourwork; it’s time the others got up for school.” She stood a momentquite silently, hearing his heavy steps on the stone passage, then the gravelwalk, and finally the slam of the front gate.

“Another baby! Hasn’t she finished having them yet?”thought the Child. “Two babies getting eye teeth—two babies to getup for in the night—two babies to carry about and wash their little piggyclothes!” She looked with horror at the one in her arms, who, seeming tounderstand the contemptuous loathing of her tired glance, doubled his fists,stiffened his body, and began violently screaming.

“Ts—ts—ts.” She laid him on the settle and went back toher floor-washing. He never ceased crying for a moment, but she got quite usedto it and kept time with her broom. Oh, how tired she was! Oh, the heavy broomhandle and the burning spot just at the back of her neck that ached so, and afunny little fluttering feeling just at the back of her waistband, as thoughsomething were going to break.

The clock struck six. She set the pan of milk in the oven, and went into thenext room to wake and dress the three children. Anton and Hans lay together inattitudes of mutual amity which certainly never existed out of their sleepinghours. Lena was curled up, her knees under her chin, only a straight,standing-up pigtail of hair showing above the bolster.

“Get up,” cried the Child, speaking in a voice of immenseauthority, pulling off the bedclothes and giving the boys sundry pokes anddigs. “I’ve been calling you this last half-hour. It’s late,and I’ll tell on you if you don’t get dressed this minute.”

Anton awoke sufficiently to turn over and kick Hans on a tender part, whereuponHans pulled Lena’s pigtail until she shrieked for her mother.

“Oh, do be quiet,” whispered the Child. “Oh, do get up anddress. You know what will happen. There—I’ll help you.”

But the warning came too late. The Frau got out of bed, walked in a determinedfashion into the kitchen, returning with a bundle of twigs in her hand fastenedtogether with a strong cord. One by one she laid the children across her kneeand severely beat them, expending a final burst of energy on theChild-Who-Was-Tired, then returned to bed, with a comfortable sense of hermaternal duties in good working order for the day. Very subdued, the threeallowed themselves to be dressed and washed by the Child, who even laced theboys’ boots, having found through experience that if left to themselvesthey hopped about for at least five minutes to find a comfortable ledge fortheir foot, and then spat on their hands and broke the bootlaces.

While she gave them their breakfast they became uproarious, and the baby wouldnot cease crying. When she filled the tin kettle with milk, tied on the rubberteat, and, first moistening it herself, tried with little coaxing words to makehim drink, he threw the bottle on to the floor and trembled all over.

“Eye teeth!” shouted Hans, hitting Anton over the head with hisempty cup; “he’s getting the evil-eye teeth, I should say.”

“Smarty!” retorted Lena, poking out her tongue at him, and then,when he promptly did the same, crying at the top of her voice, “Mother,Hans is making faces at me!”

“That’s right,” said Hans; “go on howling, and whenyou’re in bed to-night I’ll wait till you’re asleep, and thenI’ll creep over and take a little tiny piece of your arm and twist andtwist it until—” He leant over the table making the most horriblefaces at Lena, not noticing that Anton was standing behind his chair until thelittle boy bent over and spat on his brother’s shaven head.

“Oh, weh! oh, weh!”

The Child-Who-Was-Tired pushed and pulled them apart, muffled them into theircoats, and drove them out of the house.

“Hurry, hurry! the second bell’s rung,” she urged, knowingperfectly well she was telling a story, and rather exulting in the fact. Shewashed up the breakfast things, then went down to the cellar to look out thepotatoes and beetroot.

Such a funny, cold place the coal cellar! With potatoes banked on one corner,beetroot in an old candle box, two tubs of sauerkraut, and a twisted mass ofdahlia roots—that looked as real as though they were fighting oneanother, thought the Child.

She gathered the potatoes into her skirt, choosing big ones with few eyesbecause they were easier to peel, and bending over the dull heap in the silentcellar, she began to nod.

“Here, you, what are you doing down there?” cried the Frau, fromthe top of the stairs. “The baby’s fallen off the settle, and got abump as big as an egg over his eye. Come up here, and I’ll teachyou!”

“It wasn’t me—it wasn’t me!” screamed the Child,beaten from one side of the hall to the other, so that the potatoes andbeetroot rolled out of her skirt.

The Frau seemed to be as big as a giant, and there was a certain heaviness inall her movements that was terrifying to anyone so small.

“Sit in the corner, and peel and wash the vegetables, and keep the babyquiet while I do the washing.”

Whimpering she obeyed, but as to keeping the baby quiet, that was impossible.His face was hot, little beads of sweat stood all over his head, and hestiffened his body and cried. She held him on her knees, with a pan of coldwater beside her for the cleaned vegetables and the “ducks’bucket” for the peelings.

“Ts—ts—ts!” she crooned, scraping and boring;“there’s going to be another soon, and you can’t both keep oncrying. Why don’t you go to sleep, baby? I would, if I were you.I’ll tell you a dream. Once upon a time there was a little whiteroad—”

She shook back her head, a great lump ached in her throat and then the tearsran down her face on to the vegetables.

“That’s no good,” said the Child, shaking them away.“Just stop crying until I’ve finished this, baby, and I’llwalk you up and down.”

But by that time she had to peg out the washing for the Frau. A wind had sprungup. Standing on tiptoe in the yard, she almost felt she would be blown away.There was a bad smell coming from the ducks’ coop, which was half full ofmanure water, but away in the meadow she saw the grass blowing like littlegreen hairs. And she remembered having heard of a child who had once played fora whole day in just such a meadow with real sausages and beer for herdinner—and not a little bit of tiredness. Who had told her that story?She could not remember, and yet it was so plain.

The wet clothes flapped in her face as she pegged them; danced and jigged onthe line, bulged out and twisted. She walked back to the house with laggingsteps, looking longingly at the grass in the meadow.

“What must I do now, please?” she said.

“Make the beds and hang the baby’s mattress out of the window, thenget the wagon and take him for a little walk along the road. In front of thehouse, mind—where I can see you. Don’t stand there, gaping! Thencome in when I call you and help me cut up the salad.”

When she had made the beds the Child stood and looked at them. Gently shestroked the pillow with her hand, and then, just for one moment, let her headrest there. Again the smarting lump in her throat, the stupid tears that felland kept on falling as she dressed the baby and dragged the little wagon up anddown the road.

A man passed, driving a bullock wagon. He wore a long, queer feather in hishat, and whistled as he passed. Two girls with bundles on their shoulders camewalking out of the village—one wore a red handkerchief about her head andone a blue. They were laughing and holding each other by the hand. Then the sunpushed by a heavy fold of grey cloud and spread a warm yellow light overeverything.

“Perhaps,” thought the Child-Who-Was-Tired, “if I walked farenough up this road I might come to a little white one, with tall black treeson either side—a little road—”

“Salad, salad!” cried the Frau’s voice from the house.

Soon the children came home from school, dinner was eaten, the Man took theFrau’s share of pudding as well as his own, and the three children seemedto smear themselves all over with whatever they ate. Then more dish-washing andmore cleaning and baby-minding. So the afternoon dragged coldly through.

Old Frau Grathwohl came in with a fresh piece of pig’s flesh for theFrau, and the Child listened to them gossiping together.

“Frau Manda went on her ‘journey to Rome’ last night, andbrought back a daughter. How are you feeling?”

“I was sick twice this morning,” said the Frau. “My insidesare all twisted up with having children too quickly.”

“I see you’ve got a new help,” commented old MotherGrathwohl.

“Oh, dear Lord”—the Frau lowered hervoice—“don’t you know her? She’s the free-bornone—daughter of the waitress at the railway station. They found hermother trying to squeeze her head in the wash-hand jug, and the child’shalf silly.”

“Ts—ts—ts!” whispered the “free-born” oneto the baby.

As the day drew in the Child-Who-Was-Tired did not know how to fight hersleepiness any longer. She was afraid to sit down or stand still. As she sat atsupper the Man and the Frau seemed to swell to an immense size as she watchedthem, and then become smaller than dolls, with little voices that seemed tocome from outside the window. Looking at the baby, it suddenly had two heads,and then no head. Even his crying made her feel worse. When she thought of thenearness of bedtime she shook all over with excited joy. But as eighto’clock approached there was the sound of wheels on the road, andpresently in came a party of friends to spend the evening.

Then it was:

“Put on the coffee.”

“Bring me the sugar tin.”

“Carry the chairs out of the bedroom.”

“Set the table.”

And, finally, the Frau sent her into the next room to keep the baby quiet.

There was a little piece of candle burning in the enamel bracket. As she walkedup and down she saw her great big shadow on the wall like a grown-up personwith a grown-up baby. Whatever would it look like when she carried two babiesso!

“Ts—ts—ts! Once upon a time she was walking along a littlewhite road, with oh! such great big black trees on either side.”

“Here you!” called the Frau’s voice, “bring me my newjacket from behind the door.” And as she took it into the warm room oneof the women said, “She looks like an owl. Such children are seldom rightin their heads.”

“Why don’t you keep that baby quiet?” said the Man, who hadjust drunk enough beer to make him feel very brave and master of his house.

“If you don’t keep that baby quiet you’ll know why lateron.”

They burst out laughing as she stumbled back into the bedroom.

“I don’t believe Holy Mary could keep him quiet,” shemurmured. “Did Jesus cry like this when He was little? If I was not sotired perhaps I could do it; but the baby just knows that I want to go tosleep. And there is going to be another one.”

She flung the baby on the bed, and stood looking at him with terror.

From the next room there came the jingle of glasses and the warm sound oflaughter.

And she suddenly had a beautiful marvellous idea.

She laughed for the first time that day, and clapped her hands.

“Ts—ts—ts!” she said, “lie there, silly one; youwillgo to sleep. You’ll not cry any more or wake up in the night.Funny, little, ugly baby.”

He opened his eyes, and shrieked loudly at the sight of theChild-Who-Was-Tired. From the next room she heard the Frau call out to her.

“One moment—he is almost asleep,” she cried.

And then gently, smiling, on tiptoe, she brought the pink bolster from theFrau’s bed and covered the baby’s face with it, pressed with allher might as he struggled, “like a duck with its head off,wriggling”, she thought.

She heaved a long sigh, then fell back on to the floor, and was walking along alittle white road with tall black trees on either side, a little road that ledto nowhere, and where nobody walked at all—nobody at all.

THE ADVANCED LADY

“Do you think we might ask her to come with us,” said FräuleinElsa, retying her pink sash ribbon before my mirror. “You know, althoughshe is so intellectual, I cannot help feeling convinced that she has somesecret sorrow. And Lisa told me this morning, as she was turning out my room,that she remains hours and hours by herself, writing; in fact Lisa says she iswriting a book! I suppose that is why she never cares to mingle with us, andhas so little time for her husband and the child.”

“Well, youask her,” said I. “I have never spoken tothe lady.”

Elsa blushed faintly. “I have only spoken to her once,” sheconfessed. “I took her a bunch of wild flowers, to her room, and she cameto the door in a white gown, with her hair loose. Never shall I forget thatmoment. She just took the flowers, and I heard her—because the door wasnot quite properly shut—I heard her, as I walked down the passage, saying‘Purity, fragrance, the fragrance of purity and the purity offragrance!’ It was wonderful!”

At that moment Frau Kellermann knocked at the door.

“Are you ready?” she said, coming into the room and nodding to usvery genially. “The gentlemen are waiting on the steps, and I have askedthe Advanced Lady to come with us.”

“Na, how extraordinary!” cried Elsa. “But this moment thegnädige Frau and I were debating whether—”

“Yes, I met her coming out of her room and she said she was charmed withthe idea. Like all of us, she has never been to Schlingen. She is downstairsnow, talking to Herr Erchardt. I think we shall have a delightfulafternoon.”

“Is Fritzi waiting too?” asked Elsa.

“Of course he is, dear child—as impatient as a hungry man listeningfor the dinner bell. Run along!”

Elsa ran, and Frau Kellermann smiled at me significantly. In the past she and Ihad seldom spoken to each other, owing to the fact that her “oneremaining joy”—her charming little Karl—had never succeededin kindling into flame those sparks of maternity which are supposed to glow ingreat numbers upon the altar of every respectable female heart; but, in view ofa premeditated journey together, we became delightfully cordial.

“For us,” she said, “there will be a double joy. We shall beable to watch the happiness of these two dear children, Elsa and Fritz. Theyonly received the letters of blessing from their parents yesterday morning. Itis a very strange thing, but whenever I am in the company of newly-engagedcouples I blossom. Newly-engaged couples, mothers with first babies, and normaldeathbeds have precisely the same effect on me. Shall we join theothers?”

I was longing to ask her why normal deathbeds should cause anyone to burst intoflower, and said, “Yes, do let us.”

We were greeted by the little party of “cure guests” on the pensionsteps, with those cries of joy and excitement which herald so pleasantly themildest German excursion. Herr Erchardt and I had not met before that day, so,in accordance with strict pension custom, we asked each other how long we hadslept during the night, had we dreamed agreeably, what time we had got up, wasthe coffee fresh when we had appeared at breakfast, and how had we passed themorning. Having toiled up these stairs of almost national politeness we landed,triumphant and smiling, and paused to recover breath.

“And now,” said Herr Erchardt, “I have a pleasure in storefor you. The Frau Professor is going to be one of us for the afternoon.Yes,” nodding graciously to the Advanced Lady. “Allow me tointroduce you to each other.”

We bowed very formally, and looked each other over with that eye which is knownas “eagle” but is far more the property of the female than thatmost unoffending of birds. “I think you are English?” she said. Iacknowledged the fact. “I am reading a great many English books justnow—rather, I am studying them.”

“Nu,” cried Herr Erchardt. “Fancy that! What a bond already!I have made up my mind to know Shakespeare in his mother tongue before I die,but that you, Frau Professor, should be already immersed in those wells ofEnglish thought!”

“From what I have read,” she said, “I do not think they arevery deep wells.”

He nodded sympathetically.

“No,” he answered, “so I have heard.... But do not let usembitter our excursion for our little English friend. We will speak of thisanother time.”

“Nu, are we ready?” cried Fritz, who stood, supporting Elsa’selbow in his hand, at the foot of the steps. It was immediately discovered thatKarl was lost.

“Ka—rl, Karl—chen!” we cried. No response.

“But he was here one moment ago,” said Herr Langen, a tired, paleyouth, who was recovering from a nervous breakdown due to much philosophy andlittle nourishment. “He was sitting here, picking out the works of hiswatch with a hairpin!”

Frau Kellermann rounded on him. “Do you mean to say, my dear Herr Langen,you did not stop the child!”

“No,” said Herr Langen; “I’ve tried stopping him beforenow.”

“Da, that child has such energy; never is his brain at peace. If he isnot doing one thing, he is doing another!”

“Perhaps he has started on the dining-room clock now,” suggestedHerr Langen, abominably hopeful.

The Advanced Lady suggested that we should go without him. “I never takemy little daughter for walks,” she said. “I have accustomed her tositting quietly in my bedroom from the time I go out until I return!”

“There he is—there he is,” piped Elsa, and Karl was observedslithering down a chestnut-tree, very much the worse for twigs.

“I’ve been listening to what you said about me, mumma,” heconfessed while Frau Kellermann brushed him down. “It was not true aboutthe watch. I was only looking at it, and the little girl never stays in thebedroom. She told me herself she always goes down to the kitchen,and—”

“Da, that’s enough!” said Frau Kellermann.

We marched en massealong the station road. It was a very warmafternoon, and continuous parties of “cure guests”, who were givingtheir digestions a quiet airing in pension gardens, called after us, asked ifwe were going for a walk, and cried “Herr Gott—happy journey”with immense ill-concealed relish when we mentioned Schlingen.

“But that is eight kilometres,” shouted one old man with a whitebeard, who leaned against a fence, fanning himself with a yellow handkerchief.

“Seven and a half,” answered Herr Erchardt shortly.

“Eight,” bellowed the sage.

“Seven and a half!”

“Eight!”

“The man is mad,” said Herr Erchardt.

“Well, please let him be mad in peace,” said I, putting my handsover my ears.

“Such ignorance must not be allowed to go uncontradicted,” said he,and turning his back on us, too exhausted to cry out any longer, he held upseven and a half fingers.

“Eight!” thundered the greybeard, with pristine freshness.

We felt very sobered, and did not recover until we reached a white signpostwhich entreated us to leave the road and walk through the fieldpath—without trampling down more of the grass than was necessary. Beinginterpreted, it meant “single file”, which was distressing for Elsaand Fritz. Karl, like a happy child, gambolled ahead, and cut down as manyflowers as possible with the stick of his mother’s parasol—followedthe three others—then myself—and the lovers in the rear. And abovethe conversation of the advance party I had the privilege of hearing thesedelicious whispers.

Fritz: “Do you love me?” Elsa: “Nu—yes.” Fritzpassionately: “But how much?” To which Elsa neverreplied—except with “How much do youlove me?”

Fritz escaped that truly Christian trap by saying, “I asked youfirst.”

It grew so confusing that I slipped in front of Frau Kellermann—andwalked in the peaceful knowledge that she was blossoming and I was under noobligation to inform even my nearest and dearest as to the precise capacity ofmy affections. “What right have they to ask each other such questions theday after letters of blessing have been received?” I reflected.“What right have they even to question each other? Love which becomesengaged and married is a purely affirmative affair—they are usurping theprivileges of their betters and wisers!”

The edges of the field frilled over into an immense pine forest—verypleasant and cool it looked. Another signpost begged us to keep to the broadpath for Schlingen and deposit waste paper and fruit peelings in wirereceptacles attached to the benches for the purpose. We sat down on the firstbench, and Karl with great curiosity explored the wire receptacle.

“I love woods,” said the Advanced Lady, smiling pitifully into theair. “In a wood my hair already seems to stir and remember something ofits savage origin.”

“But speaking literally,” said Frau Kellermann, after anappreciative pause, “there is really nothing better than the air ofpine-trees for the scalp.”

“Oh, Frau Kellermann, please don’t break the spell,” saidElsa.

The Advanced Lady looked at her very sympathetically. “Have you, too,found the magic heart of Nature?” she said.

That was Herr Langen’s cue. “Nature has no heart,” said he,very bitterly and readily, as people do who are over-philosophised andunderfed. “She creates that she may destroy. She eats that she may spewup and she spews up that she may eat. That is why we, who are forced to eke outan existence at her trampling feet, consider the world mad, and realise thedeadly vulgarity of production.”

“Young man,” interrupted Herr Erchardt, “you have never livedand you have never suffered!”

“Oh, excuse me—how can you know?”

“I know because you have told me, and there’s an end of it. Comeback to this bench in ten years’ time and repeat those words tome,” said Frau Kellermann, with an eye upon Fritz, who was engaged incounting Elsa’s fingers with passionate fervour—“and bringwith you your young wife, Herr Langen, and watch, perhaps, your little childplaying with—” She turned towards Karl, who had rooted an oldillustrated paper out of the receptacle and was spelling over an advertisementfor the enlargement of Beautiful Breasts.

The sentence remained unfinished. We decided to move on. As we plunged moredeeply into the wood our spirits rose—reaching a point where they burstinto song—on the part of the three men—“O Welt, wie bist duwunderbar!”—the lower part of which was piercingly sustained byHerr Langen, who attempted quite unsuccessfully to infuse satire into it inaccordance with his—“world outlook”. They strode ahead andleft us to trail after them—hot and happy.

“Now is the opportunity,” said Frau Kellermann. “Dear FrauProfessor, do tell us a little about your book.”

“Ach, how did you know I was writing one?” she cried playfully.

“Elsa, here, had it from Lisa. And never before have I personally known awoman who was writing a book. How do you manage to find enough to writedown?”

“That is never the trouble,” said the Advanced Lady—she tookElsa’s arm and leaned on it gently. “The trouble is to know whereto stop. My brain has been a hive for years, and about three months ago thepent-up waters burst over my soul, and since then I am writing all day untillate into the night, still ever finding fresh inspirations and thoughts whichbeat impatient wings about my heart.”

“Is it a novel?” asked Elsa shyly.

“Of course it is a novel,” said I.

“How can you be so positive?” said Frau Kellermann, eyeing meseverely.

“Because nothing but a novel could produce an effect like that.”

“Ach, don’t quarrel,” said the Advanced Lady sweetly.“Yes, it is a novel—upon the Modern Woman. For this seems to me thewoman’s hour. It is mysterious and almost prophetic, it is the symbol ofthe true advanced woman: not one of those violent creatures who deny their sexand smother their frail wings under... under—”

“The English tailor-made?” from Frau Kellermann.

“I was not going to put it like that. Rather, under the lying garb offalse masculinity!”

“Such a subtle distinction!” I murmured.

“Whom then,” asked Fräulein Elsa, looking adoringly at the AdvancedLady—“whom then do you consider the true woman?”

“She is the incarnation of comprehending Love!”

“But my dear Frau Professor,” protested Frau Kellermann, “youmust remember that one has so few opportunities for exhibiting Love within thefamily circle nowadays. One’s husband is at business all day, andnaturally desires to sleep when he returns home—one’s children areout of the lap and in at the university before one can lavish anything at allupon them!”

“But Love is not a question of lavishing,” said the Advanced Lady.“It is the lamp carried in the bosom touching with serene rays all theheights and depths of—”

“Darkest Africa,” I murmured flippantly.

She did not hear.

“The mistake we have made in the past—as a sex,” said she,“is in not realising that our gifts of giving are for the wholeworld—we are the glad sacrifice of ourselves!”

“Oh!” cried Elsa rapturously, and almost bursting into gifts as shebreathed—“how I know that! You know ever since Fritz and I havebeen engaged, I share the desire to give to everybody, to shareeverything!”

“How extremely dangerous,” said I.

“It is only the beauty of danger, or the danger of beauty” said theAdvanced Lady—“and there you have the ideal of my book—thatwoman is nothing but a gift.”

I smiled at her very sweetly. “Do you know,” I said, “I, too,would like to write a book, on the advisability of caring for daughters, andtaking them for airings and keeping them out of kitchens!”

I think the masculine element must have felt these angry vibrations: theyceased from singing, and together we climbed out of the wood, to see Schlingenbelow us, tucked in a circle of hills, the white houses shining in thesunlight, “for all the world like eggs in a bird’s nest”, asHerr Erchardt declared. We descended upon Schlingen and demanded sour milk withfresh cream and bread at the Inn of the Golden Stag, a most friendly place,with tables in a rose-garden where hens and chickens ran riot—evenflopping upon the disused tables and pecking at the red checks on the cloths.We broke the bread into the bowls, added the cream, and stirred it round withflat wooden spoons, the landlord and his wife standing by.

“Splendid weather!” said Herr Erchardt, waving his spoon at thelandlord, who shrugged his shoulders.

“What! you don’t call it splendid!”

“As you please,” said the landlord, obviously scorning us.

“Such a beautiful walk,” said Fräulein Elsa, making a free gift ofher most charming smile to the landlady.

“I never walk,” said the landlady; “when I go to Mindelbau myman drives me—I’ve more important things to do with my legs thanwalk them through the dust!”

“I like these people,” confessed Herr Langen to me. “I likethem very, very much. I think I shall take a room here for the wholesummer.”

“Why?”

“Oh, because they live close to the earth, and therefore despiseit.”

He pushed away his bowl of sour milk and lit a cigarette. We ate, solidly andseriously, until those seven and a half kilometres to Mindelbau stretchedbefore us like an eternity. Even Karl’s activity became so full fed thathe lay on the ground and removed his leather waistbelt. Elsa suddenly leanedover to Fritz and whispered, who on hearing her to the end and asking her ifshe loved him, got up and made a little speech.

“We—we wish to celebrate our betrothal by—by—asking youall to drive back with us in the landlord’s cart—if—it willhold us!”

“Oh, what a beautiful, noble idea!” said Frau Kellermann, heaving asigh of relief that audibly burst two hooks.

“It is my little gift,” said Elsa to the Advanced Lady, who byvirtue of three portions almost wept tears of gratitude.

Squeezed into the peasant cart and driven by the landlord, who showed hiscontempt for mother earth by spitting savagely every now and again, we joltedhome again, and the nearer we came to Mindelbau the more we loved it and oneanother.

“We must have many excursions like this,” said Herr Erchardt to me,“for one surely gets to know a person in the simple surroundings of theopen air—one sharesthe same joys—one feels friendship. Whatis it your Shakespeare says? One moment, I have it. The friends thou hast, andtheir adoption tried—grapple them to thy soul with hoops of steel!”

“But,” said I, feeling very friendly towards him, “the botherabout my soul is that it refuses to grapple anybody at all—and I am surethat the dead weight of a friend whose adoption it had tried would kill itimmediately. Never yet has it shown the slightest sign of a hoop!”

He bumped against my knees and excused himself and the cart.

“My dear little lady, you must not take the quotation literally.Naturally, one is not physically conscious of the hoops; but hoops there are inthe soul of him or her who loves his fellow-men.... Take this afternoon, forinstance. How did we start out? As strangers you might almost say, andyet—all of us—how have we come home?”

“In a cart,” said the only remaining joy, who sat upon hismother’s lap and felt sick.

We skirted the field that we had passed through, going round by the cemetery.Herr Langen leaned over the edge of the seat and greeted the graves. He wassitting next to the Advanced Lady—inside the shelter of her shoulder. Iheard her murmur: “You look like a little boy with your hair blowingabout in the wind.” Herr Langen, slightly less bitter—watched thelast graves disappear. And I heard her murmur: “Why are you so sad? I tooam very sad sometimes—but—you look young enough for me to dare tosay this—I—too—know of much joy!”

“What do you know?” said he.

I leaned over and touched the Advanced Lady’s hand. “Hasn’tit been a nice afternoon?” I said questioningly. “But you know,that theory of yours about women and Love—it’s as old as thehills—oh, older!”

From the road a sudden shout of triumph. Yes, there he was again—whitebeard, silk handkerchief and undaunted enthusiasm.

“What did I say? Eight kilometres—it is!”

“Seven and a half!” shrieked Herr Erchardt.

“Why, then, do you return in carts? Eight kilometres it must be.”

Herr Erchardt made a cup of his hands and stood up in the jolting cart whileFrau Kellermann clung to his knees. “Seven and a half!”

“Ignorance must not go uncontradicted!” I said to the AdvancedLady.

THE SWING OF THE PENDULUM

The landlady knocked at the door.

“Come in,” said Viola.

“There is a letter for you,” said the landlady, “a specialletter”—she held the green envelope in a corner of her dingy apron.

“Thanks.” Viola, kneeling on the floor, poking at the little dustystove, stretched out her hand. “Any answer?”

“No; the messenger has gone.”

“Oh, all right!” She did not look the landlady in the face; she wasashamed of not having paid her rent, and wondered grimly, without any hope, ifthe woman would begin to bluster again.

“About this money owing to me—” said the landlady.

“Oh, the Lord—off she goes!” thought Viola, turning her backon the woman and making a grimace at the stove.

“It’s settle—or it’s go!” The landlady raised hervoice; she began to bawl. “I’m a landlady, I am, and a respectablewoman, I’ll have you know. I’ll have no lice in my house, sneakingtheir way into the furniture and eating up everything. It’s cash—orout you go before twelve o’clock to-morrow.”

Viola felt rather than saw the woman’s gesture. She shot out her arm in astupid helpless way, as though a dirty pigeon had suddenly flown at her face.“Filthy old beast! Ugh! And the smell of her—like stale cheese anddamp washing.”

“Very well!” she answered shortly; “it’s cash down or Ileave to-morrow. All right: don’t shout.”

It was extraordinary—always before this woman came near her she trembledin her shoes—even the sound of those flat feet stumping up the stairsmade her feel sick, but once they were face to face she felt immensely calm andindifferent, and could not understand why she even worried about money, nor whyshe sneaked out of the house on tiptoe, not even daring to shut the door afterher in case the landlady should hear and shout something terrible, nor why shespent nights pacing up and down her room—drawing up sharply before themirror and saying to a tragic reflection: “Money, money, money!”When she was alone her poverty was like a huge dream-mountain on which her feetwere fast rooted—aching with the ache of the size of the thing—butif it came to definite action, with no time for imaginings, her dream-mountaindwindled into a beastly “hold-your-nose” affair, to be passed asquickly as possible, with anger and a strong sense of superiority.

The landlady bounced out of the room, banging the door, so that it shook andrattled as though it had listened to the conversation and fully sympathisedwith the old hag.

Squatting on her heels, Viola opened the letter. It was from Casimir:

“I shall be with you at three o’clock this afternoon—and mustbe off again this evening. All news when we meet. I hope you are happier thanI.—CASIMIR.”

“Huh! how kind!” she sneered; “how condescending. Too good ofyou, really!” She sprang to her feet, crumbling the letter in her hands.“And how are you to know that I shall stick here awaiting your pleasureuntil three o’clock this afternoon?” But she knew she would; herrage was only half sincere. She longed to see Casimir, for she was confidentthat this time she would make him understand the situation.... “For, asit is, it’s intolerable—intolerable!” she muttered.

It was ten o’clock in the morning of a grey day curiously lighted by paleflashes of sunshine. Searched by these flashes her room looked tumbled andgrimed. She pulled down the window-blinds—but they gave a persistent,whitish glare which was just as bad. The only thing of life in the room was ajar of hyacinths given her by the landlady’s daughter: it stood on thetable exuding a sickly perfume from its plump petals; there were even rich budsunfolding, and the leaves shone like oil.

Viola went over to the washstand, poured some water into the enamel basin, andsponged her face and neck. She dipped her face into the water, opened her eyes,and shook her head from side to side—it was exhilarating. She did itthree times. “I suppose I could drown myself if I stayed under longenough,” she thought. “I wonder how long it takes to becomeunconscious?... Often read of women drowning in a bucket. I wonder if any airenters by the ears—if the basin would have to be as deep as abucket?” She experimented—gripped the washstand with both hands andslowly sank her head into the water, when again there was a knock on the door.Not the landlady this time—it must be Casimir. With her face and hairdripping, with her petticoat bodice unbuttoned, she ran and opened it.

A strange man stood against the lintel—seeing her, he opened his eyesvery wide and smiled delightfully. “Excuse me—does Fräulein Schäferlive here?”

“No; never heard of her.” His smile was so infectious, she wantedto smile too—and the water had made her feel so fresh and rosy.

The strange man appeared overwhelmed with astonishment. “Shedoesn’t?” he cried. “She is out, you mean!”

“No, she’s not living here,” answered Viola.

“But—pardon—one moment.” He moved from the door lintel,standing squarely in front of her. He unbuttoned his greatcoat and drew a slipof paper from the breast pocket, smoothing it in his gloved fingers beforehanding it to her.

“Yes, that’s the address, right enough, but there must be a mistakein the number. So many lodging-houses in this street, you know, and sobig.”

Drops of water fell from her hair on to the paper. She burst out laughing.“Oh, howdreadful I must look—one moment!” She ranback to the washstand and caught up a towel. The door was still open.... Afterall, there was nothing more to be said. Why on earth had she asked him to waita moment? She folded the towel round her shoulders, and returned to the door,suddenly grave. “I’m sorry; I know no such name,” in a sharpvoice.

Said the strange man: “Sorry, too. Have you been living here long?”

“Er—yes—a long time.” She began to close the doorslowly.

“Well—good-morning, thanks so much. Hope I haven’t been abother.”

“Good-morning.”

She heard him walk down the passage and then pause—lighting a cigarette.Yes—a faint scent of delicious cigarette smoke penetrated her room. Shesniffed at it, smiling again. Well, that had been a fascinating interlude! Helooked so amazingly happy: his heavy clothes and big buttoned gloves; hisbeautifully brushed hair... and that smile.... “Jolly” was theword—just a well-fed boy with the world for his playground. People likethat did one good—one felt “made over” at the sight of them.Sanethey were—so sane and solid. You could depend on them neverhaving one mad impulse from the day they were born until the day they died. AndLife was in league with them—jumped them on her knee—quite rightly,too. At that moment she noticed Casimir’s letter, crumpled up on thefloor—the smile faded. Staring at the letter she began braiding herhair—a dull feeling of rage crept through her—she seemed to bebraiding it into her brain, and binding it, tightly, above her head.... Ofcourse that had been the mistake all along. What had? Oh, Casimir’sfrightful seriousness. If she had been happy when they first met she neverwould have looked at him—but they had been like two patients in the samehospital ward—each finding comfort in the sickness of theother—sweet foundation for a love episode! Misfortune had knocked theirheads together: they had looked at each other, stunned with the conflict andsympathised... “I wish I could step outside the whole affair and justjudge it—then I’d find a way out. I certainly was in love withCasimir.... Oh, be sincere for once.” She flopped down on the bed and hidher face in the pillow. “I was not in love. I wanted somebody to lookafter me—and keep me until my work began to sell—and he keptbothers with other men away. And what would have happened if he hadn’tcome along? I would have spent my wretched little pittance, and then—Yes,that was what decided me, thinking about that ‘then.’ He was theonly solution. And I believed in him then. I thought his work had only to berecognised once, and he’d roll in wealth. I thought perhaps we might bepoor for a month—but he said, if only he could have me, the stimulus....Funny, if it wasn’t so damned tragic! Exactly the contrary hashappened—he hasn’t had a thing published for months—neitherhave I—but then I didn’t expect to. Yes, the truth is, I’mhard and bitter, and I have neither faith nor love for unsuccessful men. Ialways end by despising them as I despise Casimir. I suppose it’s thesavage pride of the female who likes to think the man to whom she has givenherself must be a very great chief indeed. But to stew in this disgusting housewhile Casimir scours the land in the hope of finding one editorial opendoor—it’s humiliating. It’s changed my whole nature. Iwasn’t born for poverty—I only flower among really jolly people,and people who never are worried.”

The figure of the strange man rose before her—would not be dismissed.“That was the man for me, after all is said and done—a man withouta care—who’d give me everything I want and with whom I’dalways feel that sense of life and of being in touch with the world. I neverwanted to fight—it was thrust on me. Really, there’s a fount ofhappiness in me, that is drying up, little by little, in this hatefulexistence. I’ll be dead if this goes on—and”—shestirred in the bed and flung out her arms—“I want passion, andlove, and adventure—I yearn for them. Why should I stay here androt?—I am rotting!” she cried, comforting herself with the sound ofher breaking voice. “But if I tell Casimir all this when he comes thisafternoon, and he says, ‘Go’—as he certainlywill—that’s another thing I loathe about him—he’s undermy thumb—what should I do then—where should I go to?” Therewas nowhere. “I don’t want to work—or carve out my own path.I want ease and any amount of nursing in the lap of luxury. There is only onething I’m fitted for, and that is to be a great courtesan.” But shedid not know how to go about it. She was frightened to go into thestreets—she heard of such awful things happening to those women—menwith diseases—or men who didn’t pay—besides, the idea of astrange man every night—no, that was out of the question. “IfI’d the clothes I would go to a really good hotel and find some wealthyman... like the strange man this morning. He would be ideal. Oh, if I only hadhis address—I am sure I would fascinate him. I’d keep him laughingall day—I’d make him give me unlimited money....” At thethought she grew warm and soft. She began to dream of a wonderful house, and ofpresses full of clothes and of perfumes. She saw herself stepping intocarriages—looking at the strange man with a mysterious, voluptuousglance—she practised the glance, lying on the bed—and never anotherworry, just drugged with happiness. That was the life for her. Well, the thingto do was to let Casimir go on his wild-goose chase that evening, and while hewas away—What! Also—please to remember—there was the rent tobe paid before twelve next morning, and she hadn’t the money for a squaremeal. At the thought of food she felt a sharp twinge in her stomach, asensation as though there were a hand in her stomach, squeezing it dry. She wasterribly hungry—all Casimir’s fault—and that man had lived onthe fat of the land ever since he was born. He looked as though he could ordera magnificent dinner. Oh, why hadn’t she played her cardsbetter?—he’d been sent by Providence—and she’d snubbedhim. “If I had that time over again, I’d be safe by now.” Andinstead of the ordinary man who had spoken with her at the door her mindcreated a brilliant, laughing image, who would treat her like a queen....“There’s only one thing I could not stand—that he should becoarse or vulgar. Well, he wasn’t—he was obviously a man of theworld, and the way he apologised... I have enough faith in my own power andbeauty to know I could make a man treat me just as I wanted to betreated.”... It floated into her dreams—that sweet scent ofcigarette smoke. And then she remembered that she had heard nobody go down thestone stairs. Was it possible that the strange man was still there?... Thethought was too absurd—Life didn’t play tricks like that—andyet—she was quite conscious of his nearness. Very quietly she got up,unhooked from the back of the door a long white gown, buttoned iton—smiling slyly. She did not know what was going to happen. She onlythought: “Oh, what fun!” and that they were playing a deliciousgame—this strange man and she. Very gently she turned the door-handle,screwing up her face and biting her lip as the lock snapped back. Of course,there he was—leaning against the banister rail. He wheeled round as sheslipped into the passage.

“Da,” she muttered, folding her gown tightly around her, “Imust go downstairs and fetch some wood. Brr! the cold!”

“There isn’t any wood,” volunteered the strange man. She gavea little cry of astonishment, and then tossed her head.

“You again,” she said scornfully, conscious the while of his merryeye, and the fresh, strong smell of his healthy body.

“The landlady shouted out there was no wood left. I just saw her go outto buy some.”

“Story—story!” she longed to cry. He came quite close to her,stood over her and whispered:

“Aren’t you going to ask me to finish my cigarette in yourroom?”

She nodded. “You may if you want to!”

In that moment together in the passage a miracle had happened. Her room wasquite changed—it was full of sweet light and the scent of hyacinthflowers. Even the furniture appeared different—exciting. Quick as a flashshe remembered childish parties when they had played charades, and one side hadleft the room and come in again to act a word—just what she was doingnow. The strange man went over to the stove and sat down in her arm-chair. Shedid not want him to talk or come near her—it was enough to see him in theroom, so secure and happy. How hungry she had been for the nearness of someonelike that—who knew nothing at all about her—and made nodemands—but just lived. Viola ran over to the table and put her armsround the jar of hyacinths.

“Beautiful! Beautiful!” she cried—burying her head in theflowers—and sniffing greedily at the scent. Over the leaves she looked atthe man and laughed.

“You are a funny little thing,” said he lazily.

“Why? Because I love flowers?”

“I’d far rather you loved other things,” said the strange manslowly. She broke off a little pink petal and smiled at it.

“Let me send you some flowers,” said the strange man.“I’ll send you a roomful if you’d like them.”

His voice frightened her slightly. “Oh no, thanks—this one is quiteenough for me.”

“No, it isn’t”—in a teasing voice.

“What a stupid remark!” thought Viola, and looking at him again hedid not seem quite so jolly. She noticed that his eyes were set too closelytogether—and they were too small. Horrible thought, that he should provestupid.

“What do you do all day?” she asked hastily.

“Nothing.”

“Nothing at all?”

“Why should I do anything?”

“Oh, don’t imagine for one moment that I condemn suchwisdom—only it sounds too good to be true!”

“What’s that?”—he craned forward. “What soundstoo good to be true?” Yes—there was no denying it—he lookedsilly.

“I suppose the searching after Fräulein Schäfer doesn’t occupy allyour days.”

“Oh no”—he smiled broadly—“that’s verygood! By Jove! no. I drive a good bit—are you keen on horses?”

She nodded. “Love them.”

“You must come driving with me—I’ve got a fine pair of greys.Will you?”

“Pretty I’d look perched behind greys in my one and onlyhat,” thought she. Aloud: “I’d love to.” Her easyacceptance pleased him.

“How about to-morrow?” he suggested. “Suppose you have lunchwith me to-morrow and I take you driving.”

After all—this was just a game. “Yes, I’m not busyto-morrow,” she said.

A little pause—then the strange man patted his leg. “Whydon’t you come and sit down?” he said.

She pretended not to see and swung on to the table. “Oh, I’m allright here.”

“No, you’re not”—again the teasing voice. “Comeand sit on my knee.”

“Oh no,” said Viola very heartily, suddenly busy with her hair.

“Why not?”

“I don’t want to.”

“Oh, come along”—impatiently.

She shook her head from side to side. “I wouldn’t dream of such athing.”

At that he got up and came over to her. “Funny little puss cat!” Heput up one hand to touch her hair.

“Don’t,” she said—and slipped off the table.“I—I think it’s time you went now.” She was quitefrightened now—thinking only: “This man must be got rid of asquickly as possible.”

“Oh, but you don’t want me to go?”

“Yes, I do—I’m very busy.”

“Busy. What does the pussy cat do all day?”

“Lots and lots of things!” She wanted to push him out of the roomand slam the door on him—idiot—fool—cruel disappointment.

“What’s she frowning for?” he asked. “Is she worriedabout anything?” Suddenly serious: “I say—you know, are youin any financial difficulty? Do you want money? I’ll give it to you ifyou like!”

“Money! Steady on the brake—don’t lose yourhead!”—so she spoke to herself.

“I’ll give you two hundred marks if you’ll kiss me.”

“Oh, boo! What a condition! And I don’t want to kiss you—Idon’t like kissing. Please go!”

“Yes—you do!—yes, you do.” He caught hold of her armsabove the elbows. She struggled, and was quite amazed to realise how angry shefelt.

“Let me go—immediately!” she cried—and he slipped onearm round her body, and drew her towards him—like a bar of iron acrossher back—that arm.

“Leave me alone! I tell you. Don’t be mean! I didn’t wantthis to happen when you came into my room. How dare you?”

“Well, kiss me and I’ll go!”

It was too idiotic—dodging that stupid, smiling face.

“I won’t kiss you!—you brute!—I won’t!”Somehow she slipped out of his arms and ran to the wall—stood backagainst it—breathing quickly.

“Get out!” she stammered. “Go on now, clear out!”

At that moment, when he was not touching her, she quite enjoyed herself. Shethrilled at her own angry voice. “To think I should talk to a man likethat!” An angry flush spread over his face—his lips curled back,showing his teeth—just like a dog, thought Viola. He made a rush at her,and held her against the wall—pressed upon her with all the weight of hisbody. This time she could not get free.

“I won’t kiss you. I won’t. Stop doing that! Ugh!you’re like a dog—you ought to find lovers roundlamp-posts—you beast—you fiend!”

He did not answer. With an expression of the most absurd determination hepressed ever more heavily upon her. He did not even look at her—butrapped out in a sharp voice: “Keep quiet—keep quiet.”

“Gar-r! Why are men so strong?” She began to cry. “Goaway—I don’t want you, you dirty creature. I want to murder you.Oh, my God! if I had a knife.”

“Don’t be silly—come and be good!” He dragged hertowards the bed.

“Do you suppose I’m a light woman?” she snarled, and swoopingover she fastened her teeth in his glove.

“Ach! don’t do that—you are hurting me!”

She did not let go, but her heart said, “Thank the Lord I thought ofthis.”

“Stop this minute—you vixen—you bitch.” He threw heraway from him. She saw with joy that his eyes were full of tears.“You’ve really hurt me,” he said in a choking voice.

“Of course I have. I meant to. That’s nothing to what I’ll doif you touch me again.”

The strange man picked up his hat. “No thanks,” he said grimly.“But I’ll not forget this—I’ll go to yourlandlady.”

“Pooh!” She shrugged her shoulders and laughed. “I’lltell her you forced your way in here and tried to assault me. Who will shebelieve?—with your bitten hand. You go and find your Schäfers.”

A sensation of glorious, intoxicating happiness flooded Viola. She rolled hereyes at him. “If you don’t go away this moment I’ll bite youagain,” she said, and the absurd words started her laughing. Even whenthe door was closed, hearing him descending the stairs, she laughed, and dancedabout the room.

What a morning! Oh, chalk it up. That was her first fight, and she’dwon—she’d conquered that beast—all by herself. Her hands werestill trembling. She pulled up the sleeve of her gown—great red marks onher arms. “My ribs will be blue. I’ll be blue all over,” shereflected. “If only that beloved Casimir could have seen us.” Andthe feeling of rage and disgust against Casimir had totally disappeared. Howcould the poor darling help not having any money? It was her fault as much ashis, and he, just like her, was apart from the world, fighting it, just as shehad done. If only three o’clock would come. She saw herself runningtowards him and putting her arms round his neck. “My blessed one! Ofcourse we are bound to win. Do you love me still? Oh, I have been horriblelately.”

A BLAZE

“Max, you silly devil, you’ll break your neck if you go careeringdown the slide that way. Drop it, and come to the Club House with me and getsome coffee.”

“I’ve had enough for to-day. I’m damp all through. There,give us a cigarette, Victor, old man. When are you going home?”

“Not for another hour. It’s fine this afternoon, and I’mgetting into decent shape. Look out, get off the track; here comes FräuleinWinkel. Damned elegant the way she manages her sleigh!”

“I’m cold all through. That’s the worst of thisplace—the mists—it’s a damp cold. Here, Forman, look afterthis sleigh—and stick it somewhere so that I can get it without lookingthrough a hundred and fifty others to-morrow morning.”

They sat down at a small round table near the stove and ordered coffee. Victorsprawled in his chair, patting his little brown dog Bobo and looking, halflaughingly, at Max.

“What’s the matter, my dear? Isn’t the world being nice andpretty?”

“I want my coffee, and I want to put my feet into mypocket—they’re like stones.... Nothing to eat, thanks—thecake is like underdone india-rubber here.”

Fuchs and Wistuba came and sat at their table. Max half turned his back andstretched his feet out to the oven. The three other men all began talking atonce—of the weather—of the record slide—of the fine conditionof the Wald See for skating.

Suddenly Fuchs looked at Max, raised his eyebrows and nodded across to Victor,who shook his head.

“Baby doesn’t feel well,” he said, feeding the brown dog withbroken lumps of sugar, “and nobody’s to disturb him—I’mnurse.”

“That’s the first time I’ve ever known him off colour,”said Wistuba. “I’ve always imagined he had the better part of thisworld that could not be taken away from him. I think he says his prayers to thedear Lord for having spared him being taken home in seven basketsful to-night.It’s a fool’s game to risk your all that way and leave the nationdesolate.”

“Dry up,” said Max. “You ought to be wheeled about on thesnow in a perambulator.”

“Oh, no offence, I hope. Don’t get nasty.... How’s your wife,Victor?”

“She’s not at all well. She hurt her head coming down the slidewith Max on Sunday. I told her to stay at home all day.”

“I’m sorry. Are you other fellows going back to the town orstopping on here?”

Fuchs and Victor said they were stopping—Max did not answer, but satmotionless while the men paid for their coffee and moved away. Victor came backa moment and put a hand on his shoulder.

“If you’re going right back, my dear, I wish you’d look Elsaup and tell her I won’t be in till late. And feed with us to-night atLimpold, will you? And take some hot grog when you get in.”

“Thanks, old fellow, I’m all right. Going back now.”

He rose, stretched himself, buttoned on his heavy coat and lighted anothercigarette.

From the door Victor watched him plunging through the heavy snow—headbent—hands thrust in his pockets—he almost appeared to be runningthrough the heavy snow towards the town.

Someone came stamping up the stairs—paused at the door of hersitting-room, and knocked.

“Is that you, Victor?” she called.

“No, it is I... can I come in?”

“Of course. Why, what a Santa Claus! Hang your coat on the landing andshake yourself over the banisters. Had a good time?”

The room was full of light and warmth. Elsa, in a white velvet tea-gown, laycurled up on the sofa—a book of fashions on her lap, a box of creamsbeside her.

The curtains were not yet drawn before the windows and a blue light shonethrough, and the white boughs of the trees sprayed across.

A woman’s room—full of flowers and photographs and silkpillows—the floor smothered in rugs—an immense tiger-skin under thepiano—just the head protruding—sleepily savage.

“It was good enough,” said Max. “Victor can’t be intill late. He told me to come up and tell you.”

He started walking up and down—tore off his gloves and flung them on thetable.

“Don’t do that, Max,” said Elsa, “you get on my nerves.And I’ve got a headache to-day; I’m feverish and quite flushed....Don’t I look flushed?”

He paused by the window and glanced at her a moment over his shoulder.

“No,” he said; “I didn’t notice it.”

“Oh, you haven’t looked at me properly, and I’ve got a newtea-gown on, too.” She pulled her skirts together and patted a littleplace on the couch.

“Come along and sit by me and tell me why you’re beingnaughty.”

But, standing by the window, he suddenly flung his arm across his eyes.

“Oh,” he said, “I can’t. I’m done—I’mspent—I’m smashed.”

Silence in the room. The fashion-book fell to the floor with a quick rustle ofleaves. Elsa sat forward, her hands clasped in her lap; a strange light shonein her eyes, a red colour stained her mouth.

Then she spoke very quietly.

“Come over here and explain yourself. I don’t know what on earthyou are talking about.”

“You do know—you know far better than I. You’ve simply playedwith Victor in my presence that I may feel worse. You’ve tormentedme—you’ve led me on—offering me everything and nothing atall. It’s been a spider-and-fly business from first to last—andI’ve never for one moment been ignorant of that—and I’venever for one moment been able to withstand it.”

He turned round deliberately.

“Do you suppose that when you asked me to pin your flowers into yourevening gown—when you let me come into your bedroom when Victor was outwhile you did your hair—when you pretended to be a baby and let me feedyou with grapes—when you have run to me and searched in all my pocketsfor a cigarette—knowing perfectly well where they were kept—goingthrough every pocket just the same—I knowing too—I keeping up thefarce—do you suppose that now you have finally lighted your bonfire youare going to find it a peaceful and pleasant thing—you are going toprevent the whole house from burning?”

She suddenly turned white and drew in her breath sharply.

“Don’t talk to me like that. You have no right to talk to me likethat. I am another man’s wife.”

“Hum,” he sneered, throwing back his head, “that’srather late in the game, and that’s been your trump card all along. Youonly love Victor on the cat-and-cream principle—you a poor little starvedkitten that he’s given everything to, that he’s carried in hisbreast, never dreaming that those little pink claws could tear out aman’s heart.”

She stirred, looking at him with almost fear in her eyes.

“After all”—unsteadily—“this is my room;I’ll have to ask you to go.”

But he stumbled towards her, knelt down by the couch, burying his head in herlap, clasping his arms round her waist.

“And I loveyou—I love you; the humiliation of it—Iadore you. Don’t—don’t—just a minute let me stayhere—just a moment in a whole life—Elsa! Elsa!”

She leant back and pressed her head into the pillows.

Then his muffled voice: “I feel like a savage. I want your whole body. Iwant to carry you away to a cave and love you until I kill you—youcan’t understand how a man feels. I kill myself when I seeyou—I’m sick of my own strength that turns in upon itself, anddies, and rises new born like a Phœnix out of the ashes of that horribledeath. Love me just this once, tell me a lie, saythat you do—youare always lying.”

Instead, she pushed him away—frightened.

“Get up,” she said; “suppose the servant came in with thetea?”

“Oh, ye gods!” He stumbled to his feet and stood staring down ather.

“You’re rotten to the core and so am I. But you’reheathenishly beautiful.”

The woman went over to the piano—stood there—striking onenote—her brows drawn together. Then she shrugged her shoulders andsmiled.

“I’ll make a confession. Every word you have said is true. Ican’t help it. I can’t help seeking admiration any more than a catcan help going to people to be stroked. It’s my nature. I’m bornout of my time. And yet, you know, I’m not a commonwoman. I likemen to adore me—to flatter me—even to make love to me—but Iwould never give myself to any man. I would never let a man kiss me...even.”

“It’s immeasurably worse—you’ve no legitimate excuse.Why, even a prostitute has a greater sense of generosity!”

“I know,” she said, “I know perfectly well—but Ican’t help the way I’m built.... Are you going?”

He put on his gloves.

“Well,” he said, “what’s going to happen to usnow?”

Again she shrugged her shoulders.

“I haven’t the slightest idea. I never have—just let thingsoccur.”

“All alone?” cried Victor. “Has Max been here?”

“He only stayed a moment, and wouldn’t even have tea. I sent himhome to change his clothes.... He was frightfully boring.”

“You poor darling, your hair’s coming down. I’ll fix it,stand still a moment... so you were bored?”

“Um-m—frightfully.... Oh, you’ve run a hairpin right intoyour wife’s head—you naughty boy!”

She flung her arms round his neck and looked up at him, half laughing, like abeautiful, loving child.

“God! What a woman you are,” said the man. “You make me soinfernally proud—dearest, that I... I tell you!”

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