I had grown very indifferent of late, and mounted the broad staircase without the slightest trace of my usual and fear.
After I had pressed the button at the door, a maid appeared and asked me whether I was the new hair-dresser. I thought this was owing to my shabby dress, my shabby gloves, and my shoes; so assuming an air of great dignity, I corrected her mistake. She led the way into the hall, and told me to wait. After a little time she came again and ordered me into another room. It had green curtains on the windows, and a green table-cover spread over the table. I expect it was the sight of the green table-cover that reminded me of my mother's former drawing-room. In order to make a good impression, I had held myself very straight and upright on entering the room, but with my thoughts to a time far away, I forgot my purpose and my shoulders shrank a little, as is their .
"Are you the new governess?"
A little confused, I took my eyes from the table-cover, nodded "yes" to the question, and then looked directly at the gentleman in front of me.
"You said in your letter that you were twenty-one years of age?"
"Well, yes, I am twenty-one."
"You don't look it."
I told him it was not my fault, and then we smiled at each other.
He asked me a few other questions, and soon afterwards a tall handsome woman entered. She was my mistress, and took me into the nursery. It was early, and the children were not yet dressed; but they looked so sweet in their nightgowns that I liked them at once.
My life again became the same as it had been at my other situation. I occupied myself with the children, played with them, took them out for walks, and later on to school. Our usual walk was along the wide and stately Danube, which represented a magnificent picture with the King's palace and other grand buildings upon its banks. If the weather was not fine, I used to send the children out on the balcony that ran all round the square courtyard at the same height as our apartments. On account of its smoothness it was a wonderful place for mechanical toys, such as engines, motor-cars, and so on.
One afternoon I had sent the children out there again, and promised to join them soon. When, however, I followed, the children had disappeared. I called their names aloud, whereupon they responded at once, but still I did not know where they were.
"Where are you?"
"Here," they repeated, and while I still stood and listened, a door that had not so far interested me opened, and my little girl put out her sweet dark head.
"Here we are!" she said once more; "do come in."
I did not know the people who lived there, but thinking that they were friends of the family I went in.
The room into which the little one had taken me was occupied by a gentleman about thirty years old, who was amusing the children with stamps and pictures. I thought he was alone at home. He me in fluent German, and with more politeness than anyone had ever shown to me.
I controlled my embarrassment, and took the seat he offered me. The children had entered into an argument as to the possible value of foreign stamps, and the owner of the room turned to me in conversation. At first he only commonplaces with a faint touch of in his voice, but he grew grave and interested after I had made a few remarks. Then we began a discussion, but how we started upon it I could never remember. Smoking a cigar and leaning back in his chair with easy , he asked:
" or regret—which is the greater of the two?... Is it worth the while?..."
I understood only half of what he meant, and answered that I did not know.
Then I told him about my poems, and he listened and smiled, an odd smile that also I could not understand. At last when I departed with the children he asked me what books I was reading.
"None at all," I replied, whereupon he looked surprised.
"May I get you some from the library?"
I thought it was very kind of him, and said that I should be pleased.
A few days later the porter handed me a parcel containing books, and a slip of paper.
"I have chosen the books in a great hurry," he had written, "but trust that you will like them."
As soon as I could find time I opened one of the books. It was a volume of novels by Jacobsen, and one of them was called "Morgan."
I read it all through.... A man—a dreamer, who loves madly a girl to-day and has forgotten her by to-morrow; and round that man there moved pictures full of glowing colour and sparkling light. I liked it, but did not really understand it.
"Have you read some of the books?" my new friend asked me as soon as we met.
"Yes."
"That novel too about Morgan?"
"Yes."
"Did you like it?"
"I don't know."
"One of the most beautiful passages is that in which he walks through the waving corn-field with his young wife."
"Yes, but I believe he must have been a horrible man."
"Why that?"
"So , so restless, so faithless."
He pulled his soft hat over his forehead, gave me a strange look and smiled.
We met almost every day, generally in the morning when I took the children to school and he went to his office. We rode a little way together in the tram-car, then I got out with the children and he went on. During these few minutes we carried on jumpy conversations, based upon an incident, an idea, or a poem of mine. We talked on dispassionately as it seemed, until we stopped as if afraid that we had said too much.
By-and-by I began to think of him whether I saw him or not; his face, his figure rose like a blazing question from the midst of the strange, wistful dreams that I had dreamt all my life, and something that had lain within me, dull and senseless like a trance, woke, wondered, and trembled into joy.
Once I did not see him for two whole days, and my heart grew so filled with that I wrote a letter to him. Not that I wished to see him or anything like it. No. What I put down on the paper were thoughts that had fallen into my soul, rich, like the raindrops that fall down into a field—visions of such rare, beauty, that I longed to share them with someone.
I was most anxious to see him next day, but did not meet him, nor the next day, nor the next; on the fourth day, at last.... My first impulse was to run and meet him, but it was arrested by a sweet bewilderment that took hold of me whenever I knew him to be near. It seemed as if he wished to hurry on without taking any notice of me, but then he hesitated, stopped, and lifted his hat. I was struck by the strange coolness of his behaviour, and my heart ached within me.
"How is it," I asked him, "that we see so little of each other?"
He drew a deep breath and looked away from me.
"Because it would be very unwise to see more of each other."
"Why?"
He did not answer at once.
"Because," he said at last, "there are wolves in sheep's clothing."
"I don't understand that."
"Don't you?"
"No."
"I want to caution you."
"What of?"
"Of a wolf that runs about in sheep's clothing and whom you trust."
"Whom do you mean?"
"Myself."
The meaning of his words dawned on me at last, but, filled with a happy, deep-felt trust, I shook my head.
"You are no wolf in sheep's clothing."
He drew a deep breath again, just as he had done before, and looked hard in front of him.
"You are mistaken. I am a wolf—a heartless, terrible wolf; one that would never hesitate a second to a sheep that comes his way without a shepherd and a hound."
I glanced at him, and it seemed to me that his face looked haggard and worn. I grew very quiet and very sad. The whole world looked dark all at once, and the song that, like a glorious promise, had filled my brain and soul ceased with a dissonance.
But then a minute later it rose again, shy and soft, at first no more than a quiver, but gaining force and power until it grew into a thrill of notes so sweet and that I could and would not check them.
True that there was something crying within me, but the thing that had rejoiced before was rejoicing still.
"Did you get my letter?" I asked him after a while.
"Yes, and many thanks for it."
"May I write to you again?"
He hesitated.
"May I?" I repeated.
"Yes."
It seemed to be from him.
"And you will write back?"
He hesitated again, much longer than before.
"I hardly think so; I mean to say sometimes, perhaps, but never very much."
"Only sometimes and never very much!"
"Yes; and that only on one condition."
"On what condition?"
"That nobody shall know of our correspondence."
"And why?"
"Because it is best for you."
"Why for me?"
And before he could reply a great anger rose within me.
"You are a coward!"
He
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