"What would be the end of it all?"
I when I remembered the strange, sad looks he gave me sometimes. Would it be possible to carry our friendship unsullied through the flames of passion? And then the question rose again, which I had believed to have silenced for ever, with many a beautiful phrase—the question of all !
"Why does he not marry me? Why not?"
On account of my poverty, and my station in life! But could such things come into consideration if a man loved a woman truly? And love me he did, or else how could I account for the interest he took in me, and for his ever ready and never failing devotion? I tried to find something similar among the girls I knew. There was, however, nothing similar. Whenever they touched upon matters of the heart, they smiled a cunning little smile that only disgusted me, but never made me any the wiser.
My poems began to be of a , doleful, over-subtle nature, and he, round whose figure all my dreams, my thoughts, my verses, criticized and corrected the lines, that held all the unspeakable and of my soul, criticized and corrected them with an odd smile on his face sometimes, and with looks grave, sad, far away, at other times. And then there came nights which brought no to me; nights when I lay awake till daybreak,asking myself that one dull, torturing question, over and over again, until at last its answer flashed quick as lightning into my brain....
One day when we met again, he said:
"I am not quite satisfied with your progress."
"What do you mean?"
"Simply that you are treating one subject in your poems over and over again. That is, of course, not in the least surprising, since you limit your experience of people and their ways to one place only."
My heart beat faster, but I succeeded in hiding my emotion, and answered with some :
"I, too, have thought of that already." And then I added still more hesitatingly: "And I should like to go away."
We looked at each other now and knew that we lied; but the words that were in heart and throat died away before the on our faces.
"Where to?" he asked at last.
But I shrank back now—the die was about to be cast; all the dog-like and faithfulness of my sex broke loose, all the desire of happiness that had been waiting quietly and submissively for so long stood up, every beat of my heart, every thought of my brain said "No." The minutes passed and I made no answer; testing, like a sounding lead, his looks searched my soul, and all at once I saw how his lips twisted, and there it was again, the old smile that I had grown to hate and fear so much. I never understood it before, but comprehended it now all in a moment. He did not consider me strong enough to part from him; more, he considered no woman strong enough to part from the man she happened to love; , more, he despised every woman, every girl that lived, and, knowing that, I knew also, that not even an atom of his soul belonged to me so far, that the battle which I had taken up , as it were, was not yet by any means won.
"Where to!" he asked again.
With the quick instinct of someone hunted I realized my position, and now I smiled inspite of the tears that sprang up behind my .
"To England."
"Why to England?"
"Because I speak a little English and should like to know it ."
"Do you know anybody in London?"
"No; that, however, matters little; all that matters is the money for the journey."
After that he grew very grave and was silent for a long while.
"You know," he said at last, "that you have a friend."
A few days after that conversation I fell ill with inflammation of the lungs, and had to spend several weeks in the hospital. At last when I had recovered the doctor told me that I was not strong enough for a situation, but needed careful nursing and entire rest in order to effect a complete recovery.
"Could you not go home for some time?" my mistress asked me.
"Where was my home?" I thought to myself.
But far too proud to tell her, I agreed, and left Buda-Pesth behind me for the second time.
My parents had moved to Vienna in the meantime. They had not told me much about the change, and in my heart of hearts I wondered what the new shop and the new would be like. When I arrived there, however, I became very down-hearted. It was a picture of and desolation. The shop was very small and almost empty, and the lodging consisted of a single room that contained nothing but a little iron stove, one or two beds, a table, and a chair. Moreover, being underground, it received but little air and light. My father was alone at home, and after having greeted him I asked for my mother. He told me that she had taken a place as charwoman, and would not be in before eight o'clock in the evening. Without taking off my hat or my jacket, I sat down on one of the beds and listened silently to all that my father said. I had heard the same over and over again, and now I listened to it once more.
"Do you think that you will have room for me?" I asked at last.
"Of course," he replied; "but you will have to sleep in one bed with the children."
"Where are the children?"
"Out making money."
"How?"
"They are selling papers."
"As soon as I feel better I will work too."
"The main point is that you should be well again."
I looked round the small, badly-aired room.
"I am afraid I shall never get well here."
"Since mother is away from home all day long, I am doing the cooking," he said; "and I think a cup of coffee will do you good."
After that he broke some brushwood across his knees, and laid the fire in the stove. But as soon as he had put a match to the stove it began to smoke terribly.
"That's only from the draught," my father said apologetically; "it will soon pass off."
And so it did, but not before the whole room was clouded.
My eyes smarted and my throat felt sore, but I said nothing, and drank the coffee that my father handed me in a cracked cup. I thought of my brother, and could not understand how it was that he gave them no help.
"Where is he?" I asked aloud.
"Who?"
"Charlie."
At that my father grew very sad.
"It is very unfortunate," he replied, "but he has been out of work for sometime."
"Where is he?"
"He is living with us of course."
I looked round the room again, and my father, who guessed my thoughts, his shoulders.
"It can't be helped; it must do for us."
Later on my mother came in with the children, who, after having sold their papers, had watched for her at the house where she did her work.
When the supper was over, and it grew late, my brother arrived. I was greatly shocked. He had changed completely. His face looked pale and haggard, black circles were around his eyes, his hair hung wildly over his forehead, his figure was lean, and his movements had lost all their former .
I controlled as well as I could the effect which this sad sight had produced upon me, and shook hands with him.
"I am afraid," he said, with the same touch of cynicism in his voice which I had noticed whenever he had spoken to me before—"I am afraid that you won't very much enjoy staying with us."
"As soon as I have recovered," I answered, "I will put everything in order."
"Put everything in order," my brother shouted, shaking with laughter; "do you really think that this man"—he to my father—"would ever allow such a thing? Let me tell you that your papa is extremely fond of dirt."
For the second time in my life I saw the of on my father's forehead.
"Stop it!" he shouted; "do you hear?"
"Yes," my brother replied, and made himself ready to fight.
I sprang to my feet and placed myself with clasped hands before my father.
"Pray do not listen to what he says," I cried between my tears and ; "you know that I do not believe a single word of it."
"For your sake," my father replied; then his fists dropped and he left the room hurriedly.
"He is, of course, the offended part now," my brother continued in the same scornful way as before, "and I hope for goodness' sake that you will not be influenced by this and feel pity, which would be ill-placed in his case. You have been away these last years and have had no opportunity to get to know him . I, however, see through his game, and so will you after you have spent some time at home. At present you may see in me a scoundrel or something near to it, but I can assure you that although circumstances compel me to live under the same roof with these common people, I am still the gentleman that I was before. Schiller says somewhere in his dramas, a jewel a jewel even should it happen to get mixed up with dung. As it is, I am a man whom life has cruelly disappointed only because his ideals were too fine and his dreams touched heaven. It is true that I am perhaps one of the most creatures to-day, but wait for half a year, or say a year—my head is filled with ideas which will, when worked out, affect like an explosion our entire code of laws, together with the whole life as we conceive it to-day. Outwardly I am a waiter, a , or whatever you like, but inwardly I am at work on a kingdom for millions of beings who now
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