RUE AND ROSES

BY ANGELA LANGER

WITH INTRODUCTION BY W. L. COURTNEY

NEW YORK GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY

RUE AND ROSES

ANGELA LANGER

Copyright, 1913
BY GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY

INTRODUCTION

You will like Anna, the heroine of "Rue and Roses," when you get
to know her. But perhaps it will take some time before she becomes
familiar to you, partly because she is intensely Teutonic, partly,
also, because the little history she gives about herself strikes the
ordinary reader as fragmentary. She certainly is very German. You
picture her to yourself with her large eyes and her, apparently, placid
exterior. Very likely she is wearing a shawl round her shoulders and
sits apart from other girls, for ever analyzing herself and her own
states of consciousness. That is the characteristic thing about her.
She is intensely self-analytic, and from the earliest moment when
she began to think at all, she has ceaselessly occupied herself with
her own soul-states and traversed one or two heart-crises. Having
nothing much external to interest her, she is driven to introspection,
and becomes, as a matter of course, a little priggish and pedantic,
exaggerating the importance of conditions about which the normal
healthy outdoor girl of another race never troubles herself.

Yet she is worth knowing for all that. She may be a little tiresome,
but she is a good, honest girl, who has not had the best of luck, who,
indeed, has come from a home where everything seems opposed to her own
instincts and inclinations. Her father's business is perpetually on
the down-grade, and his little commercial enterprises invariably fail,
and leave him worse off than he was before. The mother, of course,
is always on the verge of tears, because it is her painful duty to
try and make both ends meet--a feat which she is eternally unable
to accomplish. From one place they drift to another, and Anna's few
friends of childhood are left behind, or if she sees them again they
look at her askance, because her father has been in prison. And there
is a brother, too, who would be a severe affliction even in the most
favourable circumstances.

Meanwhile Anna pursues her own way, very humble, very insignificant,
but always trying to do her best. She is a governess, and endures
the usual fate of governesses, being either bullied or made love
to--bullied by the mistress, and on one occasion compromisingly made
love to by the master. One solace she has--the writing of poems. A
characteristic German trait this! And so she sits and dreams, for she
is the most sentimental little person you ever came across--sentimental
to the full extent of Teutonic capacity, with her head full of
Weltschmerz and Schwärmerei. Of course she sighs for the Prince
Charming who is to come and redeem her from her servitude, a being of
impossible virtues, noble and distinguished, and excessively handsome,
the highborn husband for whom Cinderella dreams while she sweeps out
the kitchen and cleans the pots and pans.

Nothing very significant so far. Indeed, Anna would seem to be the
very best example of the ordinary German maiden, ruthlessly exploring
her own limited soul and dreaming of the moon. Then suddenly an event
occurs which changes her crude immaturity into something more real.
She comes across a man of about thirty, who smokes his cigar, as she
herself says, "with elegant ease," and who discourses about many
things--about intoxication, about remorse, about books, about art, and
about her poems. Gradually the intimacy grows, and Anna's whole life,
and even her literary style, becomes eloquent because the love of her
life has dawned on her horizon. "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."

She has now got something to occupy her mind apart from the analysis
of her own soul. Her poems, naturally, become love poems. Her thoughts
are no longer turned inward, but outward, craving for his presence and
companionship. But the reader must not believe for a moment that he
is going to peruse the ordinary love story. No, the nameless hero--a
rather cryptic personage, suggesting now and again Manfred, certainly a
little Byronic in his presentment, who calls himself "a wolf in sheep's
clothing"--has no intention of making Anna either his mistress or his
wife. It puzzles her a little what the man means, or what her life is
henceforth to become. On one occasion she has a strange vision. She
is in a graveyard at night-time. "And as I stood there staring into
the darkness above and beyond the graves, I saw a vision--a circle of
flames, growing into enormous size, embracing all the world except
myself, leaving me outside and alone." Anna is like little Mowgli in
Rudyard Kipling's "The Jungle Book," who stands desolate and alone in
the springtime when all the animal creation with whom he had consorted
so amicably are inspired by that passionate feeling which comes to them
in the opening year, but which leaves the little human boy untouched
and forlorn. Anna, too, has realized her loneliness. She is doomed
to be the Eternal Virgin, the predestinate spinster. In a world in
which the feminine race largely predominates there are not lovers and
husbands enough to go round, and she must remain outside that charmed
circle--the leaping flames of love and passion, which seem to embrace
all the world except herself.

Of course, she does not realize this at first. The truth only comes
home to her after she has left her native land and lived, not too
happily, in London. Because "he" had spoken enigmatically, always with
a sense that there was something dangerous in their companionship, she
had thought it best to leave him, he, too, assenting that that was
the best course to adopt. Then, after some weary months of exile, the
impulse comes upon her, too strong to be resisted, to write to her
lover, not the ordinary letter, but one containing a strong, insistent
question. "Do you think that I may come back?" she asked him. A long
answer arrives: "If you had remained here, I do not know what might
have happened; if you come back, I know what will happen. But the
question is, may it come thus? You are not a girl of the ordinary type;
you belong to the race of Asra, the people who die when they love.
And, because I have known that from the first, I have done for you what
I have never done for another woman yet--namely, got hold of the head
of the beast within, turned it round sharply, and laughed at it."

That, then, is the end of it. A very different end from what the girl
had imagined, but which she now recognizes as inevitable, and not
otherwise than consolatory. For which is more glorious for a girl--that
a man should make her his wife, or make her his most beautiful dream
and his lasting desire? As for him, he will doubtless lead the man's
life, never at peace with himself, tasting every pleasure and getting
to know every disgust. "But above all pleasure and above all disgust
there will be the one longing of his soul, which had denied itself the
drink because of the dregs it knew to be at the goblet's bottom." This
renunciation becomes Anna's ideal, and she smiles to herself that
strange, wonderful smile "which only a woman knows who is willing to
take upon herself the heaviest burden for the sweet sake of love."

Such is the life story of Anna, the heroine of "Rue and Roses." Very
simple, very sentimental, but with a rare charm for those who have the
wit to understand and the heart to feel, and written in a style of
much tenderness and felicity. Do not put it down because the earlier
portion may seem uninteresting. Read on to the finish, and you will
be rewarded; for this is the story of one who realized her mission, a
mission which falls to the lot of many women--a mission of loneliness
with occasional moments of inspiration. It is the history, not of
the eternal womanly, but of the eternal virginal. Anna is, like the
daughter of Jephthah, a predestined virgin, who does not, like her
Hebrew prototype, bewail her maidenhood among the mountains, but
accepts it with grave resignation as her lot in life.

W. L. COURTNEY.

_March 27, 1913._

RUE AND ROSES

Chapter I

My parents kept a little shop, and adjoining it was our small lodging.
The shop contained lots of different things, such as candles, soap,
brushes, and many other articles, all of which I regarded with profound
respect. Each time that Christmas came round my father used to receive
a large wooden chest, of which the opening and unpacking was my
greatest joy. Sometimes my father would show no hurry about this to me
so sacred a ceremony, and then I used to remind him of it. At last,
however, he declared that he was going to open the chest, and after
that I got so excited that I hardly knew what to do. I asked whether I
might be permitted to help. But my father said that I was a bother and
in his way. Fearing that he might dismiss me altogether, I managed to
sit still for two minutes; but then I could bear it no longer. I went
to fetch a pair of pinchers and a huge hammer, and stood in readiness,
long before the chest was opened, with the tools in my hands. Then I
watched my father with breathless admiration as he forced a chisel in
between the chest and the lid, and very often burst the lid. My heart
beat fast for a moment when the white, soft shavings became visible,
and the mere sight of the small, brown cardboard-boxes, which my father
lifted carefully out of the chest, made me tremble with delight. But
the most joyous moment came when I was asked to get a pair of scissors
to cut the string which tied the cardboard-boxes. I walked on tip-toe
and spoke softly. Then the unpacking of the brown boxes began, and with
loving eyes I looked at the figures made out of chocolate or sugar.
There were riders with faces so bold that I hardly dared to think of
eating them; angels with limbs so dainty and wings so transparent that
I thought them to be real; and many other beautiful things. Broken
pieces were found sometimes, and my father gave them to me. Although
I longed to eat them I did not do so at once, but fetched a twig, or
anything that might resemble a Christmas-tree, and fastened the rider,
who, with his helmet cut off, looked less fierce now, the colour-bearer
who had lost his flag, or the angel with but one arm, upon it. After I
had watched them dangling about for a while I took them off again, and
there can be but little doubt as to their final fate. My brother joined
me in all these things, especially in eating. I remember a Christmas
Eve, when I was five years old and my brother four. Father Christmas
had presented me with a small wooden doll that pleased me enormously.
It had no hair, nor could it move its limbs much, but I hardly noticed
that. I sat on the freshly washed floor and played happily. My brother
got a knife with but one blade, the kind that is used in our country
to cut the grapes with. The next day, when my mother was about to wash
us--an operation which was performed on the table--my brother told me
that he did not consider my doll to be beautiful, whereupon I answered
that I did not think his knife was a real knife. "Shall I," he asked,
when my mother had left us to fetch something out of the kitchen,
"shall I try it on your leg?" I don't believe I liked the idea; but
too proud to go back on what I had stated, I allowed it at once. After
that I felt a quick pain, and a few drops of blood showed on the white
cloth whereon we sat. When I saw the blood, however, I began to cry,
and my mother returned to the room. My brother was frightened too, but
he laughed nevertheless, and asked me whether I did believe now that
his knife was a real knife. After my mother had bandaged up my leg, she
gave my brother a sound whipping with a birch that Father Christmas had
left on the previous day for naughty children.

Chapter II

One day all our furniture was moved and put on a furniture-van. When
everything had gone, my mother took my brother and myself to another
house, where we recognized our furniture at once. As it had grown late,
my mother gave us our supper and put us to bed. Next morning we were
both frightfully busy. We examined the little courtyard, and found a
brooklet flowing right through it. Then we discovered a narrow wooden
plank leading over to the other side. For a few moments we dared not
speak, but looked at each other with grave yet beaming eyes. At last my
brother broke the silence, and spoke in a soft, awe-struck voice:

"Shall we?"

"I don't know."

"Why shouldn't we?"

"I am afraid."

"Coward!"

After these last words my brother looked round cautiously and, nobody
being in sight, prepared to go over. Seeing his determination I
summoned my vanishing courage and held on to his coat, a thing of
which he graciously approved. The other side of the yard was certainly
much prettier than the one we had just quitted. It is true that it was
paved like the other side, but in a corner I discovered some flowers
which I thought were the most wonderful flowers that I had ever seen.
They grew on stalks, much taller than I was, and were of a colour that
reminded me of cinnamon, as I had seen it in my father's shop. But the
most wonderful part about them, and that I only found out afterwards,
was that they closed themselves up in the evening, and opened again
in the morning. That corner with the flowers now began to play a very
important part in my life. Whilst my brother was busy over catching
flies, or launching a paper boat into eternity, I sat amongst my
flowers and never for a moment grew tired of looking at them. They did
not, however, belong to us, but were the property of some other people
who lived in the same house as we did. And that was the reason why my
brother did not pluck them, as he would have done without doubt had
they belonged to us.

One day, when we played in the yard as usual, my father appeared all
of a sudden and called us to him. It was not often that he left his
shop in the daytime, and therefore we felt much surprised to see him.
He told us that we had got a little sister. The news electrified us,
and we ran into the house. But as soon as we beheld the scrap of a
being that my mother handled so carefully, we calmed down considerably
and regarded her with critical looks. She was much too small to take
part in any of our games, and to bring her over the plank was utterly
impossible. So we did not for a long time care much about her, and
everything remained as it had always been. My brother and I were
together constantly, and I believe indispensable to each other.

When I was six years old my mother sent me to school. I think I liked
it very much because of the school-bag, and the things it contained.
A book--a single mysterious book--a slate, a slate-pencil. The
slate-pencil had a beautiful red paper wrapped round it, and mother
told me not to drop it, as it might break. On the day appointed, she
took me there herself. My brother also wanted to come, but he was
told that he was far too small. He had to stay at home, and I left
exceedingly proud. Confronted with the schoolhouse, however, I grew
very still. It was a large, beautiful building, with walls so calm and
dignified that I was struck with awe. My mother brought me into my
classroom, and told me to be a very good girl. Then she left me, and
I was alone with the other children. My place was right in front, and
next to me sat a little girl with very long, fair plaits, the daughter
of one of the teachers. The fact of having so aristocratic a neighbour
made me more silent still. I hardly dared to look up; but that
embarrassment soon passed away. She herself broke the spell by telling
me that she, too, was going to be a schoolmistress some day. Then I
told her about our yard, the brooklet, and the plank. She listened very
attentively to all I had to tell her, and soon we became great friends.
Her name was Hilda. Next to Hilda sat the daughter of a baker, who was
called Leopoldine. She also became my friend.

My life had now changed completely. At school we arranged where to
meet in the afternoon, and every day grew to be a great event. It
happened sometimes that my new friends paid me a visit. Then we played
in the yard, and I felt proud of my flowers. But I don't think my
little friends really cared for them as much as I did. Both Hilda
and Leopoldine were fond of fishing out all sorts of rubbish from
the brooklet, and climbing up the wall that separated the houses.
Leopoldine came to see me more often than Hilda, who, as I knew and
perfectly understood, was not allowed to have many friends. It was for
that reason that I hardly ever saw her anywhere but at school. She was
the one I loved best. Our meetings, however, were usually held round
the church. The church was placed in the centre of a large square,
and possessing many a nook and corner, made an ideal spot for all our
games. My brother was as a matter of course a very constant member.
Another little boy joined us now and again, and then my brother was
most happy. He liked boys decidedly better than girls; "girls," he used
to say, "are silly."

By-and-by I got to know different people who lived in the village.
Leopoldine took me one day to friends of hers, whose little house was
situated close to the grave-yard. The man was a dyer by trade, and
I thought him very interesting. He had a long beard that was raven
black, and hands not a shade lighter. His hands were so black because
of his trade. His wife was stout of figure and red and round of face.
In one of the rooms there stood a cupboard with glass doors. It
contained glasses that were never used, and cups that had flowers and
names painted on them. The cupboard soon claimed my whole attention.
Whenever we went there again after that first visit, the dyer's wife
gave us an apple or perhaps a piece of white bread. She was very kind
to both of us, but did not often speak to me. It was chiefly my friend
to whom she addressed her remarks. But that I did not mind in the
least. I was so happy to sit in front of that cupboard and look at the
things. At first I thought everything equally perfect, but by-and-by
my attention was concentrated upon one particular piece. This was a
small statue of the Holy Mother, dressed all in white except the veil,
which was edged light blue. One evening a wonderful thing happened.
The dyer's wife talked with Leopoldine, who, by-the-by, fidgeted about
on her chair in the fashion that children do, and I stared at the Holy
Mother. She seemed to be even more beautiful than ever, and just when
I was wonderingly thinking whether or not I, too, might look as pretty
with a white frock and the very same veil on, our hostess stepped up
to the cupboard, singled out the object of my admiration, and placed
herself in front of me. I trembled with delight. Never had I been so
close to it. The glass doors had, though kept spotlessly clean, always
hidden parts of its dainty beauty from my longing eyes. And now, there
stood the woman holding it in her large, red hands, so that the Holy
Mother looked whiter than it had done before.

"Do you know anything about the Holy Mother?"

Thinking that she noticed how much I loved the little figure, I grew
hot with shame. At last I nodded and said that she was the Mother of
Jesus. And then the most wonderful thing happened to me. Pressing the
Holy Mother into my hands, the woman said: "There, you may have it." I
cannot tell how I got home that day. All I know is that I came home too
late, and that my father whipped me with one of those much regretted
Christmas birches.

Chapter III

Meanwhile another little sister had arrived, and (I believe it was for
that reason) our lodging grew too small. The furniture-van stopped once
more in front of our door, and two men carried everything away. Our
new lodging was most beautiful. At least I thought so. It consisted of
four rooms and a large kitchen. My mother took a maid to help her with
the house-work, and my father employed a young fellow in his shop. The
business did well, better than it had done in the beginning, and my
parents began to be regarded as "well-to-do" people.

The house we now occupied stood almost next to the house of my friend
Hilda, a circumstance deeply appreciated by me. Once when she came
to see me, I showed her all over the place, and directed her special
attention to a few new pieces of furniture which my mother had bought
in order to furnish all the rooms. There was one room that my mother
called the "drawing-room," and of which I was extremely proud,
although it had nothing in it but a table, a few pictures and a cheap
flower-stand.

Whenever I went into this "drawing-room" I felt as if I was entering a
church. The same sensation took hold of me when I showed Hilda in, and
I was not surprised that she left the room immediately, believing her
to be dazzled and overwhelmed.

There was also a courtyard belonging to the house; it was a very large
one with chestnut-trees growing in it. The trees were old and had
wide-spreading branches. We children loved the place and enjoyed it
with all our hearts. In one of the corners there stood a carriage, or
rather a manure-cart, which attracted us greatly. One day we pretended
to have a wedding. Leopoldine's brother was the bridegroom and I the
bride. I twisted a bunch of buttercups into a wreath and took a towel
for a veil. After that we took our seats in the cart and pretended
to drive to church. With the assistance of the bridegroom I got out
again, and the priest (one of the children) performed the ceremony. We
had seen many weddings in the village church and did everything in the
proper way. When the decisive question was put at last, we both looked
very solemn and said gravely, "I will."

On another day I quarrelled with Hilda, I must have said or done
something that she did not like, and it was evident that she wanted
to make me cross. It happened towards sunset. Hilda stood with her
back against the wall of the house opposite to ours and looked at me
scornfully. Her mouth was twisted contemptuously, her whole attitude
expressed deliberate challenge. For one brief moment we looked at each
other like two embittered opponents, but all at once I felt confounded
by her words:

"Your drawing-room looks ridiculous."

Never, never before did I feel so utterly unhappy, and I turned away
with burning cheeks. My mother was about to call me in, so I hastened
towards her. "Mother," I cried, half choked with tears, "Hilda said our
drawing-room looks ridiculous." My mother smiled, and as she took me up
the stairs into the little parlour, she said: "That does not matter,
dear."

Like a child I soon forgot that incident, but afterwards whenever I
entered the room in question, I was struck with its emptiness, and
tried hard to understand how it was that I had ever found it beautiful;
and although my mother had bought a green cover for the table, the
reverential feeling that I had experienced so often returned no more.

After a time I no longer liked to go to school, and I do not think
that I made any progress with my lessons. My exercises were done
only because I was afraid of getting punished. Ambition I had none.
Geography and history I did not care for, and doing sums I positively
hated. Furthermore, my teacher had found out that I had no voice and
consequently excluded me from singing. The only thing that I really
liked was to form sentences. But that subject we had only once a week,
and it was done in the following manner.--The teacher wrote with his
chalk different words on the blackboard, and we had to use them in
simple or compound sentences. There was not one word which I could not
have brought into a sentence somehow, whereas all the other children
sat silent, and never showed any aptitude for the subject. During the
rest of the lessons I was inattentive and tried continually to chat
with my neighbours. Very often I was punished.

We were also taught scripture every Friday. A young priest whom we
called "catechist" came to the school and read the catechism to us. I
do not remember whether I behaved any better during that lesson, the
only thing I know is that I felt strangely moved when the tall figure
of the catechist, clad in a long black gown, entered our schoolroom
and took his seat with an air of dignity. In my opinion the young
catechist was a handsome man. His eyes were blue, his hair was thick
and brown, but his mouth was always shut tightly, and he struck me as
hard and proud. When I think of that time, I can see the schoolroom
again. None of the children were more than ten years old, and while we
sat perfectly still the catechist asked one question after another.

"Who created the world?" Whereupon a young voice answered:

"God created the world."

"What does that mean--to create?" Another voice:

"To create means to produce something out of nothing."

"Must all people die?"

"All people must die."

These last words always occupied my thoughts, and constantly worried
me. Sometimes I woke at nights from my slumber, and imagined that I
heard the question, "Must all people die?" whereupon a voice answered:
"All people must die." After that I felt inexpressibly sad. I sat up
in my bed, listened to the gentle breathing of my sisters, and wondered
which of us would be the first to die. A maddening fear rushed to my
heart when I thought that my father and my mother had also to die some
day. I could not go to sleep again, but thought about what might happen
if such were the case, and suffered so intensely that I screamed aloud.
Then one of my parents came to my bed and tried to comfort me, thinking
that I had a nightmare.

The summer always brought to us a most beautiful event. As soon as the
long school holidays began, my mother took us to relations of hers,
who lived at a distant village. The journey lasted six hours, and we
travelled in the post-coach. In reality one could not even call the
place a village, because there was only one house, the home of our
relations. It was a mill, and all around it stretched the glorious
woods of the lower parts of Austria, sometimes interrupted by lovely
meadows, where the grass used to grow to such a height that it towered
above our heads. Close by the mill flowed a clear, narrow brook, so
narrow in some places that we could quite easily jump over it, in
others so wide that we had to wade through it whenever we wanted to
cross. In front of the house there was a large kitchen-garden that
adjoined a still larger orchard, a spot full of ever new delights.
At one time an apple-tree, as if to tease us, would let a beautiful
apple fall to our feet; at another time the berries of a shrub would
at last begin to show their colouring, and then, again, a wild flower
that had opened overnight. At the very end of the garden there was
also a beehive. Although afraid of the bees we dared to approach them
cautiously, and even advanced to the back of the hive, where little
glass windows enabled us to observe the dear, diligent creatures quite
closely.

Later on, when the children were many and my fathers business slack,
these visits had to cease owing to the fact that my parents could no
longer afford the price of the post-coach. But the memory of that
lovely, quiet spot, connected so closely with a sweet and careless
childhood, still arouses sudden sadness and makes me yearn for it.

My mother used to take my brother and myself to church every Sunday,
and that place so lofty, so dark, so doleful, and always smelling
strongly of incense, made me strangely shy and still. My mother sat
upon one of the benches, but my brother and I had to stand with the
school children. We were right in front of the altar, and the priest,
together with the sacristan, had to pass us when they left the vestry.
The priest was the same priest who taught us scripture at school, and
I thought him even more handsome in his surplice, made of white lace.
As I never managed to remember when we were to kneel during the Mass,
I simply imitated the others; but no matter whether I knelt or stood
up, I always watched the priest, and followed all his movements. With a
feeling of profoundest reverence I looked at him, and saw how he mixed
the wine and drank it, how he swung the censer solemnly, how he prayed,
with folded hands, out of the holy book, and kissed it reverently at
the end....

My brother, as a matter of course, had also started school, and spent
most of the time with his schoolfellows. We were not so much together
now, but had, nevertheless, plenty of opportunity to quarrel; he grew
naughtier from day to day, and my poor mother was unable to manage him.
When my father came home in the evening I, in my little bedroom, could
hear my mother crying and declaring that she could stand it no longer.
Then my father used to grow angry and say that he could not possibly
undertake both the education of the children and his business. So
everything remained as it had been.

When I was twelve years old a great change happened. My father sold
his business, and bought a house (including a business) in a distant
little town. Once more all our furniture was removed, but on this
occasion it was carried to the station. Strange to say we children
were not informed about it until the last hour, so that I had left the
church-square the previous evening in the usual manner and never said
good-bye to anyone.

It was getting dark when we arrived at Hohenburg; a carriage drove us
home from the station, and my father showed us all the rooms of the
first floor. Another floor had been added according to my father's
orders, but he would not let us go upstairs that evening. My mother put
us to bed and told us not to forget our dreams, since dreams dreamt the
first night at a place one has never seen before come true. I listened
attentively to what my mother said, and on the morrow I pondered over
my dream. "Mother," I said, "I dreamt that we had gone back again to
Langenau." My mother smiled, shook her head, and said she did not think
that my dream could come true.

The first days and weeks passed quickly, and were full of sweet
excitement. My brother and my sisters, as well as myself, made new
friends immediately, and I do not think that at this time I thought
much about my old friends. The people who lived in the house beside us
called my mother "landlady," and I believe my mother liked to hear
that. She also took a new maid, whom I thought to be a person of great
importance. Very often she used to tell me stories about men, and
confided in me her approaching marriage. Whenever she mentioned that
coming event she looked exceedingly happy and proud, so I came to the
conclusion that "to marry must be something beautiful," and wished to
marry too. I confessed it to our maid, but she said that I was not old
enough.

"How old, then, must a girl be to be able to marry?"

And to this question she replied:

"I cannot say for certain; some girls marry early, some marry late."

I decided to marry early.

After we had been at the new place for a considerable time, I began
to notice that something was going wrong. I could see that my father
looked thoughtful, even sad, and that my mother cried often. Then my
father went away suddenly, and did not return for many weeks. When he
came back again, he looked pale and troubled, and my mother never
ceased to cry.

One day I went into the little kitchen-garden and wanted to sit down on
an old chair which happened to be there. But another girl of my age,
who was the daughter of one of our tenants and had hitherto treated me
very politely, was already sitting on the chair. She did not get up
as I had expected her to do, but crossed her arms above her head and
looked at me sleepily.

"Get up!" I demanded sullenly.

"Why should I get up?"

"Because I want to sit down."

"Well, sit down on the ground."

That answer made me terribly angry.

"Get up!" I shouted, and stamped with my foot; "that chair belongs to
us!"

The girl laughed, and after a while she said, still laughing:

"Nothing whatever belongs to you; everything has been seized from your
people; all you have left is debts."

Then she sprang to her feet, pushed the chair back with such violence
that it fell to the ground, and ran off.

I stood like one stunned and could not for a while understand what she
had said; but then I remembered how often my mother cried, how sad my
father looked, and all at once my veil of ignorance was lifted. I went
back into the house, but as shyly and softly as if I were a criminal,
and sat down silently on a chair. My mother sat at the table with
the youngest child in her arms, and looked at me in surprise. I was
generally very noisy, and upset a chair three times before I sat down.

"Have you quarrelled with someone?" she asked.

"No; but I should like to know whether what everyone says is true."

My mother trembled a little.

"What nonsense! What does everyone say?"

"That we have nothing left but debts."

My mother got up from the chair and put the child on the bed; then she
pulled the table-cover straight, and stared hard at an empty corner of
the room.

"By-the-by," she said, as if she was really thinking of something quite
different, "who said that?"

When I had told her she sighed deeply. No other sound was heard in the
room.

"Should you like to go back to Langenau?" she asked after a while.

I felt surprised and delighted. Hilda, Leopoldine, the old church, and
lots of other things came into my thoughts and made me long for them
boundlessly.

"Oh, mother," I cried, "it would make me so happy!"

During the following week all our furniture was moved again and sent
away. We were all frightfully excited; only my father was quiet, and
looked grave and pale. We arrived at Langenau late in the evening, and
drove to a new lodging. The whole village seemed to be asleep, and
nobody saw our arrival. We had been away for a year.

I did not like the new lodging; it was underground, and the water
dripped down the walls, leaving trails of a dark brown colour behind. I
could hear my mother say that the lodging was damp and unhealthy, and
that she had never thought one could become so poor. Then my father
answered that she must not lose courage, but have a little patience,
and he would try to find something better as soon as his business
proved to be satisfactory. They spoke for a long time upon this
subject, and I understood that the business in question was a new one,
and that most probably it would take a little while to get customers.

My chief reason for thinking the lodging horrible was that we were a
long way from the house of my friend Hilda. Furthermore there was no
pretty courtyard, nor any other place in which we could run about and
play. Three other tenants lived in the same house, and my mother told
us to keep very quiet, because, if we made too much noise, the people
might complain about us to the landlord.

As soon as breakfast was over, I wanted to run to the church-square,
partly to see whether everything was the same as it had been before,
and partly to speak, if possible, to my friends. Just as I was about to
close the door, my mother called me back.

"Where do you want to go?"

"I am going out."

"That won't do," my mother's troubled voice rang; "the whole place
looks untidy, and you know that I have no maid. If you want to go out,
you must at least take the two little ones with you."

"I will certainly not take them," I said, and tears filled my eyes.
"They are far too small for our games."

"I am very sorry, but you will have to play something that the little
ones can play also."

At first I would not consent, and decided to stay in; but as it was
nearly eleven o'clock, the time when I knew that my friends left the
school, I could resist no longer. I took the two little ones, not very
gently I believe, and went away. My sister was about two years old and
was able to walk, while my brother was still quite small and had to be
carried. My sister clung to my skirt, and so we walked along slowly,
much too slowly for my impatience. A few people, mostly those who were
about to go to their work in the vineyards, looked at me strangely,
spoke to each other, and laughed as they passed. I felt as if they
were laughing at me, and I was terribly ashamed because I thought they
all believed me to be the mother of the two children. It was very
foolish of me to think such a thing, but at that time I did not know
that a girl of my age could never be suspected of being the mother
of children; all I knew was that it was considered a disgrace for an
unmarried girl to have a child. My anger concentrated therefore on the
two innocent little creatures, and I felt very much inclined to beat
them.

We got to the school at last, and I noticed with great satisfaction
that the lessons were not finished, and that I was likely to catch my
friends. After a few minutes I heard the great noise that was made when
the boys were getting ready to go. Then they appeared, pair after
pair, and my heart beat faster. After the boys came the girls. First
the very small ones, then the class I had been in. Hilda and Leopoldine
appeared at the same time, and I trembled with joy and excitement when
I saw them coming along in the gay, careless fashion characteristic of
children. My time seemed to have arrived. I stepped out of the corner
in which I had hidden myself, and called their names aloud. Both of
them turned round at once, and dragging my little sister behind me, I
ran towards them.

"Anna!" they called, but then they looked at each other and kept
silent. I knew at once that something was the matter, and the blood
mounted into my cheeks. In order not to let them see my embarrassment I
controlled myself, and asked with apparent indifference:

"Where shall we go?"

"We are not allowed to speak to you," said Leopoldine at last; "your
father is locked up."

"Was," corrected Hilda softly, and then they ran away before I even
knew what they meant. A little boy, whom I had seen in the company of
my brother many times before, came along, said something very rude as
he passed and put his tongue out at me. But what did that boy matter?
What did the whole world matter now? I stood as if I was dazed, and
might have stood there longer if my little brother had not begun to
cry. That made me conscious of a terrible shame and of a sharp pain in
my arm, and I felt that the child was heavy. I noticed also that it was
nearly dinnertime and knew that my mother was waiting for me. I called
my little sister, who had been ceaselessly picking up stones from the
ground, and, avoiding the crowded streets as much as I could, I made
for home. My mother was standing in front of our gate, and looking
searchingly up and down the street. Having caught sight of us she came
to meet me and took the boy from my arms.

"Where have you been?" she asked; "you look hot."

"I am terribly hungry," I said, and slipped into the house while my
mother followed slowly with the children. Soon afterwards we sat down
to dinner, and my mother was busily preparing the food for the little
ones. I helped her a little, handing her a fork, a spoon, or anything
that was beyond her reach. After a pause of some length my mother said:
"Did you see any of your friends?"

"No," I replied without hesitation, hastily swallowing a large
mouthful. I could feel how the blood rushed back into my cheeks, not
because I had told a lie (I often told lies), but because I heard the
cruel words hum in my head again.

"You are getting quite a big girl now," my mother continued after a
pause, "and you could make yourself very useful at home, if it were not
that you have to go to school again."

A silly, incomprehensible fear immediately gripped me. Until that
moment I had not thought of having to go to school again. "Mother," I
said, and lifted up my arms imploringly, "pray do not send me to school
again."

"You are getting more and more lazy; you ought to be ashamed of
yourself."

"So I am," I answered rudely.

My mother got up from the chair suddenly, and I thought that she was
going to beat me for such an impudent answer. But she did not beat me;
she bent down to one of the little ones and, with her face turned away,
told me to clear the things from the table.

During our stay at Hohenburg I had scarcely learnt anything, and when
my mother took me to school the next day, the headmaster found that
out at once. He declared that I was not by any means able to join the
fourth class, but must take up the third class once more. My mother
never understood why I looked so exceedingly happy when the headmaster
told me that.... I was now at least spared the company of those "two."
The mere thought of them became unbearable to me. I decided never to
go near them again, and to avoid everything that could bring me into
touch with them. But if it happened now and then that we met during
the recreation, which we had all to spend out in the garden, I quickly
looked in another direction. Hilda and Leopoldine were together almost
constantly, and it was only sometimes that I met Hilda by herself. She
passed me then with eyes cast down, but inwardly I felt that she loved
me still and only did not speak because she was forbidden to do so.
At such moments I loved her more than I had ever done before; I even
thought of walking up to her and speaking to her again. But whenever
I wanted to put that thought into action, my feet refused to move; I
stood like one rooted to the ground, and all that I was able to do was
to look after her and watch how she went away slowly, sometimes very
slowly.

One day I heard from a schoolfellow that Hilda had been sent to Krems
in order to join a seminary for school-teachers. After that I felt as
lonely and wretched as a child has ever felt. It is true that she had
never spoken to me again, but her figure was the most vivid picture
in my mind, and to watch her secretly from behind a quiet corner had
filled my heart with a happiness strangely sweet and sad.... "Why,"
I thought angrily--"why was Hilda sent away? why not Leopoldine?"
Whenever we met, her face wore a malicious smile, the very smile it
had worn when she had said those terrible words to me. I began to hate
her, and prayed every night to God that He might cause her mother (she
had no father) to be locked up too. But her mother never got locked up.
One day when I accidentally passed their house I saw a lot of labourers
busying themselves over it, and when I, driven by curiosity, stole by
in the dusk another evening, the house looked more beautiful than ever.
Henceforth Leopoldine was dressed in very pretty clothes, and the smile
on her face grew more and more malicious.

I had no pretty clothes, and my parents had no pretty house. My
father's business went from bad to worse, and he himself grew to be
taciturn and did not speak to us children for weeks. Another little
brother had arrived too, and my mother worked incessantly. I assisted
her by minding the children and carrying about the baby, but I did not
like doing it and felt utterly unhappy.

My brother had been sent to the High School at Krems because my mother
had set her heart upon it. My father used to point out to her that he
was hardly able to afford the expense, but my mother responded that
Charlie was the cleverest boy that could be found, and that it would be
an everlasting pity to bring him up otherwise. After these explanations
my father was silent, but I am perfectly convinced that he would have
much preferred to apprentice my brother to some trade. Charlie came
home every Sunday and left again on the Monday. On these visits he
treated us all in a most conceited manner, and even declared one day
that country-folk were fools. In spite of that I used to see him off
each time he went away, and felt like crying when the train had steamed
out of the little station.

Chapter IV

Without being able to give a satisfactory explanation of my feelings
I grew unhappier from day to day, and at times when I was most sad I
became conscious of a story in my head, and wrote it down, but tore
the paper up again without ever showing it to anybody. My dearest wish
was to be sent to Krems, so that I also might join the seminary for
school-teachers, and I wondered in my heart of hearts whether Hilda
would speak to me then. As a matter of course that secret longing was
in vain.

The time when I was to leave school approached at last, and I hailed
that event with great delight, for I rejoiced at the thought that in
the future I should not be compelled to meet Leopoldine. I had time
to spare now, but I did not help my mother with her housework any more
than before. I did not like staying at home, and wanted to go away. But
whenever I mentioned the subject my mother declared that she could not
spare me yet, and that in any case I was too young to face the world
alone. I felt exceedingly impatient, grew very discontented, silent
towards my mother and my two bigger sisters, and spent, in spite of the
noisy company around me, a very lonely life. My poems were the only joy
I had; they used to come again and again, but I kept them as secret as
before.

During the course of these events I had entered on my fifteenth year,
and into my discontent and restlessness there began to twine themselves
the thoughts, the dreams, and the wishes of a girl of my age. I knew
that all the girls who had left school with me were already associating
with young men, and I wondered which of the young men of the village
I could love. But I soon discovered that there were none at all who
pleased me, because they were all very rude, and constantly alluding
to things which made me blush. Contempt and disgust were the only
feelings they aroused within me, and it was clear to me that Langenau
did not hold the hero of my dreams.

The young men themselves hated me. Whenever they spoke to me I
responded shortly and tartly, and if any of them tried to pinch my arm
or stroke my cheek, I stepped back and uttered an angry exclamation.
After that they used to say that I had better not be so affected, if
they were good enough to look at me despite the fact that my people
were deeply in debt. I was perfectly used to such words, and knew that
those who spoke them were speaking the truth, since the same thing was
said at home without anyone contradicting it.

Owing to the fact that my father could afford the fees no longer, my
brother had been compelled to leave the High School, and was serving
his time in a business.

I suffered under these conditions more than I can ever say. My only
wish was to go away from Langenau and to live in some place where
nobody knew me and where nobody could reproach me. But my mother would
not hear of such a thing. Whenever I spoke about it she comforted me
with the idea of getting away later, and I gave in, simply because I
could do nothing else.

It was one of my daily occupations to chop up wood in a little
shed. The shed was situated at the back of the house, and close to
the wine-cellar that belonged to the landlord. Wealthy people from
Vienna or the surroundings used to buy wine from our landlord, and
not infrequently a gentleman went down into the cellar, and with the
landlord sampled the different wines. One afternoon I was chopping wood
again--I loved doing it merely because I was all alone in the shed, and
my thoughts could come and go undisturbed. I stood with my back against
the door, and was both chopping and thinking diligently when a shadow
fell suddenly across the wooden sides of the shed; and turning round I
saw one of the gentlemen who used to visit the wine-cellar. He smiled
at me and started a conversation--whether the rough work pleased me,
and so forth. First I felt ashamed of having been observed, but his
winning, open manner soon banished my shyness. While he was speaking he
smiled and entered the shed. But in spite of his friendliness I felt
all at once terribly afraid. I lifted the chopper as if to protect
myself, and said: "Will you please go out?" He smiled with even more
friendliness, and I saw that his teeth were white and even.

"How shy you are, little one! all I should like to have is a kiss."

I pressed myself hard against the wooden wall, set my lips tightly, and
raised the chopper higher still. He must have read in my face something
of my determination, because he started to whistle suddenly, and went
out of the shed, going backwards as he left. I would have killed him
had he dared to touch me.

A young man visited our village sometimes in order to collect sums
of money due to a life insurance company. My parents were in no way
insured, but every month the people next door received a call from him.
One day, instead of the young fellow, a smartly-dressed man appeared
who told our neighbours that he was the manager of the company, and
that he himself was collecting on this occasion, because frauds had
been discovered in connection with the young fellow who had collected
previously. After he had left them he knocked at our door, and entered
in the politest fashion possible. He looked so very smart that my
mother wiped a chair with her apron and invited him to sit down. It was
summer, and very hot. The manager seemed to be tired, and asked for a
glass of water. After my mother had filled one of her best glasses with
clear and cool well-water, he emptied it at one draught, after which
he stretched his legs and glanced searchingly through our little room,
that looked poor indeed but was kept very clean. My mother, who is but
a plain woman, felt much flattered at the sight of his unmistakable
comfort, and tried in her humble way to draw him into conversation.

"Dear madam," the manager said at last, "do you by any chance know of a
young girl who could help my wife with her housework?"

I sat at the window with a half-knitted stocking in my hands, and
slowly let it sink.

"What I need," continued the grand gentleman, "is a nice girl who will
mind the children and make herself generally useful."

My mother was just going to say that at present she knew of nobody, but
that she could make inquiries if the gentleman wished--or something
of that sort--when I got up and, standing before the manager, said:
"Perhaps I could be of some use to you?"

Scarcely had I uttered these words when I felt terrified at the courage
I had shown, and thought that I must have said something very silly and
rude. The manager, however, did not seem to have the same idea, because
he smiled and nodded his head.

"That would be excellent," and, after a little pause, addressing
himself to my mother, he asked, "When could she come?"

I was quite prepared to hear my mother reply that I could not go at
all, or even to see her bursting into tears, and was therefore greatly
surprised at what she replied: "If you really care to try her, I could
send her next week."

At these words I scarcely managed to suppress a cry of delight. The
gentleman then said that he lived at Krems, and that I could come home
sometimes. The day of my arrival as well as a few other things having
been settled, the manager bowed himself out. As soon as the door had
closed behind him I glanced rather shyly at my mother, but she looked
into my eyes steadily and said: "As you absolutely will not stay at
home, it is best that you should go soon to see for yourself what the
world is like." And after a moment she added: "Perhaps you will have
good luck."

During the rest of the day I tried to do everything I could to please
my mother. I sang the youngest child to sleep, and told the elder ones
stories. In the evening when the children had gone to bed, I promised
my mother that I would work hard and try to save up a little money.
When my father came home and heard of my decision, all he said was
that he hoped I could stand the hardship of service.

The week passed rapidly; my mother washed and ironed the few pieces of
underclothing I possessed, and I mended them as much as possible. I
would have liked very much to buy a little trunk, but my father said
that he had not enough money, so I packed my belongings into brown
paper, and tied up the small parcel with a thick string.

The manager had arranged to come and fetch me himself. On the appointed
day I stood in my Sunday dress and a faded straw hat, which I had
decorated with a new bright ribbon, awaiting him in our best room. He
arrived very soon; my mother had laid the table, and brought in the
steaming hot coffee and some appetizing white bread. After the manager
had helped himself to enormous portions, he prepared to depart. I
had neither touched the coffee nor the bread, feeling sick at heart,
although nothing could have induced me to make such a confession.
Several times I ran into the kitchen as if to fetch something, but in
reality I wanted to wipe away the tears quickly and secretly. The
parting came at last, a scene that could only be a simple one to such a
simple woman as my mother, although behind her coloured frock the dear,
faithful heart trembled and ached....

"Be good," she called after me, and I nodded back this time with tears
in my eyes.

Chapter V

The people to whom I went were Jews. The mistress with her dark hair
and dark eyes seemed beautiful to me. The four children--three boys
and one girl--had all rather reddish hair and freckles, except one of
the boys, who was seven years old and idiotic. I had to take the three
elder children to school and fetch them home again, to tidy the rooms
and to keep the kitchen in order. The lady did the cooking herself. As
the idiotic boy did not go to school, he was constantly around me and
chattered to me all day long in unintelligible sentences. Often he tore
off his clothes and ran about naked. In the beginning I was afraid of
him, but I soon noticed that with the exception of a few disagreeable
things, to which one had to get used, he was perfectly harmless. Many
times during the day he would come and spit into my face. At first I
could hardly bear this, but by-and-by I got to know his movements, and
quickly turned away when I saw him coming. But worse still than this
poor boy was his brother, a boy of twelve years, who had a horrible way
of speaking to me, and made me feel as much as possible that I had to
obey him. The girl I liked the best.

I had not been in this family for two months when I noticed that the
circumstances of the manager were no better than those of my parents.
People frequently came to the door and asked me if they could see the
manager. But as soon as I announced such a visitor the manager became
furious, and told me to tell the people to go to hell. I soon got to
know that these were all creditors asking for their money. It had been
decided that I should receive eight shillings each month, and I could
scarcely wait the day on which my wages fell due. When I left home I
only possessed one pair of shoes, and these were almost in shreds.
Therefore I thought of getting a new pair of strong shoes and also a
small notebook into which I could copy my verses, which, although my
work was plentiful, I did not stop writing. But yet I felt as lonely
as before. I could easily have made acquaintances, but I did not wish
to. The cook at the next house often spoke to me, and told me once
that every second Sunday she went out with her sweetheart, who was a
corporal; after which she asked me how many times I went out. I told
her that I did not go out at all, and at this she looked at me with
suspicion.

"Well, I never! then madam very likely allows your sweetheart into her
drawing-room to visit you, eh?"

"You impudent person, I have no sweetheart!"

At these words she gave a jeering laugh.

"So it is as far as that already. You are sick of men; I expect one of
them has left you in the lurch."

Without answering I turned my back on her, and afterwards we saw each
other as little as possible.

I began to hate everybody with whom I came in contact: the baker
because he had always some nasty words ready, which made me cast down
my eyes and caused the blood to rush to my head; the milkman for the
same reason; and the family itself because it was plain that the man
was a liar. To my great disappointment I had not received my wages, and
so I wrote my verses, which were even more frequent now, on paper bags
that had previously contained such things as rice, tea or sugar; and
these verses I carefully kept and put away.

One day I had just come back from a walk with the children, and after I
had put the youngest child into the cot I went into the kitchen to warm
his milk; on entering the kitchen whom should I see but Madam standing
calmly in front of the drawer in which I kept my belongings. The drawer
was open and my mistress held in her hands one of those paper bags that
I knew so well. I was frightened and furious at the same time, but
the respect which, at least outwardly, I had for that very indiscreet
person prevented me from uttering any angry exclamation. With an
amused and astonished face she turned towards me and held up the bag,
"You have never told me about these things," she said, seeming not at
all troubled at being detected in that mean action. "If you please," I
answered, trying to get hold of the bag, "it would not have been worth
the while." She still wore the amused smile on her face. "No, let me
have it, I am going to show it to my husband."

"For God's sake, no!" I cried in dismay.

"Why not? I like the verses very well."

The whole of my indignation and feelings of revolt immediately
vanished. I felt like kneeling down and kissing the hem of her
dress; her words had made me very happy, and from that day forward I
recognized in her my guardian angel.

The fact that I as yet had not received my wages made me, it is true,
feel very sad; but I told myself that this must be the manager's fault,
for he ought to have provided her with the money to pay her servant.
But she, and of this I was perfectly sure, never even caught sight of
a single penny.

My mistress had shown the manager some of the verses discovered in the
drawer, but he had laughed and responded that she had better not turn
my head altogether since I was a good, hard-working girl, and that
there were a far greater number of good poets than good servants in
existence. The manager had to go away to Vienna nearly every week. One
day when he had gone there as usual and the children were put to bed,
Madam came down into the kitchen where I was busily washing up, and
said: "Anna, I want to speak to you."

I thought that she was going to pay me my wages at last, and my heart
beat faster. She sat down on a kitchen chair, and watched me silently
for a while. Suddenly she began again:

"Tell me why you have not been truthful with me?"

I was startled and looked at her in surprise, but my conscience was
clear, and so I answered quietly:

"I don't know what you mean, Madam."

She tapped the floor impatiently with her feet, and said:

"No pretences, please. You remember that you told me once that you had
no sweetheart, but that poem"--and oh, horror and dismay! she held up a
paper bag on which I had written only the day before, and which I had
never intended to show to anybody--"that poem does not say the same.
Where is he? What profession is he in? Have you got his photo?"

I took my hands out of the hot dish-water, and covered my face.

"Don't be so silly," she continued. "I am a married woman, and you may
trust me. Now, come, out with it," and while she said that she looked
at me half commandingly, half lovingly. My hands dropped, and I noticed
how very red and ugly they were. A new shame overcame me.

"It is true," I said at last.

"That you have got a sweetheart?"

"No; I mean that I have not got one."

"But this poem?" and, greatly puzzled, she looked down at the bag that
was smelling of coffee.

"I don't know who he is, nor where he is;" and with sudden courage:
"all I know is that he does exist."

"But, pray, where have you seen him, then?"

"I have never seen him at all, except in my thoughts."

"Oh" she exclaimed, and rising with a yawn, she began to leave the
kitchen; but at the doorway she turned round once more and said: "As
long as you know him only in your thoughts he can do you no harm."

Scarcely had the door closed behind her, when I flew at the drawer,
pulled out the bags, and threw them into the fire. I watched until
the flickering flames had destroyed every bit of them, then I leaned
against the grey wall of the kitchen and wept bitterly.

Oh, for those tears in that grey kitchen! Oh, for those dreams in that
grey kitchen! Every moment my heart yearned in incomprehensible longing
for him. When would he come? Oh, when? When would he come to take me
away, like the princes came in the fairy tales to woo a shepherdess or
a kitchen-maid? I felt so sure that we were destined to meet some day,
but it seemed a long, long way off. Sometimes a doubting fear would
overcome me. How if the picture of my dreams--that picture so proud, so
far away--should never turn into a form of flesh and blood, but ever
be a dream! At such moments I was weak and foolish. I looked down at
my hands, which were so red and ugly from washing-up and scrubbing. If
no man would ever love me because of my red and ugly hands, what then?
At that question my soul trembled, and tears thronged into my eyes.
The next second, however, I smiled at my fears; a line or two out of
my poems had fallen into my thoughts. What did it matter that my hands
were red and ugly? What did hands matter at all? What had the heart,
the mind, the soul of a man or woman in common with his or her hands?
The man of my dreams was not a man who would love a girl only for
her beauty. No; he would love me for the purity of my thoughts, the
chastity of my longing, and for that wonderful part of my being that
made me write my poems and dream all day.

Once on washing-day I was standing at the tub, when the door opened and
my mother came in.

"Mother!" I cried, "why did you not write that you were coming?"

"We have not heard from you for so long, and when no letter arrived
yesterday I became worried, and walked over," she said.

Only then I noticed her tired face and the dust that covered her rough
shoes.

"Do you mean to say you walked all that distance?"

"Yes, I did;" and after a little pause; "we must be very careful with
our pennies, business is so bad now."

I tried hard to keep back my tears.

"If I only had some money I would gladly give it to you," I said.

My mother shook her head.

"Don't be silly. You need your money yourself. Have you managed to save
a little?"

"No," I answered very slowly.

"Let me see, you have been here for a year now"--she began to count by
the aid of her fingers--"and your wages are eight shillings a month."
She counted again. "That ought to have left you something. I am afraid
you are careless, my dear."

Seeing that she looked at me with tender but reproachful eyes I cuddled
down beside her.

"No," I said, "I am not careless; but--"

And then I told her that I had never received my real wages; only just
enough to buy some very necessary articles of clothing, or to have a
pair of shoes mended when it was urgently required. I felt very much
ashamed to tell her this, since my own stubbornness was the cause of it
all. My mother sat still, and after a long while she said:

"I am glad I have come. I have never been quite at my ease, and wanted
to see for myself whether you are happy or not. I have heard of a very
good situation, which would be suitable for you. You would have to look
after three children, and to help the cook with the scrubbing. The
household there is kept on a big scale, and you would learn a great
deal."

I remembered the mad boy, who still managed to spit at me occasionally,
and the sneers of the older boy.

"I would like to take that place," I said at last.

My mother got up from the linen-basket on which she had been sitting.

"It is easy enough," she replied. "I have arranged for a fortnight's
notice with the manager, and if I give it to-day, you are free to go in
two weeks' time. I have seen the lady of the other post; she is very
kind, and does not mind waiting another three weeks. You might just as
well come home for a week. Does that suit you?"

I nodded in silence, and we parted.

When I went into the kitchen later on, my mistress was sitting near the
fire as if she had been waiting for me.

"I am sorry your mother wants you to leave me, but I have always said
that this was too rough work for you. I hope you will like your new
situation."

After the fortnight had passed I again packed up my things into brown
paper, but the parcel seemed to be smaller than it had been a year ago.
When I took my leave my mistress handed me ten shillings, and promised
to send on the rest of the money due to me. Although I knew for a
certainty that she would never do it, I thanked her very much for the
ten shillings, which seemed to be an enormous sum.

Chapter VI

I noticed slight changes when I arrived home. The lodging was the same,
but I missed several pieces of furniture, which I knew had formerly
been there. At first I wanted to ask for them, but a strange sensation
of fear and cowardice closed my lips. There was also a pipe lying on
one of the shelves.

"Who smokes a pipe?" I remarked.

My mother threw a quick glance at it.

"Father, of course; he thinks a pipe comes cheaper."

There were also other things that I thought surprising, but I would ask
no more.

"I dare say you know that Charlie has left his master," said my mother.

"How should I know? Nobody has told me; where is he?"

"With father; I expect they will come in soon."

Although I felt pleased to see my brother again, of whom I had heard
nothing all the time he had been away, I was not pleased that he had
broken off his apprenticeship and had to begin afresh.

My mother had started to put the children to bed and to lay the table.
When it was dark my father came in with my brother, and after the
simple greetings were exchanged we sat down to supper. I noticed now
how handsome my brother had become. Although he was only sixteen years
of age, he was much taller than my father, and of such gracefulness
that I could hardly take my eyes from him. His face was very beautiful.
His eyes blue and large, and shadowed by most exquisite lashes. On his
upper lip a fair, downy moustache showed, but his under-lip was, I
thought, just a little too full.

"What are you going to do now?" I asked him once during the meal.
"Speaking frankly, you are too big (and too handsome I had almost
added) to be an apprentice."

"You are right, my beloved sister," he answered with a touch of scorn
in his voice; "for that sort of position I have grown too big and, to
tell the truth, too superior."

"Too superior?" I asked in amazement, and noticed how white and
beautiful his hands were. He looked at his well-kept nails thoughtfully
for awhile.

"Yes, too big and too superior to have my ears boxed."

"Did they?" I gasped, not daring to complete my sentence.

"Yes, and that's why I ran away."

"Perhaps you ought to have stayed there, after all," remarked my mother
somewhat timidly. "What will you do now?"

He gave my mother a look that alarmed me. It was an ugly, almost
threatening look, which robbed his face of all its beauty. But as if
conscious of the impression produced upon me, he calmly leant back on
the wooden chair and smiled self-contentedly.

"There is no need for you to lament," he said, addressing my mother; "I
shall not be a burden to you.... I am going to Vienna," he finished,
turning to me.

"To Vienna?" I asked. "What are you going to do there?"

He smiled again, and on this occasion contemptuously.

"I don't know yet; but there is no need to worry about such a fellow
as I am; it is true that I have no money, but here (he pointed at his
forehead) I have got something that is worth more than money," and
after this introduction he started to picture his future.

"To begin with," he said, "it is undoubtedly a great misfortune to be
born in the country. Think of the vast possibilities that are open to
you in town. There are the well-managed schools, the places of historic
importance, the innumerable means of earning a living, and the very
air of culture and refinement that envelopes everybody. There is no
real work in the country, and there never will be. It is true that
the people get up in the mornings and try to do what there is to be
done; but where is, I ask you, that race of all the different brain
and bodily powers that is so characteristic of life in town, where the
clever man is superseded by the cleverest man, and everybody tries to
reach the top in consequence?... If I were silly enough to stay at
a little country-place, what would become of me? Nothing but a mere
loafer, who drags about quite uselessly the great gift of intelligence
that fortune (my dear, I am above that nonsense of God and Church) has
bestowed upon his cradle or rather upon his brain. I have therefore
decided to throw in my lot with the quickest and cleverest of my age,
and it must be hell itself playing against me if I do not succeed
in getting enough money to enable me to buy a few hundreds of such
dens"--he looked round the room contemptuously--"in a couple of years."

With my hands folded almost devoutly I sat silent during the whole of
this speech, and did not quite know what to make of it. I greatly
admired the graceful flow of his words, as well as his thoughts which
were entirely new to me. Nevertheless there was something within me
that warned me not to surrender the views and ideas I had so far held.

"I hope you will have good luck," I said at last when he made a little
pause; "but I should like to know what you are going to be."

"Alas!" he replied, "I can see for myself now that you are not much
better than these folks"--he pointed with his thumb at my parents--"and
that you have never, not even in the least, raised yourself above
the level of your birth. Your way of thinking is the way these folks
think"--he pointed at my parents again--"and they think as their
grandparents did. Progress is to all of you as foreign as China. How
can you be so silly," he continued, somewhat more gently, "to ask me
what I am going to be? How can I tell to-day? At the present I have
not the faintest notion of the conditions and circumstances of Vienna,
and how am I to know which of my capacities is likely to be the most
eminent? Let me have the choice of a profession, the possibility of a
trial, and I will tell you what I am made of."

Greatly ashamed of my ignorance, I was silent again.

"If you possessed brain," my brother continued--"a thing which I am
sorry to say I do not suspect you of after I have had the pleasure
of exchanging these few words"--he bowed ironically--"you might have
perceived by now that I am no ordinary person, but of an artistic
turn of mind. These people"--he pointed again at my parents--"have,
unfortunately, little or no understanding of that, and will in all
probability fail to comprehend the greatness that the future holds in
store for me. That is, however, of little consequence; it is you whom
I expect to escape from your present station in life"--I admired the
delicate way in which he referred to my station--"as soon as possible.
It is true that you will never succeed in reaching the height destined
for me, but you may, nevertheless, go on to perfect yourself in every
way possible, in order to spare me the distress of blushing for your
ignorance and social standing later on."

My father had got up from the table some time before, and with his
hands crossed on his back nervously paced the room. He coughed now and
again, as if something irritated his throat, and it was plain that he
was angry. All at once he stopped in front of my brother.

"Don't you think," he asked, "that it would be best for you to mix with
your own class of people as soon as possible?"

"Why, of course," my brother replied with utter coolness, "I have
already decided to leave for Vienna to-morrow; all that I must ask you
is to let me have the money for the journey, a sum so trivial that I
can repay it to you multiplied a hundred times in a few months."

They looked quite calmly at each other, but it was a calm that seemed
to be loaded with thunder and lightning. My mother must have felt the
same, for she got up rather hastily, and her voice trembled as she
said: "There is plenty of time to settle that to-morrow. You had
better go to bed now."

The thunderstorm, however, broke next day. My brother insisted on a
certain sum of money, which my father thought too great and refused to
let him have the whole of it.

"Do you want me to reach Vienna without a single penny in my pockets?"

"I will give you as much as I can spare; there are the little ones to
be thought of; I cannot let them starve."

"Then you wish rather that I should starve?"

"I don't think that it would come to that. You are old enough to earn
your living."

"Old enough! Do you really mean to say that a fellow sixteen years of
age is old enough to earn his living?"

"Why not? I myself had to leave home when I was only a child of eleven,
and have worked for my living ever since."

"Worked for your living!" my brother cried scornfully. "Wasting money
and getting into debt to such an extent that no dog will take the
trouble to look at us. Do you call that working for your living?"

The veins showed thickly on my father's forehead.

"You wretch!" he cried, and flew at my brother's throat, "is that what
I get for having taken endless trouble to bring you up?"

It was evident that my brother had not expected so violent an outburst
on the part of my habitually gentle father. He grew deadly pale and
tried to free himself from my father's clutch.

After he had succeeded in doing so, he reached for his hat and turned
to the door. But, before he closed it behind him, he said: "You will
find me in the Kamp, if you should happen to look for me to-morrow."

What he called the Kamp was a river of considerable depth. After he
had left, the room looked a picture of misery and grief. My mother was
leaning against the wall weeping violently; my father was pacing the
room, his face rigidly set and breathing rapidly; the smallest of the
children, roused by the noise, had started to cry; and I trembled in
every limb with excitement.

It was my brother's last words that worried me beyond expression--"You
will find me in the Kamp, if you should happen to look for me
to-morrow."

I imagined him plunging into the dark green water, sinking slowly and
being found entangled in the tall reeds near the banks. "Mother," I
said, speaking incoherently and almost inaudibly, "do you think that he
will?"

"Don't ask me anything," she replied; "I am the most unfortunate woman
under the sun."

During the whole day I hoped that he might still come back. He did
not return, however, and when evening drew near I dismissed all hope
of ever seeing him again. The next day I could not remain indoors any
longer, so I went out and walked towards the river without actually
knowing or wishing it. Every time I saw a group of people coming
towards me I stopped in terror, for I believed that they had found
him. Nobody, however, seemed to be on so terrible a mission.

The people looked gaily at me, and passed on to their work in the
vineyards. When I reached the church square, the very sight of
which was enough to arouse such sad and sweet memories that I felt
more wretched, my brother appeared on the scene. Giving a joyous
exclamation, I hastened towards him.

"Where did you spend the night, Charlie?"

But this question did not seem to please him.

"I certainly expected more tact on your part," he replied, stepping
over to my side, "than even to allude to that distressing scene at
which you were unfortunate enough to be present."

I did not dare to ask another question, and walked along in silence.
Secretly I was surprised at his composure.

"I am extremely sorry for your misfortune," my brother said after a
pause. According to my opinion it was he who was the more unfortunate
of the two.

"Why are you sorry for me?" I asked him, and regretted the question the
next moment, because his face flushed with anger.

"How can you ask why, when you yourself were present at this miserable
occurrence, which must have taught you of what low descent you are."

"I?"

"Well, of course I mean we, but as I have ceased to belong to these
folks any longer, I cannot help feeling extremely sorry at the thought
that you will have to spend the whole of your life amongst these
narrow-minded people, who are little better than savages. Ever since
yesterday I have thought how I could help you."

According to my opinion he needed help far more than I did; but he did
not seem to think so.

"What I have decided to do is this: I will take you down to Vienna,
where I shall watch over you, cultivate any abilities that you may
show--in short, educate you. As soon as I have shaken my boots free
from the dust of this place and reached Vienna, I am going to work day
and night in order to save enough money to enable me to write for you,
and to let you learn all the important branches of art and science,
such as languages, music, etc. Do you agree to it?"

I felt mightily touched at his generosity and could not speak for a
while.

"As a matter of course," he continued hurriedly, "that cannot be
done right away; you will have to wait a little, and in the meantime
there is nothing to prevent you from accepting the place that mother
has found for you. Your leisure time, however, I want you to fill
up usefully, so that I shall not be ashamed of you when I introduce
you to my friends. I strongly advise you to read Schiller. There is
everything in his dramas that you may need to appear clever and witty
in whatever situation you find yourself. It would be an excellent thing
if you could quote from his works at every possible opportunity. I also
advise you to read Goethe's works. Be careful, however, not to quote
from them, as your mind is not yet ready to fathom the profound depth
of his thoughts, and you might fall into the evil habit of quoting
passages at quite inappropriate moments. Perhaps it is better for you
to refrain altogether from reading his deeper works, until I myself
shall be able to expound them to you. But," and a very winning smile
parted his lips, "it is now time for me to say good-bye."

"Good-bye!" I exclaimed; "where do you want to go to?"

"I am travelling down to Vienna."

"But you have got no money!"

His lips closed, and the winning smile vanished.

"I can see," he retorted, "that you are backward in every way.
The thing you most lack, and that you need to acquire first, is
tactfulness. Because, alas! one of our family happens to have no
feeling at all, do you really expect everybody to be in the same
miserable state? Always be careful, I tell you, about mentioning
anything that might recall occurrences or situations of a distressing
character. A certain pride exists, which is alive even within the most
pitiable wretch ... take care never to rouse that," and holding out his
hand, he said good-bye.

I did not take his hand, but stared at his beautiful fingers.

"I don't mean to hurt your feelings," I said almost crying, "but how
can you get to Vienna without a single penny?"

He frowned, and his handsome face darkened.

"It seems that I cannot expect from you that delicacy of feeling which
you must possess if you are ever to deserve my affection. But since you
are my sister, and really not to blame for your imperfections--because
it is the duty of parents to attend to their children's education, and
yours, I mean ours, have neglected that important thing entirely--I
will answer your question about the money. You are perfectly right in
suspecting that I have not a single penny, but let me tell you that I
would much rather walk all the distance from here to Vienna than bring
myself to accept another sou from the man who, on account of a strange
accident, is entitled to call himself my father. I have tried to find
out when the goods-train leaves for Vienna, and have decided to hide
myself in it."

I shook my head in horror.

"No, never!" I cried; "you must not do that. I have got some money,"
and I pressed the rest of my ten shillings, which I had carefully
wrapped up in a piece of white paper, into his hand; whereupon I
detected signs of both anger and pity on his face.

"Surely," he said, "I should be a scoundrel of the meanest order if I
touched this small sum of yours. Far be it from me to do such a thing;"
and he put the money back into my hand. "It is true," he added, "that
you have shown great tactlessness again, but I will forgive you this
time."

Almost immediately he was gone, and although I was standing in the
street, I began to cry most piteously, regretting my poverty, my lack
of nobleness, even my very existence. I felt convinced that my brother
was not only an artist, but also a hero and a martyr.

Chapter VII

The situation in which I started soon after these events differed
somewhat from my first one. There were only three children, a second
maid--the cook--and instead of eight shillings I was promised ten
shillings a month. My duties were the same as before. I had to wash up
the dishes, to scrub the floor, and to take out the children as soon as
I had finished the housework. My new charges behaved much better than
the children of the manager, and I liked them all very much. The cook,
too, was nice. Neither in speech nor in manner was she objectionable,
and sometimes I used to read out my poems to her. She seemed to be very
fond of the verses, and often asked to hear them again. That made me
very happy.

But after some months had passed away, and I became used to the change,
I was conscious again of the old well-known feeling of dissatisfaction
and loneliness. Frequently I used to sit down in a corner and sob
without knowing what was the matter. I was careful not to let the
mistress see my tears, but could not always hide them from the cook,
who was nearly always with me. She had asked me already what I was
crying for, but I could give no explanation.

One Saturday afternoon, when we were busily scrubbing the floor and all
the different meat-boards in the kitchen, the cook noticed my swollen
eyelids again.

"What is the matter with you, I should like to know," she said. "You
are home-sick perhaps."

I shook my head slowly and thoughtfully.

"I don't think I am home-sick, but I believe I am unhappy because I
can't go and learn anything."

"Can't go and learn anything!" she repeated. "What on earth do you want
to learn?"

I hesitated a little.

"I am sure I don't know. All I know is that I am frightfully silly."

"Well, I shouldn't say that," she replied good-naturedly. "I quite like
the way you help me in the kitchen."

"Oh well, yes; but I mean that I don't know how to play the piano, nor
how to speak French."

"But you do not need such things in service."

"Quite so; but I don't want to be in service."

"Oh!" she exclaimed, and then there was a long silence.

After we had done our work we took off our wet overalls, and put on
clean pinafores. The cook reached down one of the shining saucepans
hanging on the walls, and began to make the coffee, while I went into
the dining-room to lay the table. After I had taken in the tray with
the hot milk, the steaming coffee, and the cups of white porcelain, the
cook and I sat down in the kitchen to take our coffee also. The cook
poured out the coffee, and I noticed that her hands trembled a little.
She did not speak, and I was silent too, but I could feel that our
previous conversation occupied her thoughts. When her cup was empty she
put her head into her hands, and looked me straight in the face.

"Then you want to know French?" she asked abruptly.

"Well, it need not be exactly French."

"What else, then?"

"I don't know."

"That's silly. You must know your own mind, to be sure."

"I believe that I should like to learn English," I confessed, much
embarrassed and ashamed.

"I have never heard of a person learning English. Why would you not
rather learn French?"

"No," I said slowly but decisively, "I would much rather learn English."

"I have thought of everything," she continued after a pause; "the
mistress must not know about it. She herself has never learnt anything
of that sort, and would consider it to be nothing but pride on your
part. But it might be managed, nevertheless, if you would learn only in
the evening after you have put the children to bed."

"Of course," I cried delightedly; "I would not dream of doing it during
the daytime. There is only one thing," I added thoughtfully: "where
shall I be able to find a teacher in the evening?"

"A teacher!" cook exclaimed in utter surprise; "do you mean to say that
you want a teacher?"

I lost heart considerably at her question.

"Of course, I am sure it is impossible without a teacher."

"But won't that be too expensive?"

I assumed great indifference at her remark.

"I don't think that it could cost much," I said.

"How much do you think he would charge you?"

"I don't know exactly, but it won't be above a shilling or two."

"But, my dear, you can't afford that."

"Well, let me see. My wages are ten shillings a month, and I do not
need all the money."

"Of course not But you have to think of the future."

"Well, that's just what I am doing."

The cook did not understand what I meant by these words, and as the
bell rang to show that I was wanted, we dropped the subject, and I did
not dare to touch upon it again in spite of the growing impatience and
longing within me.

A few days later, however, it happened that the cook spoke of it again
quite abruptly.

"Do you think that you would get some benefit from it?"

"From what?" I asked, and looked as if I had no notion of her thoughts.

"From the English language, of course."

"Well, if I knew how to speak it correctly I am certain that I could
make a lot of money with it."

"Where?"

"Not here, of course," I replied, and turned my head guiltily away
from her gaze. We had to do the scrubbing again, and the cook devoted
herself to the work almost savagely; but when the kitchen glittered
and shone, and we were once more sitting down to drink our coffee, she
continued:

"You must try to take your lessons on a Friday evening. The mistress as
well as the master are at the club, and won't be back before eleven. Do
you think you could be back before then?"

I was happy beyond expression, and would have liked to put my arms
round the neck of that dear simple creature.

"What do you think!" I exclaimed, wild with joy, and with my hands
folded as if in prayer; "I shall be in much earlier than that." But in
a moment I grew worried again. "Are you sure that the porter won't tell
about it?"

"Never mind about the porter. I will have a talk with him."

After that we decided that I should look out for a teacher, and
the matter was settled. On the following days when I took out the
children, I looked up and down the houses most carefully, and found at
last what I was searching for. "Languages and Music taught here," stood
out clearly from a black board of granite, and the black board was
fastened on to a stately house. In spite of the shyness caused by the
grandeur of the house I longed to go in right away, but the presence of
the children kept me from carrying out my wish. They were old enough
to understand everything, and there was not the slightest doubt that
they would go and repeat my conversation with a teacher of "languages
and music" to their mother. It is true that my mistress was always most
kind to me, but, as cook remarked, she would never have understood.

When I arrived home I told my friend about my success, and asked her
how I could manage to go there without letting anybody know.

"The only thing you can do," she said, "is to peep in when you go to
fetch the milk."

I thought how very ridiculous it would look for me to go into a room
with a large milk-can in my hands, and did not like her proposal.
There was, however, no other way if I did not want to arouse suspicion,
so next day I pulled the bell of the imposing house. I could hear it
ring from within, and the sound made me still more uncomfortable. I
wished the milk-can at the bottom of the sea, and while I stood there
waiting I thought for a moment of hiding that disgraceful thing. I
looked round for a suitable corner, but then I was afraid that it might
be stolen, so I kept it in my hand, and only tried to hide it as much
as possible behind me when the door opened and a maid asked what I
wanted. Colouring deeply, I told her why I had come, and she begged me
to step in. She led the way into a room, which I thought was the most
magnificent room I had ever seen. There was a very large looking-glass,
and the very first thing I saw in it was myself. The second thing I
saw was the milk-can, and I looked away quickly; never before had it
seemed to me so big and ugly. A few minutes passed, and still I was
left alone. Just when I was beginning to regret that I had come at all,
the door opened, and a slender, sweet-looking woman entered the room.
The lady was Risa de Vall, the teacher of music and languages. As soon
as she saw me she smiled a very faint little smile, which I thought
was due to the milk-can, and in my heart of hearts I reproached that
article bitterly.

"I am told that you wish to take lessons in the English language; is
that so?"

"If you would be so very kind."

"Do you live with your parents?"

I blushed with shame, but answered truthfully:

"No; I am in service."

She was silent for awhile, and looked at me with keen, searching eyes.

"Very well then, my hours are from eight o'clock in the morning till
six o'clock in the evening. When do you want to have your lesson?"

"Oh, I am so very sorry, but I cannot come before eight in the evening."

And, after I had said that, tears filled my eyes.

She smiled again, but that time so kindly that I felt certain the
milk-can had no part in it, and to my greatest delight I heard her say:

"I suppose I must make an exception for once, and give you your lesson
at a time convenient to you."

With some hesitation I asked for her terms, secretly fearing that it
might not be possible after all.

But I was soon relieved. After looking at me once more very keenly, she
named a price that even I considered ridiculously small.

When I repeated this conversation to the cook, she looked very grave.
After a long silence she asked me whether I thought that English would
be a difficult language to learn.

I replied that I did not know, since I had never heard anyone talk
English.

Chapter VIII

My life now began to be entirely different. All the week I worked gaily
for that one glorious day on which my lessons took place. I had bought
a grammar of the English language, and studied it whenever I could
spare a minute. My teacher seemed much pleased with my zeal, but I soon
found out that she had made up her mind to give me lessons in more
things than English.

One day when I sat with her in her room, that had never lost its charm
for me, she asked me quite abruptly why a button was missing from my
jacket, and why my nails were always dirty. I felt exceedingly ashamed
at the two questions, and stammered some silly reply. At first I
thought she did not like me, but she was so sweet during the rest of
that lesson that I felt sure she had grown fond of me. When I got home
that evening the cook was already in bed. She looked at me in surprise
because I did not go to bed at once, as I was in the habit of doing,
but took my sewing-basket and searched its contents.

"What are you looking for?" she asked.

"For a pair of scissors."

"What on earth do you want them for now?"

"Oh, only for my nails."

"Which nails?"

But by that time I had discovered what I wanted, and having sat down on
the edge of my bed, I started to clean one finger after the other.

"Well," my friend exclaimed, "something has got into your head to be
sure."

"Nothing at all--but don't you think my hands are simply horrid?"

"I believe you are really a proud one," she said, and looked at me with
great displeasure.

During the time that I took my lessons, Miss Risa de Vall was always
zealous to point out to me the many great and little things that make
for beauty, order, and usefulness, and never for a moment did she waver
in her noble task. Gently, yet sternly, she checked my often wild
behaviour, dealing firmly and persistently with whatsoever fault she
found with me. After she had known me for about six months she asked
me one evening whether I had no other friend besides the cook. I said
"No," and then she told me that she had had a young lady as pupil in
the town where she used to teach a few years ago. Would I like to write
to her and ask her whether she cared to make friends with me? I was,
of course, eager to get to know the girl so tenderly spoken of by my
beloved mistress, and agreed with all my heart. I wrote to her on the
following day, and received an answer by return of post. Her letter was
brief, but sweet. When I showed the note to the cook, she said: "That
is a real lady, to be sure." I had, of course, no doubt about that.
By the flickering light of the candle, I sat down a few days later to
write to my new friend, but found it extremely difficult to begin. But
after I had managed to start I never stopped until I had filled at
least four to six pages. What I wrote about were all things of which I
thought constantly, but never confided to anybody--nay, not even to the
cook.

During all this time I had heard nothing from my brother, and nobody
knew of his whereabouts. One day I got a note from my father in which
he told me that he had received a letter from Charlie. He wrote that
he was very well off, and made quite a lot of money. When I read that,
my heart beat faster. It is true that I never quite believed what he
had said to me at our parting; but now I recalled every word of it, and
wondered in a vague sense whether he was going to take me to Vienna.
I remembered his advice about reading Schiller and Goethe, and felt a
little alarmed because I had not yet done so.

"There is no doubt," I said to myself, "that he is moving in society by
now, and my utter ignorance of Schiller's dramas would be a source of
constant humiliation to him." The fact that he had not written to me
since he went away did not surprise me in the least. I thought that he
had been obliged to work very hard, and had no time to spare. In order
to be prepared for him in case he should really come for me, I made
it my serious business to get a book by Schiller. But where was I to
get it from? I had no money to spare for books, and could not think of
buying one. In the dining-room there was a book-case, but it was always
locked up. The books there seemed to be regarded more for an ornament
than for use, since nobody ever took one out to read.

But after another five or six months had elapsed, and no further news
was heard of my brother, I gradually forgot those glowing pictures of
an easy future, and finally thought no more about them.

When I had been at my place for about two years, I happened to make the
acquaintance of a young lady whom I met occasionally in the woods when
walking with the children. She used to sit down on the bench beside me,
and while the children ran about and played among the trees, she would
sometimes start a conversation.

"Why do you always stay at the same place?" she asked me one day.

"Where else should I go?"

"I could not answer that question offhand, but a girl like you ought to
try what luck she can have in the world."

"What do you mean?"

"What do I mean? I mean that a girl like you ought to have quite a
different position from the one you have at present."

"But why do you say a girl like I am?"

"No nonsense, if you please; you must know as well as I do, that you
are as clever as you are pretty."

I thought about what my brother had told me, and then looked down at my
hands.

"I always thought that I was very silly and very ugly."

"Fiddlesticks! you are neither the one nor the other, and if I were in
your place I should go to a town and try to get on."

"To Vienna?"

"No," she said thoughtfully, and then as if a new idea had just
occurred to her: "Why don't you go to Buda-Pesth?"

"To Buda-Pesth? But that is in Hungary: what am I to do there?"

"The same thing that you do here, but with this difference, that there
you will be regarded as a governess and not as a servant, and you will
receive thrice the wages you receive here."

I folded my hands slowly and devoutly as I always did when I was moved
by some great emotion. "But," I said at last, "am I ladylike enough for
such a situation?"

"Of course; if you were not, do you think that I should advise you to
take it?"

As she said this she stood up, and made preparations to go. She held
out her hand to me and stroked my cheeks.

"Good-bye then, and think about what I have told you; I am fond of you
and should like to see you happy."

After she had gone I repeated her words over and over again. It was
chiefly the one sentence that haunted me. "You will be regarded as a
governess and not as a servant, and you will receive thrice the wages
that you receive here...." Thrice the wages!... I began to reckon in
my thoughts. Three times ten shillings make thirty shillings every
month ... that would be an enormous sum which I could never want all
for myself. No, of course not. But I would send home half of it. My
father's letters told me that business was no better, and a little help
from somebody would be very convenient.

"Oh, most gracious Lord," I prayed in my heart of hearts, "thirty
shillings every month would mean all the world to us."

I got home rather late that evening, and my mistress reproached me
gently for not being punctual. For the first time I did not mind what
she said. I had intended to tell the cook of my conversation with the
girl in the woods, but then I thought it better to keep silence about
it, and to wait events. During the following days I looked out eagerly
for my new friend; but a fortnight elapsed before I saw her again. I
hurried towards her, hardly taking notice of her cheerful salute.

"Where have you been all the time?" I asked.

"I have been busy at home," she replied, looking in astonishment at
my face that was flushed with excitement. I tried to control myself
and sat down beside her. Although very impatient and very anxious to
continue our last conversation, I did not like to start the subject
myself. She, however, did not seem to have given it another thought.
Not a single word did she say about it.

When at last it grew dark and I knew that I had to start home, I
took my courage in my hands, and said with as much indifference as
I could assume: "Oh yes, I wanted to tell you that I have thought
about everything you told me the last time, and that I shouldn't mind
taking your advice and going to Buda-Pesth." I noticed that she was
embarrassed, and the next words confirmed my suspicion.

"My dear," she said, "I am truly sorry to have aroused thoughts within
you that might endanger the peace of your present life."

All the happiness that I had felt went out of my heart, and with a
voice that was almost a sob, I said: "I really don't understand
you.... You yourself said----"

"Quite so," she interrupted; "I have told you about things which,
however, I regret to have mentioned now that I can see that my mother
is perfectly right."

"Your mother ... you told your mother about it?"

"Well, yes, I have often mentioned you to her, and I told her of our
last conversation. She thought it very unwise on my part to have
made you discontented with the safe peaceful run"--she emphasized
"safe"--"of your life."

"I understand. Your mother does not think that I am ladylike, and that
it might not be quite safe to assume that I should keep my situation."

But after these weary words the girl put her arms round my neck.

"You little silly," she said, "don't you know that you are far too good
to go into a situation at all? But since you happen to be poor and have
got to earn your living, it is far better that you should stay at a
place like our dear old Krems, where you are less likely to encounter
the dangers that lurk for young people in a big city."

I had by now grasped the meaning of her words, and felt greatly moved.

"I understand you, but you need not be afraid.... I am no flirt."

"Hush," she replied in that soft, soothing voice that mothers use when
quieting their babies; "I know that; but don't you see that it is
hardly ever the flirt, but always the nice decent girl, who is taken
in?"

"No, no," I answered blushingly; "I am sure that nothing will happen to
me."

After these words my friend held me a little away from her, and gazed
into my eyes long and earnestly.

"No, I don't think that anything will happen to you." Then she opened
her little hand-bag and took out an envelope, which she pressed into my
hands very hurriedly as if she was doing something wrong.

"There," she said, "I have brought it along after all, in case you
wanted to go very much." After that she left me quickly, as if afraid
that she might regret what she had done. Then I smoothed out the
envelope and read the few words:

"Miklosch Sandor, Registry Office, Buda-Pesth."

I called the children together, and went home as if I was in a dream.

Chapter IX

The parting from the family in which I had been so kindly treated for
more than two years; the parting from the cook, who had been a friend
to me in her simple, unspoiled fashion; the parting from my dear
teacher, Miss Risa de Vall; and the parting from home--none of them
were easy to me. Lightest to bear of all these partings was perhaps
the last-named one. My parents had grown so poor during the two years
I had been away that I more than ever longed to help them. When they
knew what I was about to do, and when I further showed to them the
letter from Buda-Pesth confirming my engagement to three children with
a salary of thirty-five shillings a month, they, too, thought in their
homely way that I had at last made my fortune. Out of the little money
I possessed I bought a small trunk, covered with brown, strong canvas,
such as are used as hand-bags for travelling. But after I had packed
my things, the trunk, small though it was, was only half filled, so
few worldly goods could I call my own. That, however, troubled me but
little. While I was packing the cheap things, one after the other, into
the bag, I was dreaming all the time of thirty-five shillings, and of
the wonderful things I could buy with them.

On the very day before my departure a letter arrived from my brother.
There had never been an address upon his former letters, but on this
occasion there was one. He told us that he was making quite a lot of
money, but he did not say how he made it. I was not surprised at this
omission, for I simply thought that he had really become an artist, and
did not mention his work because he took it for granted that nobody at
home would understand it. But I longed to know what he really was--a
painter, a sculptor, or a poet. The last thought made me blush with
embarrassment and pride. Yes, a poet--that was very likely, since I was
writing poems too; but then, of course, my poems would never be as
good as his!

The address given in his letter was the name of a café. During the time
that I had still to spend at home I thought of my brother, and at last
I had such a very bold and daring idea that I was surprised at my own
courage. I would go and visit him. On my way to Buda-Pesth I had to
pass Vienna, and I determined to break my journey there in order to
look him up. I told my mother about it before leaving home the next
day, and she thought that he might certainly be very pleased to see me.

I had put on my very best dress for the journey. It was made out of a
cheap blue woollen material. To match this dress I had bought a light
blue straw hat that had cost two shillings, and I felt convinced that
I looked exceptionally smart. My parents went to see me off, and to
make it easier for all of us I kept on talking about the thirty-five
shillings every month, and about the miraculous things one could do
with them. We arrived at the station early, and paced up and down
the platform. When the train at last came steaming in, I suppressed
my tears as bravely as I could, took my seat by the window of the
compartment, and nodded to my people with a smile on my face. A few
minutes later the horn was sounded to signal the departure; my father
waved his hat to me, my mother wiped her eyes, and I looked quickly
away from the window with a sob in my throat that could no longer be
suppressed.

The journey to Vienna lasted four hours, during which time I thought
much of my brother. I felt absolutely certain that I had gained a
great deal during the last two years, and pictured to myself his joy
and surprise when he heard that I had also a little knowledge of the
English language. When I had travelled about half the journey it
occurred to me to write down a few of my poems, and to ask his opinion
about them. I found some white paper in my bag, and started at once.

In Vienna I showed my brother's address to a policeman, and begged
him to direct me. A little later I walked up and down in front of a
café, carrying my trunk in my hands. So far I had not encountered any
difficulties, but now I was not quite sure how to proceed. It is true
that the most simple thing to do would have been to enter the café, but
I did not dare to do so because of all the smartly-dressed people who
sat round the gilded tables. Perhaps, I said to myself, he will come
out, or, should he be away from home, go in, and then there might be a
chance for me to speak to him. However, after a whole hour had passed,
and my little trunk had become heavy in my hands, I stepped quite
close to one of the tall windows, and looked boldly at the fashionable
crowd, hoping to see him seated at one of the gilded tables. But the
faces were all strange to me, and making a last desperate appeal to
my courage, I had just decided to go in, when I saw a waiter whose
gait and carriage seemed familiar to me. He was standing with his
back against the window and I could not see his face, but I had the
impression that I had met him somewhere before. I stared at him, and
had almost forgotten why I was there when a guest seated near the
window tapped the table with his spoon, and the waiter, who had aroused
my interest, immediately turned round and hurried towards him. I was so
surprised that I nearly dropped my trunk. The waiter was my brother.
Without hesitating another minute I went in. He caught sight of me
directly, and looking round him carefully in order to ascertain whether
he was watched or not, told me in a low voice to leave the café at
once, and to wait for him at the corner of the street, where he would
join me in half an hour. I did as he told me, but while I stood at the
corner waiting for him I could hardly get over my surprise. The whole
thing seemed to be a dream. I doubted whether I had really seen my
brother, and whether it was true that he was only a waiter and not an
artist, as I had firmly believed him to be. When the half-hour was over
a young man dressed in the height of fashion came up to me. I felt a
new surprise; the smart young man was my brother. I thought that he had
his day off, and admired the cut and colour of his suit.

"Do you get tipped so well?" I, pursuing my own thoughts, asked him
after we had shaken hands.

"Incredible!" he cried scornfully. "How can you be so utterly tactless
as to remind me in such a manner of the miserable profession I am in?"

"Why do you call it a miserable profession?"

"Why do I call it a miserable profession?" he repeated very angrily.
"Do you really think that I find a great pleasure in hobbling round
fellows who are not fit to hold a candle to me?"

"I thought," I remarked, after a little silence, "that you had become
an artist."

He laughed so terribly that all the passers-by stopped and looked at us.

"An artist, indeed! That is more than I have ever expected from you. Do
you believe that artists drop from heaven during the night?"

"Oh no," I replied hurriedly, in order to appease his temper; "I quite
know that it takes many years sometimes before they make a name for
themselves."

"Then, if you know it, why do you demand that I should be an artist,
when there was never the slightest chance for me to educate myself?"

"No, of course not. What I thought was that by now you might have found
out which of your capacities is the most eminent."

"Oh," he answered, with an air of absolute ease and conviction, "there
can be little doubt as to the nature of my abilities. It is quite
certain that I should have made an excellent painter if I had ever
had the chance to learn the different ways of mixing the colours and
using the brush; it is also quite certain that I should have become a
great composer if I had been able to study music; and it is also beyond
all doubt that I should be a pioneer in the field of literature if my
profession permitted the depth of thought and feeling that is necessary
to write in grand style."

I thought of my own poems, and could not understand him.

"Why can't you feel and think exactly as other people do?" I asked.

"Lord!" he cried, and laughed again as terribly as before, "how can
you imagine such a thing? To be locked in between four walls, to
have to carry trays, and to bow and scrape all day long! Can't you
understand that by leading such a miserable life as mine, the soul
degenerates, the brain decays, and the whole being goes down to the
level of a working animal?"

He had perfectly convinced me now, and although I said nothing he must
have felt his victory. His face grew calm, and pointing at my trunk, he
said:

"Then you have at last grasped what I meant at our parting, and have
freed yourself from the narrow ways of country life and are willing to
look out for a situation here?"

I told him quickly what I was about to do.

"That beats everything," he said, when I had finished. "Have you gone
mad?"

"Why should I have gone mad? Didn't you tell me yourself that I must
try to get on?"

"Are you really so silly that you do not understand that you have no
right whatever to go in for such a situation as you have described to
me?"

"What do you mean?"

"Are you really ignorant of the fact," he continued, without paying
any attention to my question, "that people like that do not need a
servant, but a ladylike person, somebody who knows how to behave, and
possesses good manners, and can teach them to the children in her
charge? Furthermore, do you not know that you have not a grain of what
is called 'polish'?"

I gave a little sob, and after hearing that he continued quickly:
"That is, of course, not your fault. Your intercourse with nothing
but country-folk cannot have taught you witty, amiable, and smart
behaviour; cannot have given you that indefinable something which makes
all the difference between an educated and an uneducated person; cannot
have imparted that knowledge to you, without which one is nothing, a
nobody, a mere cipher?"

I believed every word of it and cried softly.

"What am I to do?" I asked at last.

"If I were in your place I should not travel down to Buda-Pesth, but
stay here. I will use whatever influence I have with my friends, and
try to find you a situation. Perhaps you could get a post as cashier
somewhere in a café."

"No," I said, controlling my tears all in a moment, "I won't do that."

"Why not? They generally make a lot of money, and a good match at the
end."

"No," I said again, and shook my head decisively, "I would rather go to
Buda-Pesth."

He shrugged his shoulders indifferently.

"He that will not be counselled cannot be helped. What train do you go
by?"

"By the evening train at eight o'clock."

"I am sorry to say that I can't see you off then. I have got a
_rendezvous_ at eight o'clock."

"A randewau?"

"A _rendezvous_," he corrected. "There you are again; you know nothing."

After that statement he pulled out his pocket-book and began to write
down something. When he had finished, he tore off the leaf and handed
it to me.

"There, I have put down for you the most important of adopted words,
which you ought to know because all smart people express themselves
nowadays only in adopted words. Good luck and a pleasant journey to
you." He held out his hand, which I took mechanically, and when I
looked up he had gone.

I inquired for the station, and went the way indicated by a friendly
policeman. After I had taken my ticket I got into the train which was
standing by the platform, and by the dim light of the compartment I
tried to decipher the slip of paper that my brother had given to me. It
ran as follows:

     Rendezvous             Mélange
     Engagement             Carrière
     Bureau or Comptoir     Rouge
     Pardon                 Noir
     Toilette               Milieu
     Banquet                Manicure

After I had finished reading the paper I folded it up very carefully
and put it into my pocket. At the same time the train began to move and
started slowly onwards.

Chapter X

Mr. Sandor, the owner of the registry-office in Buda-Pesth, had told
me in his last letter that he was going to meet me at the station, and
asked me to carry a handkerchief in my hand. I had passed a perfectly
sleepless night, and when we arrived in Buda-Pesth in the morning I
felt quite stiff, and got out from the compartment rather clumsily,
with my brown canvas trunk in one hand, and a handkerchief in the
other. I looked up and down the platform, and soon observed an elderly
gentleman who hurried up to me.

"Have you come from Langenau?"

"Yes," I said, and would have given a world to know what he thought of
me.

"Do you want a taxi?" he asked, throwing a quick glance at my trunk.

All the money I possessed did not amount to more than sixpence, and I
shook my head violently at his question.

"No, no; I would rather walk."

"Just as you like."

A few minutes later he asked me whether he might be permitted to carry
my trunk, but again I shook my head. After rather a long way he stopped
at one of the tall, beautiful houses, and I thought it was the house of
the family who had engaged me.

"Are we there?" I asked, with my heart beating to my very throat.

"No," he answered smilingly; "here is my own lodging. I have taken you
here first so that you can make yourself a little more tidy before you
are presented to your new mistress. My wife will certainly be pleased
to help you."

He had opened a door and we entered a pretty-looking room. A lady came
in. She nodded at me very pleasantly, and Mr. Sandor said something to
her in the Hungarian language, which of course I did not understand.
After that he turned again to me: "I leave you with my wife now; as
soon as you are ready I shall be ready too."

Not until the door had closed behind him, did I understand the
ridiculous position I was in. He expected me to change my clothes,
never suspecting that they were my best.

"Don't be shy," the lady said; "do just as if you were at home."

But even if I had been really at home, I could not have done much more.
I stammered that I did not want to change my dress, but should like to
have a clothes-brush, if there was one handy.

"Of course," Mrs. Sandor replied, "here is one;" and with a smile she
handed to me the desired brush. I used it with clumsy haste and gave it
back.

"Is that really everything?" she asked me in the same pleasant way as
before.

"Yes, everything."

After that she called her husband in.

"Ready then?"

"Quite," I replied, and stooping down to lift up my trunk, I said
"Good-day" to Mrs. Sandor, and followed her husband out into the
street.

We did not go far on this occasion. He stopped at the corner of the
road and told me to follow him into the tram-car, a command which I
found great difficulty in obeying. However, I got in at last, and Mr.
Sandor sat down beside me.

"I dare say," he commenced after a little while, "my letters were quite
clear to you, and that you are in no doubt as to your future duties.
With regard to your mistress, I do not think that there can be found a
more kind and gentle creature, and I am sure that you will feel very
comfortable in her house. As far as the three boys are concerned, you
will have to find out for yourself the best way to get on with them,
and I hope that you will remain there for a long time."

He kept on talking in this strain, and in my heart of hearts I wondered
whether I really looked so silly and common a girl as my brother
had thought me. The house to which Mr. Sandor took me was a very
fine-looking building. There was a broad marble staircase, covered
with a costly carpet, which was kept in its place by rods of shining
brass. A smart-looking parlour-maid led the way into a roomy hall,
bidding us to wait. I put my trunk on the floor, and with my heart
beating fast sat down on the edge of a chair. Mr. Sandor seated himself
too, but his heart did not seem to beat any faster. We had to wait for
rather a long time, and I was almost wishing that we might be left
there to wait for ever. But in the very midst of that thought fell the
mellowed sound of footsteps, and a lady entered. I felt so embarrassed
that I could not speak, and stood up terribly ashamed. But she never
looked at me. She spoke to Mr. Sandor in Hungarian, and I grew doubtful
whether she knew that there was anyone else in the room. All at once
she turned her head and looked at me with searching eyes.

"Are you quite sure that you will like to stay in Buda-Pesth?" she
asked me. I did not quite know what she meant and only bowed my head in
silence. "I am afraid that you might grow home-sick, and I should so
hate to change again."

"No," I said; "I am sure I shall like it very much."

Mr. Sandor then said "Good-morning" to the lady, and as he shook hands
with me he begged me not to forget what he had told me. After he had
gone, the lady bade me follow her and led the way into a room that was
furnished completely in white. A table stood in the centre and around
it three boys, whom I guessed to be my charges, were sitting. They got
up as we entered and looked rather shyly at me.

"Your new governess," the lady said to the children. "Won't you say
'Good-morning' to her?"

Once alone with the children, my shyness left me. I shook hands with
them and asked a few simple questions which they answered in broken
German. After I had taken off my things, I busied myself at once in
amusing the children, tired though I was. I built houses of paper
on the table, and did various little things to help me to gain some
courage.

After a few days I grew more reassured, and dropped my shyness even
towards the mistress. I could see that she was satisfied with me, and
since the children also were very fond of me, I no longer felt afraid
of being sent away.

I had plenty to do. To take the children to school and to fetch them
back again. Also to take them for walks when the weather was fine
enough. The darning and sewing I did when they lay asleep.

Apart from a burning home-sickness that had taken hold of me and
tortured me especially in the evenings I felt quite happy there, and no
doubt believed that I had found at last what I had been longing for all
my life. There was one thing, however, that darkened the clear horizon
of my days: I had not a single decent dress to wear. It would hardly
have troubled me, but I knew that my mistress wanted me to be dressed
smartly. She had made little remarks sometimes, which, although never
addressed directly to me, gave me to understand that she was ashamed
for her friends--whose governesses looked so smart that I had mistaken
them for mistresses at the beginning--to see me.

One day my mistress came into the nursery, and, looking around somewhat
discontentedly, said:

"The children have been invited to tea, but who shall accompany them?"

I looked at her in surprise.

"Why, I, of course."

"Impossible; you can't go there in that blue dress of yours."

I remembered my brother and what he had told me, and started to fret
again about being sent away. I had not been there for a whole month,
and had not yet received my wages. But my mind was made up that I would
buy a dress as soon as I had my money, and I had already looked in all
the shop-windows in order to choose one. There were several dresses
that I should have liked to buy, but on looking at the price I was so
horrified that I avoided the shop-windows for days afterwards.

My shoes were wearing out too, and when the thirty-five shillings at
last fell due, there were so many great and little things needed that
the wonderful thirty-five shillings melted down to a few small coppers
before I had been able to think of buying a new dress.

One evening, when I was busily putting the children to bed, the master
came into the nursery and, after having exchanged a few words with
each of the boys, stepped over to where I was standing and touching my
blouse he said:

"Don't you feel cold in it?"

It was a very simple remark, and quite justified too, because it was
cold and the blouse was thin, but the look that he threw at me reminded
me of coarse and ugly words I had often heard before.

I said that I did not feel cold, and when he reached out his hand again
I stepped back quickly.

He came in earlier from that day onwards, and spent much time in the
nursery. He talked chiefly with the children, but all the while his
eyes wandered over me, and I felt that each look he gave me was like
a new offense. One afternoon when my mistress was out, the children
at school, and I was sitting in the nursery busy over some mending,
the door opened and the master came in. It was not his wont to leave
his office during the daytime, and bowing my head a little I looked
at him with some surprise. He closed the door very carefully and
leaned against the table. I had taken up my work again, but my fingers
trembled. He did not speak, and the silence became unbearable to me.

"Why," he said at last, "why don't you look at me?"

"Because the children need the things," I replied, bending my face
still closer over my darning.

"Quite so; but if I want to speak to you, you ought to have a little
time."

I thought that I had been rude, perhaps, since after all he was the
master, so I got up from the chair and looked at him submissively.

"You know," he said very slowly and with a peculiar inflection in his
voice--"you know that I mean to be kind to you, that your welfare
interests me, and that I would not mind a little sacrifice on my part
if you would only appreciate it."

I opened my mouth to make some clumsy reply, but with his hand he waved
to me to be silent, and continued:

"You must know yourself that you are in somewhat pressed circumstances,
and I am quite willing to give you a large advance. There is, of
course, no need that you should mention that to my wife...." And while
he finished the last sentence he produced a small bundle of bank-notes
and put it on the table.

At that I lost my head and flew into a terrible rage.

"Take that money away," I shouted, "or I will tear it up!" and because
he did not take it away at once, I flung it at his feet. He stooped
to pick it up, but his eyes as he turned them to me were shining with
anger.

"I am going to tell my wife at once," he said, "to get a lady and no
servant-girl for my children."

After that he went.

I was determined to leave the house immediately, and could scarcely
wait for the evening when the mistress would come in. But before she
came in I received a letter from home that contained most pitiable
news about the financial side of their circumstances. "Could not I
send a little money, just to keep the little ones from starving?"
was their humble yet urgent request. I had received my salary a few
days ago and not spent it yet. I took every penny of it and hurried
to a post-office. After the receipt was handed to me I felt somewhat
relieved, and having hidden it in my pocket very carefully I hastened
home.

It was getting late and I started to put the children to bed, inwardly
troubled and disturbed because it had occurred to me that I had no
money and could not very well leave my place before another month. I
would not think of looking out for another situation in Buda-Pesth
itself. I had suffered so much from humiliations and home-sickness that
I hated the very sight of the houses and streets. I remembered the
threat of my master, but it left me cold. If they were really going
to send me away it was quite a different thing from casting away the
shelter above my head.

My mistress returned with her husband at about eight in the evening.
She came into the nursery with her hat and veil on and asked whether
the boys had been good. I answered in the affirmative, whereupon she
left again. I used to take my supper in the nursery. The dining-room
was not far away, and I could hear the clicking of the forks and knives
quite plainly. That evening I listened to every sound, anxious to know
whether they spoke about me. But they never mentioned my name. My
mistress laughed several times, and told her husband about something
in her highly-pitched voice. She always talked loudly, and I was
constantly afraid that she might wake the children when they lay asleep.

The next morning my mistress treated me quite in the usual manner, and
I felt certain that her husband had said nothing against me. After I
had taken the children to school I tidied the nursery. When I was about
to do the little beds the door opened and the cook came in with a pair
of boots in her hands. I had picked up a little Hungarian by now, and
could make myself understood quite well. The boots were a pair of mine
which I had taken to be repaired a few days before. She told me that
the shoemaker was waiting in the kitchen, and named the price that was
owing for the mending. With a sudden terror I remembered that I had
sent away all my money, and had not a penny left to pay for the shoes.
After thinking for a few moments I told her to give him back the shoes.

"But," she insisted, looking down at my feet which were in shoes that
certainly were not new, "don't you want them?"

"Oh yes; but what am I to do? If the lady were in I could ask her to
advance me a little money."

"What nonsense!" she replied. "It is such a trifle I will let you have
the money with pleasure."

I wanted the shoes badly, and felt sincerely grateful for her offer.

"Thank you so much," I said. "You shall have the money back by
to-night."

"That is not at all necessary. She does not like to advance us money. I
can wait until you get your wages."

When the lady had returned I did not ask her for money as I had
intended to do. In addition to the remark that the cook had made about
it, I had another reason. I was ashamed to confess that I had sent my
last wages home.

During the next few weeks I did something that I have never ceased
to regret, and probably never shall. I borrowed more money from the
cook. I certainly never asked her for a large sum, but whenever I told
her that I was in need of twopence, she insisted on giving me ten
shillings, and I spent them as quickly as I received them. In that way
I owed her twenty-five shillings before half of the month was over. It
did not, however, really trouble me. Twenty-five shillings, I reckoned,
still left ten shillings to go home with. However, something happened