Chapter XV

The little place where my mistress lived is situated on the Thames, about two hours' journey from London. The lady herself came to meet me at the station. The house to which she took me stood somewhat back from the others, near to the bank of the river. Talking kindly all the while, my new mistress showed me into a large pleasant room, and told me that this was to be my room. Left alone, I looked round. The low walls were covered with a pretty light-grey paper, and the black massive iron bedstead had a cover of similar colour. In one corner there was a washstand with a grey veined marble slab, and white china standing upon it. On the right, a chair and a table. The room had two windows, one of which faced the courtyard. The view, however, was barred by the protruding roof of a shed, overgrown so thickly with creepers that it looked like underbrush in the woods. That roof I grew to love immensely, and, later on, I watched with keen delight how its colour changed from the most tender green of spring to the burning red of autumn. The second window gave me a view of the garden which was sloping down to the river, and on the other bank I could see extensive meadows of a most exquisite green. It was this window at which I leaned and looked out, after I had, with a deep breath of relief, noticed the cleanliness and comfort of the room.

I looked down at the Thames, of which I had heard so often at school, and for which I received so much scolding and thrashing because it was so hard to remember whether London or Paris flourished on its banks. I looked down on the meadows lying soft and dreamy, untouched by the hand of greed. No tree, no bush, as far as the eyes could wander, nothing but the free, lovely fields, impressing one with a sense of prosperity and peace. To me that peace and stillness was so pleasing that I folded my hands involuntarily.

"Life," I said in a low voice, "wonderful life!" for wonderful I thought it, in spite of the weariness in all my limbs and the ardent longing in my heart.

I was called down a little later and made the acquaintance of the daughter and the French girl. The former spoke German, the latter did not. As I myself did not understand French, my fellow-servant and I spoke English, and spoke it badly. I found out very soon that she was a most superficial girl who hated thoroughly the work we had to do together in the rooms and kitchen. Though she was only seventeen years old she had already flirted a good deal, and whenever we were at work beating the carpets, washing up the dishes, or cleaning the boots and clothes, she told me of the men who had crossed her way and been more or less fatal in her life. After having detailed also the latest of her conquests, a grocer or a chemist's apprentice, she urged me to tell her something about myself. But at that I shook my head decidedly and smiled. What could I have told her? That what made me sometimes so happy and sometimes so sad was a fairy-tale of such wonderful delicacy that she could never have understood it. And when, regardless of my smile and silence, she dived again into the waves of her adventures, I was all the more quiet and worked twice as quickly as she did.

So time passed away painfully, yet mingled with the blissful hope that he would come for me some day; unconscious, but not to be shaken, it lived within me, and innumerable times I pictured to myself how it would happen. The bell would ring a short, energetic ring, and he would stand in the kitchen all unexpected and all unannounced. Then I would take him upstairs to my room, show him happily--like a child shows his toys--the little forest below my window, the river and the green fields beyond it, until suddenly he would notice my black dress, my white apron, and the flowing bonnet-strings--badges of my position--would comprehend the endurance of my heart, my hands, and silently take me in his arms.

These dreams, however, were the most foolish dreams that I have ever dreamt.

By-and-by I learned to know thoroughly the ways of English home-life. Although my mistress was a widow, she gave all sorts of entertainments characteristic of English people, such as tea-parties, picnics, and so forth. It is true that these large and small gatherings doubled my work in every respect, but I tried to compensate myself by catching now and again an English word, in order to enlarge my knowledge of that language, which was poor indeed, since my mistress as well as her daughter generally spoke either French or German. Yet, with much zeal and diligence (I studied in English books deep into the night) I progressed very nicely.

My mistress always treated me most kindly, but I could not help smiling sometimes at the relations between her and her daughter. The fifteen-year-old girl tyrannized over her mother in a most incredible way. Unfortunately my mistress was convinced that her darling possessed everything that was needed to make a great artist, and did all in her power to develop the talents of that future genius. It is true that the girl sang, danced, painted, and wrote poetry, but I am doubtful as to the merit of her accomplishments. One day, when I was busily beating the carpets, my mistress rushed out of her room, and looking pale with nervousness she begged me to stop that noise because Miss Daisy was about to write a poem. I lifted the heavy carpet down at once, but thought of my own poems, which still proved to be a secret source of my scanty joys, and asked myself how many poems I could have written if absolute stillness was necessary for the writing of them.

They were composed while I was working, while I was running up and downstairs, and there was nobody who cared. Nobody? No. Now and again a letter told me that the one or the other of my poems was exceptionally beautiful.

When I had been at my post for some time, a great change happened. Miss Daisy fell ill with scarlet fever. As soon as the French girl knew about it she left the house.

"Do you want to leave too?" my mistress asked me.

"Certainly not," I replied.

After seven weeks full of anxiety and fear, the doctor ordered the patient a change of air. All the necessary things were packed up immediately, and a few days later we looked out on the northern sea. I had got a room to myself, and was impatient to retire there. The evening came at last, but tired though I was, I did not think of sleep. I stepped to the window, opened it as much as one can open a window in England, and gazed enraptured at the heaving waters, on which the moonlight glittered and danced. It was very late before I went to bed on that night, and very early when I got up next morning. Nobody was astir yet, and I dressed noiselessly. During the night I had had a strange dream and felt like writing it down. I looked for a sheet of paper and while the sky deepened from pink into red, I wrote a new poem, and entitled it "Ruby."

After we had stayed at the seaside for about five weeks we returned home, and my mistress did not engage a second servant for the present. My duties increased and I had less time to spare than before, but still filled the few moments of leisure I could find with the study of the English language.

One day I came across a book by Milton, and in spite of my defective knowledge of the language, read most eagerly his "Paradise Lost," and was overwhelmed by the picturesque language and by the bold imagination and grandeur of the whole. Many, many times, also, I looked up the page on which was written:

"When I consider how my light is spent Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide, And that one talent which is death to hide, Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent To serve therewith my Maker, and present My true account, lest He, returning, chide; 'Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?' I fondly ask: but Patience, to prevent That murmur, soon replies: 'God doth not need Either man's work, or His own gifts; who best Bear His mild yoke, they serve Him best; His state Is kingly: thousands at His bidding speed, And post o'er land and ocean without rest; They also serve who only stand and wait.'"

And each time that I read that poem I fell into a strange brooding mood. A mood from which later on sprang my greatest defeat and my greatest conquest. By-and-by I bought the poems of Lord Byron, Keats, and also of Longfellow, and not a single day passed without my being able to do a little reading. That does not mean, however, that I read all the poems contained in a book. Far from it. When I bought a new