Part 20

“Improper? Oh, no, it’s all right,” she said magnanimously. “You only addressed me familiarly through an error. You are so accustomed to having visitors whom you address familiarly, that it never even occurs to you to do anything else. Moreover, I just observed in the next room that you are an idiot!”

“Which clarifies matters perfectly.” Fred bowed slightly. “But my dear Miss Rudloff,” he turned to Myra, “let us make the extraordinary and highly improbable assumption that I did not make a mistake in identity, but really blurted something out, as they say. It would simply be a further proof of how much inferior men are to women in the arts of lying and deception.

“A woman simply could not blurt out something and address someone familiarly. She simply couldn’t carry damaging letters around in her coat pocket for a week just because she forgot to take them out and destroy them. She simply couldn’t be trapped under any circumstances.

“But a man is so simple, so transparent, so trusting, so innocent....” His manner was intentionally sanctimonious.

“Ho! Ho! Ho! Ho!” Gwen interrupted. “Stop, my friend! The woman may be more discreet, more distrustful, more anxious—but only because she has more to fear. Once let a man get caught, let him be observed, or let him blurt out something, or let his correspondence be found—what then? He denies it! With a coolness, with a face as if—well, with cheek, in short! I know hundreds of cases....”

“From your own experience?”

“No, thank God! It ‘simply couldn’t happen to me in any case.’ But let me go on. You’re just afraid that I’ll say something to the point, and that’s why you’re trying to get me off the track....”

“Why should I be afraid?”

“Because you’re vain like all men. In the first place, you don’t like anybody but you to say something good, and in the second, you don’t like to feel that somebody sees through and through you.”

“But _you_ haven’t let _me_ go on. I was going to say, why should I be afraid that you would say something good, something to the point? The fear would not be well founded.”

“Oh, Myra, he’s common. Don’t you think he’s simply frightfully common to talk to me like that? But I’m going to say just what I wanted now, straight out. I know hundreds of cases of men who deceive their wives. And when the wife thinks she has finally got some irrefutable proof in her hands, when she has jealously watched her husband for weeks, and has finally seen him or found a letter—what happens then? Then the husband explains that his wife is blind or stupid, she is mistaken, or it was Miss Mayer with whom she saw him, or the letter is quite innocent, or it is a practical joke on the part of a crony. He goes into a rage or he laughs. In any event, he’s in the right....”

“I’m astonished!” Fred leaned far back in his easy-chair, crossed his legs, joined his finger-tips and shook his head at her. “I am astonished! Such fullness of wisdom in such a little curly head! You must have had all the assembled washwomen, cooks and children’s maids of all your acquaintances instruct you in their marital experiences.”

“Good heavens!” Gwen’s delicate nostrils twitched contemptuously. “As if the upper ten were any different! To be sure, they call their hang-out a Club. But they deceive their wives just the same.”

“Those less decent souls excepted,” said Fred in his measured way, “who do not marry in order to escape that embarrassment. But may I add an observation to your argument, young lady? Why is the husband believed when he offers the most threadbare explanations, when he declares the most striking proof of his infidelity to be innocent? Because women are so anxious to believe! Why do the wives look for proofs? Because they want divorces? Oh, no! Because they want their fears quieted. How is a matter of no moment. There is no more ghastly bare brutality than to tell a jealous woman to her face, ‘You are quite right, I love somebody else!’ A fig for the man who could do such a thing!”

“But why are women so petty and so—so horribly silly?” asked Gwen, her face blazing. “Why do they let themselves be deceived and rejoice when they are deceived still further?”

Fred joined his finger-tips and reflected for a moment.

“Perhaps it can be explained in a single sentence,” he said with a rather malicious smile. “Women always love most that which is closest to them, and men that which is farthest from them. Or to put it more clearly, a woman loves that man the most who has most often possessed her—and a man loves that woman the most whom he will never possess.”

A shade of melancholy passed quickly over his face.

“Shall we look at some illustrations?” he asked, springing up. “Have you any special preferences? Doré or Rackham, Cornelius of Bayros? They’re all here. See, this is beautiful! Do you feel the same enjoyment in handling buckskin? Or do you understand anyone’s taking a really insane delight in it? Just feel this,” he handed Myra a flexible volume in red leather. “Isn’t it splendid?”

“Yes, it’s just like velvet!” said Gwen crossly, swinging her dangling legs faster.

“Velvet!” He shrugged his shoulders indignantly. “This low little person is trying to provoke me! There are silly people who mean to flatter such leather by saying it’s like velvet! As a result, I have a real aversion to velvet. It always gives me a horrible dusty feeling under my finger-tips.”

Myra opened the book. Her glance chanced on the graceful curlicues of an illustrator whose peculiar style was unfamiliar to her.

“For God’s sake!” Fred laid both hands with fingers spread, on the pages of the book. “You may feel the books, but you mustn’t look at the pictures. They are not for young ladies. Afterwards, you’ll tell Auntie that I’ve been showing you improper pictures. But I really have young ladies’ books in my library and only keep this single volume because of its beautiful binding.”

“Are they pictures that one shouldn’t look at?” asked Myra calmly. “I know a great many such and they always fascinate me.”

“Of course, you may look at them.” Fred took his hands away and drew himself up. “I was only jesting. Any sensible person may look at and enjoy them. Look at them as much as you like. Moreover, the book is a rarity. It has been suppressed. You probably know that the illustrator has been banished?”

“No,” said Myra in surprise. “I didn’t know it! But why?” She eagerly snatched at any subject of conversation that would permit her to take her eyes from the book. She was rather afraid to turn over the page, and even more afraid, if anything, of appearing prudish and cowardly if she put it down without looking through it.

So she laid it open on her knees, glancing rather deliberately in the other direction—for example at Fred’s assured and reassuring face.

“Why!” Fred shrugged his shoulders. “Probably a temperance union would expel Kotanyi Janos, too. Not because he drinks, but because he manufactures paprika and paprika helps along the thirst. Mankind is divided into four classes. Two of these classes, the extremes, belong together. The first class (sequence has nothing to do with rank or I would begin elsewhere) are those who thirst but do not drink. They are the happy ones. The second class comprises those who have thirst but nothing to drink. They are the revolutionists. The third class—those who have all they can drink but are not thirsty. The hypocrites and the bourgeois. The fourth class—those who drink and who are thirsty. They are the happiest of all.

“Then, of course, there are numerous smaller subdivisions. For example, those who stand before a spring but cannot drink because they have no glass. Or those who drink and suffer stomach-aches afterwards. Or those who have a perfectly marvellous thirst, but eat something hot anyway, so that the hock will taste all the better afterwards. Or those who sit in a wine-cellar and go thirsty because there is no white Burgundy. And there are people to whom champagne only tastes good mixed with Port, or with Angostura, who like the sweetness only because there is a trace of bitterness along with it. Or people who pour dark and pale wines together, who mix heavy warm Bordeaux with thin-blooded bubbling champagne in order to make it fizz. Ah, yes, there are tipplers of all sorts, and each believes that his taste is the best. Here is Frederick the Great with Menzel’s illustrations; that looks better in your thoughtful hands. But first and foremost, there’s our tea inside, gentle, mild, friendly, thought-provoking tea—it will stimulate us to more profitable conversation. This way, ladies.”

* * * * *

One, two hours had passed. It was Gwen and not Myra who first glanced at her watch and said that they must go.

Fred helped them on with their coats and kissed their hands in gratitude. They had to promise to come soon again. Myra promised gladly. The distinguished beauty of these rooms fascinated her. And Fred made a good impression, like most people, when seen among his own things. She looked forward with pleasure to the next chat they would have together. All the fear that had originally restrained her, had disappeared.

But as she opened the heavy street door, she started and turned pale with terror.

“For God’s sake, Gwen, stay back! Your uncle, Senator Borgessen is passing! Suppose he sees us! What shall we tell him if he asks us where we’re coming from?”

“From the dentist!” said Gwen with a laugh, pushing Myra out on to the street. “People like Fred always live in houses where there are dentists. But Borgessen! Why should I be afraid of Borgessen? He has at least as much reason to be afraid of me as I of him! The whole town knows that he has an affair with his cook. Moreover, he goes to the city every three weeks and throws away his money gambling. He can’t do it so well here. His money and Aunt Fanchette’s. Poor Aunt Fanchette! But she smells of sweat from the arm-pits—brr! Haven’t you ever noticed it? Such women deserve their fate!”

* * * * *

The air was full of early spring.

There had been terrible storms so that one could not sleep at night, but sat up in bed with a beating heart and listened to the clatter of the tiles on the roof, to the shaking of the windows, and the banging of doors and thought with a shiver of the ships at sea.

Suddenly the storms had stopped for breath.

So abruptly, so without warning, that the silence was even more uncanny than the commotion. The air was heavy, full of sunlight and sweetness, and a strange fragrance as if it had been borne over fields of hyacinths and had never known tar, fish or salt water.

The people on the street looked at each other as if to say, “Well, what on earth do you think of the weather?” And wherever two acquaintances met, on the street, in the street car or in a shop, they said, “Well, what on earth do you think of the weather?” And all who heard it, made an effort to conceal a smile on their wooden faces, for they had just heard their innermost thoughts revealed.

Myra could not conceal her smile. But there was something so ingratiating, so deluding, about this still, soft air, this caressing sunlight, all this quite improbable and impossible spring, that she was suffused with a warm happiness which sought some expression. And as she could not sing, she smiled.

This was not occasioned by the spring alone. It was the feeling too that she could endure the spring without suffering. She felt well, like someone who moves his limbs for the first time after a long illness, and thinks every breath is a heavenly grace.

“I’m well again,” she told herself over and over like the refrain of a song. “I’m well again, well again!”

XVIII

Gwen and Myra were sitting in a compartment of the moving train. Two elderly ladies, black, stiff and erect, were sitting opposite, watching them sharply.

From time to time, Fred would come through the aisle and make faces, with the desired result that Gwen nearly died laughing.

But if she controlled herself with an effort, she did everything in her power to make Myra laugh.

“Such shamelessness,” she said with pretended indignation. “Just see how that fellow stares in here every time he passes. Next time I’m going to report him to the conductor.”

With an offended mien, she pushed her travelling cap on tighter in order to lean back and cross her legs.

But Myra was not to be made to laugh by any such antic.

“Oh, don’t imagine that he stares in here because he likes your appearance!” she said quietly. “He is either a criminal or a detective looking for a criminal. You can see that at a glance.”

“Good heavens, no!” Gwen continued the game in the highest spirits. “Don’t frighten the wits out of me! I read such a horrible story the other day—about a hardened criminal who was travelling in women’s clothes. Of course he was smooth shaven. But he had such a heavy growth of beard that he had to shave twice a day.” She spoke in a low voice, though just loud enough so that attentive ears could catch every word. With that her glance strayed with intentional carelessness over the rather downy face of the lady sitting opposite. “Just imagine, he was alone in the compartment with a young woman, on a long journey, and she saw—of course, at first she thought she must be mistaken—but she saw more and more distinctly that the face of the lady sitting opposite was gradually becoming covered with a growth of stubble! It must have been terrible! I think I’d have died of shock. As it was, I made a resolution never to travel alone. That’s why I begged you so hard to come with me today.”

“I was glad to do it,” Myra assumed a worried expression, “if only Emma will take good care of the children. Bubbie was coughing so hard again this morning.”

This was too much even for Gwen. For a moment she stared at Myra’s immobile, serious face, then she burst out laughing, covering her mouth with her handkerchief and coughing in spasms.

When at last they got off the train, they stood on the platform doubled up with laughter.

Myra stared after the departing coaches. She had not been mistaken—a black-gloved hand rubbed the window clean, and a pointed nose was poked against it. An attentive glance followed her.

Gwen raised her hand to wave farewell, but Myra held her arm.

“Don’t,” Gwen tried to tear her arm away. “What do I care for the old witches? Good-bye, dear train, run along or run off the track! No, better not do that, there may be some nice people on you!”

“Come,” said Myra, “Fred is standing here closing and buckling his travelling bag, just in order not to attract attention—like a real detective. But we agreed that we should leave the station first. Come. He’s looking quite desperately in our direction.”

They passed through the gates and the waiting-room out on to the street, which lay in a glare of sunlight. Five minutes later, Fred approached and tipped his hat.

“If I may make a suggestion to you ladies,” said Fred, “we will get my travelling bag from the station now, and armed with that, you can seek accommodations at a hotel. Ladies without luggage—that would never do! And you can’t tell every chambermaid and waiter the story about the lost last train.”

“And you?” asked Gwen.

“I’ll borrow some kind of a suitcase from an acquaintance. We can provide ourselves with the most essential requisites for spending the night here on our way to the station. Then you can pack them in my bag and betake yourselves to the ‘Emperor’. In the meantime, I’ll look up my friend, Schmid, and borrow a suitcase with which to inspire confidence. In half an hour I’ll come to the hotel, go to the dining-room, and be insanely astonished to find you there. Agreed?”

“Splendid!” Gwen was again dancing for joy.

“Stop! Stop! Stop! No pirouettes and toe-dancing, if you please! I beseech you, Miss Myra, watch out for the child, she’s going to queer us in the hotel and all over town. I don’t know whether I dare leave you alone with her for half an hour.”

“It is only your presence that makes her so exuberant,” Myra assured him. “When she is alone with me, she is perfectly rational.”

“Indeed!” There was an odd twitch at the corners of Fred’s lips, his short sharp glance flew from Myra’s face to Gwen’s.

* * * * *

The early twilight had already fallen. Gwen drew the yellow curtains over the windows and turned on all the electric lights—the chandelier, the lamp on the night-table, the bulb over the wash-basin and the commode—so that the big hotel room was bathed in light.

“That’s how I like it.” She drew herself up like a purring kitten. “I must have light and warmth.” She tried the register under the window, a scorching heat poured out. “It’s beautiful! Like that! I detest a cold bedroom. At home the heat is always partially turned off because mamma thinks it’s unhealthy to sleep in a warm room. When I’m married, my bedroom will have to be as hot as a hot-house, so that I can sleep without a night-gown or covers!”

She opened Fred’s bag and took out their small purchases. When that was done, she rummaged on.

“Just see all the things he has in here! Wonderful soap, smell it, Myra! We’ll just keep it here. And a mouth-wash too. Shaving cream—we don’t need that. My God, how many brushes! Splendid, buckskin slippers. Not having any slippers with me is the most unpleasant part. I hate running around bare hotel floors in my bare feet. I must see what kind of pajamas he has. Violet and white. Very pretty. Do you want to wear pajamas? I think they’re very uncomfortable. But they’re very nice to take breakfast in in the morning. Do you know, I think they’re better looking on homely people than on pretty ones. Because you don’t see their necks and arms. But I’d like to wear them sometime just to see if they suit me, _bleu électrique_ perhaps. And you must have strawberry ones, not _fraise_, but strawberry-colored. Judging by the French-German color designations, the French really are color-blind. We call _fraise, fraise écrassée_, and are surprised that we’ve never seen _fraise_-colored strawberries! Have you never had a shop-girl tell you, ‘We haven’t got that in blue, only in _bleu_’? Oh, the world is too idiotic. I have such a craving for some good alcohol. What drink do you like best? Do you want the right hand bed or the left? I suppose I’ll have to do up my hair again. Shall I wear the cap? It’s probably the most ladylike-looking. Are you ready? Shall we go down? How is it that your hair is always faultless? It isn’t so much shorter than mine. Do I look presentable? From the rear, from the front, from all sides? All right, then give me a kiss and come.”

Gwen turned again on the stairs. She brandished the key of their room at Myra before dropping it into her purse.

“The key! I took it out of the lock. They mustn’t find a gentleman’s bag with shaving materials and pajamas in our room. Fred must take it away as soon as he comes.”

Myra was a little frightened at the big bright dining-room. She had completely forgotten how to look for a table, how to treat waiters, how to run over a wine-card. It was like an examination. And the worst of it was, that she could not defer the answer to these questions with a “We’re expecting someone.”

As they entered, her first glance rested on a mirror, and in that mirror she saw Fred’s face. He was glancing up over the paper, which he held in both hands. His eyes, which were big and candid and of a deep luminous blue, looked a greeting at her. From his glance, from his firm bright face issued a current of repose and security.

How good that he was here! How good that he was here!

Presently she saw his broad shoulders and fair head in front of the mirror.

Gwen began to giggle and nudge Myra. She made a motion as if she intended to rush over and frighten him by a slap on the shoulder. But Myra held her arm tightly.

“He has seen us,” she said softly, “just walk past as if you didn’t notice him.”

Myra heard his chair scrape behind them and his quick, long stride.

They greeted one another with complete astonishment. Fred looked for a larger table—he had purposely seated himself at a small one—and ordered the waiter to bring over his things.

Carefully he selected a small supper and a good wine.

“Afterwards, we will have champagne,” he said when the waiter was out of ear-shot. “Of course,” with a hunch of his shoulders, “I will happen on the idea when he’s here. ‘Really, my dear ladies, we must celebrate this meeting with champagne!’ Doesn’t that sound quite credible?”

“Very,” Myra agreed with a laugh.

“Good heavens, the bag!” Gwen put her hand to her open mouth in terror, glancing from one to the other with her big frightened child’s eyes. “Fred, you must take your bag out of our room! What will the maid think of us? But don’t get caught, or they’ll have you arrested as a thief! That would be a wonderful joke. Watch, I’ll give you the key without anyone’s noticing.”

She rummaged in her purse, which she held under the table on her lap, drew out the key, squeezing it tight in her effort to hide it in her little hand, and thrust her clenched fist under the table.

Fred took the key from her, and slipping it into his trousers pocket, leaned back laughing in his chair.

“Wonderful!” he said, showing his firm white teeth, “now the whole room has seen you pass me the key without anyone’s noticing you! Well, I don’t mind. I don’t feel that I’m compromised any further. You look pretty enough!”

He said it rather disdainfully, with a mocking twitch at the corner of his mouth. But his lowered eyes ran over Gwen with a glance in which there was something intimately appraising, and at the same time, burning and absorbing.

“What am I doing here?” thought Myra with a sudden pang. “Why must I be the witness of their affection? Simply because they want to guard their reputation? Ridiculous. They have certainly been alone together a hundred times before. They can’t be afraid that something will happen that has never happened yet. These two people know one another completely and without reserves. I’ve been aware of it for months. How could I have forgotten it again? What am I doing here?”

Fred filled his glass.

“To good honest comradeship!” he said.

“I’ll drink to that!” Myra raised her glass.

Fred tried to meet her glance with serious, candid eyes. “You’re a born comrade,” he said sincerely. “Loyal, clever, reticent and daring. You know, we often visualize people in another age, with different lives, in other rôles, so to speak. When I visualize you, it is always a thousand years ago, in the days of the knights and minnesingers. Then I see you in an esquire’s costume, following your chosen loved one. There are such figures in the old songs and sagas, and even in my boyhood they always stirred my emotion and admiration. A heroic maiden, without personal ambition, but all for love, enduring all hardships, sharing all doughty deeds, chided and praised, but never receiving the wages of passion until some time in the tumult of battle she receives a blow or a thrust, and the knight himself carries his faithful esquire into the tent in his arms. Then as he peels off the boy’s doublet a woman’s body lies exposed.”

“Don’t you think he has talent?” teased Gwen. “He should run more with poets. And what am I? Utter yourself, Mr. Wietinghoff, in what rôle do you prefer to visualize me?”

“You are an unmistakable child of the twentieth century,” said Fred scornfully, “silly and precocious, spoiled and childish, fond of dress and arrogant....”

Gwen stamped her feet on the floor and opened her mouth for an unmannerly outcry, but Fred hastened to pacify her.

“But sweet,” he said hastily, “quite charming into the bargain, irresistible, enthralling, entrancing, enchanting!”

“It seems so,” laughed Gwen. “How did I ever enchant you that you’re so frightfully silly? Drink, children, I find the wine glorious and life a wonderfully beautiful affair.”