Margit Kaffka

The two youths watched the dawn reddening the cold, steely surface of the waters; they had beheld the faintly budding trees on the islands, the heavily laden barges gliding by and the wherries gently resting on the spring-time flood. Their smooth young faces had grown ruddy in climbing the hilly street of the small summer resort, and now they stood panting at the green trellis-gate.

Theresa came hurrying towards them through the small garden - gentle, cheerful Theresa, embodiment of the kindly spirit of a peaceful home. The keys jingled in her hand as she greeted them with the reserved joy of deep affection:

"So here they are, the young masters from Budapest!"

She pretended to recognize the other one, the guest as well, of whose coming she knew already. She fluttered around them, touching her young master's shoulder fleetingly with trembling finger-tips, then went a few steps ahead, only to turn back again.

"Shall I wake the mistress now?" she inquired, waiting anxiously and hesitatingly for a "no."

"By no means!" Paul reassured her. "Mother is only expecting us in the evening, isn't she? We'll surprise her. Now, lay the breakfast table for three, please, and just give us something to drink. But don't tell her, Theresa, before she comes out of her room. Come on, Francis, we'll make ourselves at home in the meantime. By the way, Theresa, this is Master Francis. Are you still heating?"

The tiles of the stove in the glass-covered veranda serving as dining-room were lukewarm and the feebly glowing embers had spread a pleasant warmth through the room, for which one was grateful, since this was the week before Easter and the mornings were still fresh and cool. Through the glass-wall giving to the east a flood of brilliant white sunshine poured in, lighting up the silver and the cups which Theresa had set on the breakfast table in well-mannered silence. Paul was at home here - he walked hither and thither with a smile, pulling a rush arm-chair to the fire, pouring and offering a drink to his friend.

"French brandy - it isn't bad, is it? And the cakes are crisp. Theresa is in fine fettle today. She is a real treasure, our Theresa. She has been with us for more than fifteen years. But, you know, a bit of an old maid at times - a little crotchety."

With a student's impetuosity he talked easily and unrestrainedly of everyday matters, of unimportant things. His pleasant boyish face reflected eagerness and tender solicitude. The guest was more reticent, but keenly and seriously attentive.

"One more," Paul urged. "Let's drink to the success of your essay. By the by, what happened to it? Did you hand it in?"

"The assistant promised to call the old man's attention to it. I don't pin many hopes on it!"

"If the venerable gentleman only recognized in you his eventual successor at the faculty of historical-philosophy!"

Paul uttered these childish words in open-hearted sincerity. They were both of them nineteen, having just matriculated with honours, and their satchels, like those of all prize pupils, were chock-full of the anticipated finery of brilliant achievements, a finery destined, in the course of time, to lose its glitter, to fade and decay until nothing remained but the dreary, shabby uniform of daily existence... But now they were nineteen...

"Come along," Paul said to his friend, "let's have a look around the house. On tiptoes, please! There are only three rooms besides this one - mother's sitting-room, her bedroom, and my own. We will sleep in mine, your bag is there already. Now, let's change our collars, shall we? They got rather sooty on the ship."

Again he was mothering the plebeian lad, telling him how to dress, his own handsome, pleasant face beaming with sympathy and affection while his well-bred manners, acquired by long training, took the edge off his words. Obediently, but with a smile that was, perhaps, a little wry, Francis washed his hands and then gave his clothes a good brushing.

"One can see, Paul, that you grew up at your mother's side," he remarked later, sunk in thought.

They went into the sitting-room of the lady of the house, amid its bronze and reseda-green wallpaper, where one could perceive the light but significant fragrance of a perfume lingering in the matutinal semi-darkness behind the drawn lace curtains. Paul, on entering the room, stopped for a moment.

"How beautiful!" sighed his friend involuntarily.

"Isn't it?" smiled Paul, "I too love this room, it is so real, so much like its owner. Everything in it is so very much mother!"

With tender emotion, he nodded towards the bedroom, speaking in a hushed voice, so as not to disturb his mother's sleep, and seeming rather to address the furniture and other well-remembered objects.

"Look, this is the table on which she writes her letters. The writing-tables of other women are narrow, towering affairs, encumbered with stupid knick-knacks. This one is not very big, but smooth and capacious, with its polished glasstop and rounded corners. It is beautifully shaped and somehow tranquil, don't you think so? The whole room, indeed, has a tranquil effect, doesn't it? This large carpet is only imitation Persian, but it is in good taste. I am familiar with all the odds and ends in here, and I know how mother longed for them and dreamed of them for years, saving up for a long time, until at last she would discover just what she wanted in some window-display at an antique dealer's or in a second-hand shop. There's nothing that's silly and useless in here - with the one exception of this silver-plated baby-shoe: it was mine, when I was a year old. Look, how the heel is worn down."

The other lad looked at everything, quietly, without a word and moved despite himself. A strange sense of well-being pervaded him here in this room. His eyes - accustomed to crocheted tidies, plush-bound albums and fretwork boxes - were not irritated here by any arrogant display of riches or the cold, reserved massiveness of built-in furniture, which always made him sad and hostile in very elegant rooms. Here everything looked natural, light - yet meaningful - and agreeably moderate. Cushions of plain-coloured smooth silk, and old brocade, a Japanese lampshade - discreetly gay - some unglazed clay figurines or pen-and-ink drawings in simple frames - the boy did not take in all these things one by one, but he had a comprehensive sense of the intimacy, the gentle harmony and the underlying, almost painful fascination emanating from this room. He thought it was the strange fragrance of the perfume that had dazzled him and rendered him pensive.

"I never knew my mother," he said overcome with an almost childlike emotion, of which he was ashamed the next moment.

"Not all mothers are like," replied Paul seriously, turning the pages of a book. "Most of them are old-fashioned, ignorant, simple-minded and forever complaining - we cannot do otherwise than love them and deceive them. Mum is quite different! She is the most clever human being on earth and a real, good friend. You can't imagine the things one can discuss with her quite freely! She is not shocked by anything, she takes everything in the right spirit."

"Is this your father?"

Hanging above the writing-table was a small patinotype portrait of a lean and elegant man in uniform, lounging in a rocking-chair; his keen, eloquent and tense face with its peculiarly animated eyes seemed to lean out of the frame.

"My father? Oh, no, dad's picture is in my room. He died young, less than a year after his marriage. This is Baron Wellingen, a German naval officer, who died last year, poor man. He was a very good friend of mother's."

Gravely, somewhat eagerly, Paul went on turning the pages of the book, but the other youth did not look his way. Francis was pondering about something else. His friend - he thought - though of the same age, had already grown into a man, leaving him, Francis, behind in more than one respect. Women, for instance - and a lot of other things. Paul had a quick and ready wit, a directness that helped him to become well versed in various spheres of life which he himself contemplated thinking about more seriously at some later date. Francis, up to now, had been absorbed in the struggle for good marks, scholarships, advancement; everything had been achieved with so much difficulty...

"Ah, mum is up!" exclaimed Paul and putting his book down, quickly rushed out. Through the open door the merry ringing of laughter and rejoicing could be heard on the veranda. The first embrace was over by the time Francis joined Paul and his mother, and introduced himself.

"Welcome, Mr. Farkas, that is, Francis - if I may call you so. We were expecting you already for Christmas. Paul does not like anybody as much as you and there is nobody he thinks so highly of! You are just the same age, aren't you? Now, wait, let me see you together, side by side."

She smiled. Her son, she noted, was more neatly turned out, his face more attractive, his body more vigorous. Then she looked again at the young stranger, at his somewhat sallow, longish face, thin lips and large, hazel eyes. Apart from those canny Hungarian peasant eyes, warm and a little clouded, there was nothing attractive about him.

They sat down to breakfast, enveloped by the aroma of freshly made coffee, and talked about trifles as is usual in getting acquainted. Only now was Francis able to observe his friend's mother surreptitiously, yet more leisurely. He was surprised. Paul had indeed told him once that she was only thirty-seven, but she looked even younger. Was this on account of her well-preserved dainty figure or of the light-grey dressing-gown, profusely adorned with white lace, which she gracefully drew over her slender white arm as she reached for the milk? But her face too, with its tranquil, oval profile and ivory complexion, was of the kind that withers late; it was crowned with thick, dark-brown hair which clung to the regular forehead in soft, abundant waves. The sun threw a wide band of bright yellow across the table and over the woman's shoulder. Paul lifted her hand caressingly to his lips. And again the same unfamiliar reflection crossed Francis' mind: how good it was to be here, in this bright, clean place, with the lukewarm, white stove, the flowerpots on the window-sill, the Japanese cups, the smiling woman bending her lace-covered shoulders over the table; all this, no doubt, belonged to the good things of life which he yet had to struggle for, which some day he had to win for himself.

The cup in his hand clicked slightly; he put it down, somewhat clumsily, and looked around in alarm. Nothing happened. Paul, wreathed in smiles, was softly explaining something and the maid was closing the door without a sound. How strange, how novel all his impressions were - yet nothing was really happening here. An ordinary morning, a spring-day morning - the escape from work, worry and fatigue - the fresh wind of dawn, the pleasant smell of the wide river, the hooting of the ships, the quick, panting climb up the short slope with its light-green patches of sprouting grass - that was all! And now there would be the holidays and repose, the bright and neat little house, pleasant words, and a smile, a woman's smile, radiating kindness. In the course of a few seconds, a host of dreams and emotions swarmed through his being: simple, clean, stirring, they told him of a life still before him, brimful of good things within the reach of clever, confident and struggling young man who could afford to await his turn with patient obstinacy. Wordly ease, repose, good taste and, yes, a house and a woman - he had hardly ever thought of these up to now.

The lady of the house raised her eyes to him fleetingly and mutely, thinking perhaps of nothing, or maybe far away in her thoughts; he felt confused, but returned her look nevertheless. The woman's eyes, bedded in deep shadows, were grey, iridescent, and seemed to live a life of their own, independent of her face, and almost in disharmony with it. An unfamiliar, naive compassion flared up in the boy's heart - altogether virginal and unconscious - of the kind that is apt to arise in our hearts when we are faced with the mystery and sadness of beauty.

They spent the morning exploring the bookcase in Paul's room. It was already eleven by the time the lady of the house joined them; she carried a key in her hand and brought them ham and rolls, and some new books. They chatted. She kept looking at her son, as if disturbed by a hidden misgiving, while she inquired about the other youth's problems, about his studies, ambitions, finances; she did this with infinite tact and with a goodness of heart that tended to veer around delicate questions. Smilingly she averted the thanks which he lad was about to utter for her kindness in having helped him, at that time still a stranger, by securing him a scholarship.

After all, he was Paul's friend, she reminded him, and nobody else had such a good influence on her son! Through prudent, nonchalant questioning she sought to find out whether the two room-mates were leading an orderly life in town, whether they were taking care of each other and of their health? Paul was still quite a child sometimes, wasn't he? She quoted Francis' opinions, his very words, on various subjects, revealing that she knew everything. The young man realized with astonishment that the intimacy between the two friends had always been shared by a third person: Paul had a second confidant in his mother. She was no stranger to any of their favourite ideas, their casual theories, the alluring discoveries of two thinking and enthusiastic minds - she had a part in all of them. Was there perhaps a shade of the tutor's tender guidance in her, or maybe was it merely the devotion of a mother, learning the alphabet herself so as to keep step with her child? Francis mused as he watched her. She seemed enthusiastically attracted by the latest trends, which at times were decidedly revolutionary, her taste was that of the young generation, her sympathies belonged to the seekers, to youth breaking with authority. But, in her, all that appeared to be imbued with more intelligence and purpose, with a noble forgiveness or with the superior melancholy of those who had already travelled along these paths, who had already drawn for themselves the conclusion flowing from their life and its successes, and who now conceded the same right to those coming after them. There was no trace of affectedness in her words, which, rather, had a natural charm that was entirely hers.

"Wonderful, wonderful," the boy mused. "And to think that she is a woman, that a woman - somebody's mother can also be like this!" And he thought of his female relatives, the shrewish wives of artisans or, at best, the stunted wives of impecunious clerks.

Paul read a few of his poems to his mother. They were newfangled verses, written in the curiously rough and unmelodious style of the young revolutionaries, who in giving daring, rustically unpolished expression to their ideas, often threw an unexpected light on their subject. "Poems worthy of our best contemporaries. Lyrics of stupefaction!" - somebody had once called them sarcastically.

The mother listened with grave attention.

"You see," she turned to Francis later on," we really could get them published already. The poems are good, don't you agree, and we have acquaintances working on leading papers. But still, I would like to wait. Paul is going abroad in two years, after he has finished his law studies, and I would like him to be free and unhampered then. Maybe he will only laugh at his own rhymes by the time he returns and will want to draw up a political programme instead. Or perhaps he will bring back something quite his own and from the depth of his soul he will write what nobody has ever written before him. Something divinely simple, for instance."

"I also believe," said Francis, "that it is better to come before the public at one go and only when one is complete."

The woman continued to observe her son. She had spoken just now in a tone that was almost insistent. Paul kept quiet and somewhat annoyed, put his poems aside. His mother went on returning to the same subject, to the planned journey, the towns where he would stay during that year, so that he might traverse the whole of Europe at leisure and unencumbered by schedules, looking at everything with an open mind, and finally return to the place dearest to his heart. One could see that this was a favourite idea of hers, and that she expected much of it, hoping it would transform her son into a new, a mature man. She was not too well off, Francis knew, and he found it strange that Paul made no reply.

"How she loves him," Francis thought, his heart going out to her. "Does he always deserve it? Deserve such a mother!" he added fervently.

Outside, the postman came by with a letter for Paul, and Theresa announced that lunch was served. Paul opened the letter and after reading it, thrust it in his pocket with a serious mien, evidently moved. Nobody asked any questions and there was silence for a minute.

The lady of the house paid special attention to her guest during lunch and asked him sundry questions with polite courtesy. She seemed to be seriously interested in everything the young man had to say. An animated conversation soon developed. Her quiet, unusual objections prompted Francis to respond; he grew increasingly excited, becoming almost eloquent like all students of his type whenever they talk of their studies. He drew pedantic parallels, which he himself had discovered and developed, and which constituted his favourite preoccupation up to now. The woman smiled, then suddenly looked into his face, and her large, sad, iridescent eyes held him prisoner for an instant. "How aimless all this is, how vain and petty!" her gentle glance seemed to tell him. And the young man was taken aback. For, now and then, a similar misgiving had dawned upon him, a suspicion that all those lifeless words, these stubborn, superficial theories were drying up at their roots and that soon, quietly and unbidden, life itself would reveal to him - he knew not what, something new, radiant with beauty and throbbingly alive. These intuitions were born of the momentary intellectual crisis of his nineteen years. The woman smiled.

In the meantime Theresa punctiliously and sedately changed the plates and served the next course, while Paul studied his plate in meditative silence.

"I shall withdraw for half an hour's rest," said the woman rising first from the table at the end of the meal. "You could go for a walk, meanwhile, through the village, towards the woods."

She scrutinized them, had their coats brushed, and undid and reknotted Francis' tie in mock consternation, her white, slender fingers fussing over this task with motherly care. She seemed surprised when she noticed the sudden blushing of the young face. "It is all right now!" she hastily remarked, touched his shoulder gently, and sent them on their way.

The trees were sprayed over with the pale-green enamel of opening buds, and the sun threw moistly glittering patches amid the sparse trunks. One could feel the first, bitter-sweet manifestations of recrudescent life in this calm afternoon; one could hear the whispered murmur of the brooklets trickling at the bottom of the ravines.

The two youths parted now and again, by mute agreement treading their separate ways through the rustling dry leaves of the past autumn, only to come together again shortly; erratically they stopped and went on and then stopped again full of vague, new emotions in this dreamy mildness of early spring.

Francis tried to think of Paul - of their friendship, the strongest, purest, most sincere and most carefully tended emotion of his adolescence. They were, both of them, drawn towards an idealized concept of "goodness," they were inclined to take things seriously, and to revere their own idols - the one because of his upbringing, and the other, because of the undifferentiated simplicity, the healthy normality, the humility of his peasant nature. Francis' life had always been difficult and dreary. He had lived, as a small child, in the household of his bachelor uncle, a master carpenter; from there he had been sent to an orphanage, where his alertness had been noticed and it had been decided to give him an education. For a long time now he had been earning his own living by giving private lessons and copying maps. He had met Paul already during their secondary school years, but saw his friend's home and mother for the first time today. Their home struck him as the embodiment of refined gentility. Now he thought he understood everything in his friend who had attracted him by the force of contrast; his good manners, his confidence, the sincerity and charm of his spirit. Paul had grown up here, in this orderliness and tranquillity, amid tender and quiet words, where each person insensibly observed and respected the other's spiritual life and where even the servant's moods were taken account of. "Such women," he thought quite simply, "are born to spread tranquillity around them and to offer refuge to others. But besides, there is in her some indescribable and unique value." Of a sudden he saw her eyes and her soft white hands before him. He sought to identify the strangely deep and exalted impulses which had taken hold of his unspoilt, young nature in a few short hours. Was it gratitude to Paul's mother, or homage, perhaps because she seemed to him the model of feminine perfection? He stood still blushing profusely; he felt the blood rushing to his face and forehead, took a deep breath and waited for his friend, who now and again whistled to him.

Paul caught up with him, and laying his arm tenderly around Francis' shoulders, said with a smile:

"I was just thinking, how good it is to have you here with us, right now, old fellow. Haven't you noticed that there is something in the air? I want to talk to mother today."

The other stared at him.

"Well, you know, it's about Miriam. She wrote today. This has to be settled at last. I believe it won't be difficult. What do you think?"

They were silent. Their tender, roaming dreams had ended. Paul was gravely watching his friend's face. Something new had come between them - the girl, an element of disharmony. A solution had to be found. Would it be easy? At this moment, Francis looked coolly at the whole affair as something strange, violent, immature and irresponsible. This girl, whom his friend called Miriam...

Francis knew her. They had met her in the small provincial town where they had passed their secondary-school years. She was the orphaned daughter of a grocer. Together with her older sister, who did some sewing on the side, she kept the corner shop at the upper end of the sloping row of houses near the cemetery. Francis recreated her in his imagination - the wellnigh provocative radiance of her youthful beauty; the tousled head of a gifted schoolgirl, the awkward little shoes, the well-made, boldly fashionable clothes of inexpensive material clinging to her slender figure; the charmingly hoydenish arrogance of her respectability. Again he saw before him, in its entirety, that proud eccentric little creature, revolutionary, happy-go-lucky, astute. And he recalled the almost grossly demonstrative candour of the love that had sprung up between his friend and this girl, under the auspices of Tacitus and the new sociologists, amid the envious jealousy or protective sympathy of the student body of the two secondary schools. Miriam - otherwise Mary Braun - was exceptionally beautiful and by no means trivial, Francis thought, but still...

Paul took his arm, forcing him to keep pace with him in slow, measured steps, and began to talk to him quietly and persuasively, in his light, expansive and expressive manner.

"Now that you know my mother, you are afraid of the whole thing, you must admit! But I think you are mistaken. First of all, you know what Miriam is like. Or, rather, you don't know! If you could only read her letters! You cannot imagine a spirit more charming, more original, more precious. And she is so willing to learn and even to improve her appearance. She is full of natural refinement, don't you agree?"

"Yes, undoubtedly."

"And you really misjudge mamma, I think, I want to tell you something about her."

Francis felt as if something had hit him, as if somebody wanted to hurt him. He tried to hide his passionate interest. Paul was grave and apparently in a communicative mood.

"My mother," he began, "loved a German marine officer for many years, ever since she became a widow - his name was Baron Wellingen. You have seen his portrait in the sitting-room. They met somewhere while travelling, I have never known anyone like him. He was in active service and perhaps marriage would have harmed his career, or maybe mum did not want to move so far away on account of me, or possibly there was something else - I believe they rarely talked about the reasons - they just knew it was better and more beautiful like that. It was a wonderful love and remained completely untroubled for a long time. They spent a month together every year in Grado, or in some other small seaside resort, mostly in May. My holidays always came later." He broke off a budding twig, nibbled at it, then swished it through the air.

"Once," he continued, tenderly smiling, "it was when I was in the seventh form, and we were discussing drama in the Hungarian literature class. I was a real teen-ager, with all sorts of ideas in my head, and something flared up in my heart. I saw myself as a man, destined to protect the integrity of my name, a Telemachus, Penelope's son, or somebody like him. Well, I decided after my examination to talk to mama. I began with some stupid allusion - it was a disgraceful act I can never forgive myself. If you could only have seen her then, the calm, rational, sad irony with which she answered and the curt and haughty way - such as I had never yet experienced - in which she put an end to the whole thing. I could not repeat the whole scene to you now, but I learned a lot from it. I don't know whether you understand what I am trying to say."

The other nodded mutely.

"You know, of course, Francis, that from the moment I was born, I took up the whole life of another human being, my mother. When I was small, she used to dress me herself, she bathed me of an evening, and lying down in her clothes beside me on my small bed, she would whisper tales to me and sing me to sleep. One grows selfish so easily when one is loved. I thought I was all in all to her, that she had no life, no desires or rights apart from myself. She never failed me in anything, a kind word or the gilded nuts at Christmas-time. I thought myself entitled to demand that, for my sake, she should not live a life of her own. Now I know better."

"Even later mother never talked much of these things, but she gave me books on the relationship of man and woman, books on future society and man's anarchic independence. Of course, old fellow, I know that not all books contain the gospel truth. But the following summer I became acquainted with Uncle Wellingen - you remember, I wrote you from Pola at the time. I spent the last week together with them, and he was the only man, besides you, of whom I've grown very fond. And he had a great influence over me - if you only knew what an exceptionally admirable man he was, the only man in the whole world made for mother."

"Is he dead?" asked Francis curtly.

"He died a year and a half ago. Yes, there were sad things to follow. A hidden hereditary insanity developed very gradually in his marvellous brain - I learned only later that mama had known about it years before. Both of them had known it. They had been expecting it, studying its pathology and hiding this knowledge from each other. Oh, it must have been dreadful. Mother loved him dearly. Even now it is almost unbearable to recall how, in the meantime, she wrote letters to my professors, discussed my new suit with the tailor, and studied Virgil with me during my holidays. Once the baron came here for a day, he seemed rather strange already. His family was at the time trying to force him to marry a niece, a thirty-two-year-old baroness, whom they wanted him to wed because of some complications in connection with an inheritance. Then during the last autumn came the news of the engagement, altogether unexpectedly, and two weeks later he had a fit aboard his ship. Mother received his last letter together with this news. He died the following spring in a sanatorium."

The youngsters had reached soft ground which dampened the sound of their steps. Dusk was spreading among the slender tree trunks. They came to a thin hazel grove, and from there turned silently homewards along the grey ruins of the ancient castle walls. Paul was wondering what had made him relate this story.

"Yes," he resumed, "you see, I learned at that time that one has to experience certain things oneself, good things and bad things, independently even from those nearest to one. Mother has since remained the same towards me as before; never has she neglected me, we spent the next summer together in Switzerland and it was a wonderful time for me. As I became more mature, she talked to me as a father or a doctor would. Given the present social structure, she knew that I could not remain inexperienced, nor did she want me to, but at any rate she did succeed in preserving my good humour and my health. She kept her suffering to herself and I never even asked her about it. But I know from all that has happened that she desires to treat me and that she will treat me in just the same way when faced with my problems."

"Do you want to marry that girl?" asked Francis, a shade of hidden irritation in his voice.

"Of course," replied his friend, looking at him candidly. "How could I do otherwise? We would encounter too many difficulties, were we to go in for free love - and besides, we intend to have children. Mama must see to it that I get exempted from military service. Miriam finishes school this year. You know, don't you, that next year she is going to study at the university. We shall attend courses together, as man and wife, and the two of us will study together. That will be splendid, don't you think so? The three of us, I mean! You, of course, will be the third!" he added with a laugh, misinterpreting his friend's silence. "I am convinced, you see, that mother will also regard this as an ideal solution. That two healthy and intelligent people should be united while they are still young and unspoilt in soul and body. That they should be able to follow and control each other continuously in their mental development and remain always the same for one another. I have known this girl for two years, and I could never love anybody else as I love her."

Twilight was spreading over the fields already and the lights in the windows were blinking at the two young men. Francis made no reply, he quickened his pace and holding his walking stick in the middle, twirled it around absent-mindedly with his strong fingers. Many thoughts occupied his mind, but he did not know which one to concentrate on, how to cope with the many new impressions besetting him so suddenly. He was less experienced in wordly matters, but more moderate and positive than his friend, and he had the feeling that something was wrong somewhere. All his knowledge so far had come from books, and he had adopted the views of an ancient philosopher about "women"; he had only the vaguest notions concerning the current social forms of the relationship between men and women. And here was his friend seriously talking of revolution and future social institutions. And - of all the childish nonsense - Paul wanted to get married according to Forel's or someone else's prescriptions, naively, of silly, stubborn sentimentality, to marry his first love. Francis had never taken the whole affair seriously, and now he was tempted to laugh impatiently and with a trace of hostility, as Paul talked of his private affairs, of his human problems. No, this was just playing at being grown-up. Why, they were still mere children, both of them!

Then he remembered that Paul had been brought up like this by his mother, in a world of ideal abstractions, amidst theories and without conventions. She had backed up his friendship with Francis, the son of an artisan, because she had believed the latter to be the best amongst his class-mates. She it was that had inculcated in her son an aversion to vulgar substitutes for love and a compassionate sympathy, amounting to self-accusation for the poor girls who were society's outcasts, instead of the burlesque joking and obscene familiarity so common in others. Why had she given him rebellious books to read? Now, this was the result. How many contradictions, how much confusion!

"And what of your mother's plans for you?" Francis inquired pensively.

"Good God, she wants me to be happy, doesn't she? Life is long and I have time for many things along its way, and I don't need a better companion than Miriam. Mama cannot be prejudiced on this score."

The other kept his peace. All of a sudden he recalled the lady of the house, her profoundly revealing beauty, her curious eyes, the peculiar intelligence of her simple, harmonious movements, the magic spell cast by her whole being, the flounces of her light fragrant dress - all the things he admired and worshipped in her, with a devotion that made him tremble and sigh and roused in him the sweet desire to weep... Yes, and her own history - the tale he had just heard... Such, then, was love, the tragic, sacred love of mature human beings. Love replete with a sadness and loneliness which even now - he divined - was hovering in the fragrance of the reseda-green room. And he was nearly revolted at the thought that this woman should now receive Miriam, a small, suburban grocer's daughter as her own daughter-in-law, take this girl into the calm, spiritual, withdrawn life that was hers, into this tranquil home. Why should she make this sacrifice, why?

Paul looked at his friend searchingly. He knew the other's thoughts even when he kept silent.

"I hope," he remarked dejectedly, "I hope you won't take sides against me in this matter."

"I won't."

Ahead of them, the bronze-yellow shade of the hanging lamp threw wide, warm-coloured stripes of light on to the steps of the terrace.

"How well they suit each other," exclaimed Paul, "Grieg's music and my mother!"

He sat down beside his friend on the sitting-room sofa and lit a cigarette. They inhaled the fragrance of the tea steaming in front of them on a small table. The lady of the house was opposite them, at the piano.

She was playing Aase's Death. She played with skill and with refined simplicity, and she put her whole personality into her playing - that is what a connoisseur would have said. But the young guest was not an expert. And in these minutes, the turbulent presentient nerves of this semi-barbarian felt far more than this: the music itself, the inexpressible, the mighty, chill, satisfying waves of life, desire and action - and all the bleeding, dreamy mystery on which the arrogance of the northern soul trampled so stubbornly and boastfully, so desperately. And from the depths of all the horrors and agonies, the madness and death, there emerged, gently and softly, as an ever reviving, tender and eternal accompaniment like the dew-fall of relenting tears, the melody, the world of fairy-tales and of beauty.

"Wonderful!" he thought. "How clear this language is, the language of tones!"

For the first time in his existence he let it penetrate his soul. Life had suddenly revealed a new value. He stared in front of him, spellbound, his hands cupped over his knees, and forced himself to think. But why? Why think just now?

As if he had cast off a hard, lifeless crust, under which life was stirring painfully ardent, colourful and poignant. Would it always be like this from now on?

"Why is mother playing this particular piece?" Paul asked, speaking mainly to himself and fingering the frills of a silk cushion.

She was sitting with her head slightly thrown back, and her girlishly slim, well-shaped shoulders swaying to the rhythm of the music. The pale rays of the two candles seemed to pass through her, imparting to her figure a translucent quality and sharply etching her against the dark background of the wall. Now and then, her curious eyes - at once radiant and veiled - looked at the two friends from under half-closed lids, circled by shadowy rings: the wonderful, wise, strong eyes of a wounded deer. Mysterious eyes, eyes that hurt. At which of the two was she looking? The music had transformed her face, she seemed a different person, released and disturbing.

"How beautiful mother is today!" exclaimed Paul under his breath.

At which one of them was she looking? Francis unconsciously folded his hands in his lap, as if in prayer. He bent forward looking at her, intently, and sharp, painful, happy sparks shot through him. He knew beyond doubt now that something new had entered his life, had stolen up to him on soft noiseless feet, had slipped triumphantly and in deep earnest into his rational, simple and humble life. He was in love! What was to become of him? And yet, was this not the very essence, the quick of life? To fall on his knees before her, to die for her, how incredibly sweet it would be! Dully, metallically struck the hour: it might have been ten. There was a portrait on the wall above the clock - a vivacious masculine face, tense, attractive and restless, was leaning out of the frame. This was the man, the only one who had suited her, and everything was already fulfilled. Once more the piano brought together the gloomy, appeased motives of the ballad of death, the woman's cheeks were slightly flushed, perhaps from the physical exertion. A wild desire to cry surged higher and higher in the youth's breast, carrying on its waves all the stifled, burning emotions of childhood. What should he do, what could he do? Would it always be like this from now on? At the last chords, the woman turned her head. She smiled, a quick, warm and sad smile. Was it meant for him? It was the smile of forgiveness.

"I am going to stay with mummy for a while," said Paul, as Francis was about to take his leave.

Francis got up. For a minute he was afraid and exultant at the thought that in an instant he would be holding her hand. Then this was over too. He went to his friend's room by himself, shaken and excited; it had all come so suddenly. He buried his head in the pillows, thinking he would cry, and he was glad to be alone. Yet he merely gave a series of deep, gasping sighs, whereupon he rose again and undressed with slow, meticulous movements in dreamy happiness. Then he turned towards the wall and fell into a sweet slumber at once.

His dream was virginal and filled with happy excitement. He saw her sitting on a riverbank in regal mourning dress, her lovely hands in heavy iron fetters. At the sight of these fetters a shudder shook his body, such as he had never experienced before. He hurried to her rescue on a speedy, clattering little ship, coming nearer with every moment, but she did not stretch her lovely, chained hands towards him. She set there mute and pale, looking at him through half-closed eyelids.

Perhaps she was smiling.

He woke up with a start, his eyes wide open and already he was ashamed of his dream. Ashamed of having dreamt of a strange woman. If her son knew it! He started to turn around, and saw Paul in front of him.

Paul had his coat and hat on.

"Where are you going?" Francis asked, half frightened, and sat up in bed.

Paul shrugged his shoulders and sat down at the edge of the bed. He was nervous, his lips were trembling, as if he were close to crying.

"What is the matter? Where are you off to?"

"For the time being," Paul laughed curtly, "to a most suitable place. They have fresh personnel at the 'Bolero.' You too will come to town with me, won't you?"

"Now? Are you mad? What are you talking about? What would your mother say?"

"Why, old boy, that's just what she wants me to do, it seems. And keep this in mind: no woman is worth more than another, they're all alike! Well, enough of that! Now I shall take life by the horns! Wein, Weib und Gesang - let come what may. Some day you'll find me in the morgue or at the police-station, since mother expects me to make a career for myself."

He turned on his heels and went off whistling and with much banging of doors. His excitement and bitterness drove him to sullen excess and he was quite beside himself. "At moments like this, he is capable of anything," thought Francis, as he looked after his friend with sleep-laden eyes. He did not yet understand the whole situation, but reached for his suit instinctively. As he dressed, he heard doors softly opening, hushed steps and whispering outside. He met Paul's mother on the veranda.

Theresa had just left the room, shutting the door from the outside, and the lady of the house was walking up and down. When she caught sight of him, she stopped short, leaned against the stove and waited for him.

"Poor boy," she said, "we startled you!"

She tried to smile and talked as if there were only some small disorder in the household. But her voice and her whole body trembled with agitation. She was very pale, and there were traces of tears under the dark, lovely eyes. The youth looked into her face and in an instant took her part with the undivided partiality of his passionate heart, with the unrequited devotion of the faithful. He was close to hating his friend for having caused her pain with that insipid, artificial, freakish and immature love-affair of his and his childishly eccentric view of life; and he extended his hostility to the girl, the artful little bluestocking, who was probably full of ambition and designs. Francis felt capable of sacrificing every cause in the whole wide world, and his own young body and soul as well, if only he could save this woman a single tear.

"He has left, hasn't he?" she asked with sweet intimacy, making no attempt to cloak her worry.

The boy nodded silently, his heart filled with bitterness against his friend. Paul was now wandering far away through the spring night, poetically and foolishly pleasing himself in the role of an outcast, all in the name of truth, that selfish and wicked truth of his. Francis, although he had never known his parents, now understood, from the depths of his soul, the tragic conflict between the generations: the inevitable day, when parents and children ceased to understand each other, and the sacrifices and worries, the labour and self-denial of a lifetime were all in vain. What a waste of treasures, what useless expenditure of goodness! For whom?

They were standing opposite each other - the woman's supple figure leaning against the lukewarm tiles of the stove. Through a half-open window the cool night wafted the scent of the distant, damp, upturned fields. Neither of them spoke.

"If I could only be her son!" thought the youngster, frightened, as if the very wish might insult her. And already he began to hate this timid, pious idea. With fevered daring he turned on the portrait of the dead stranger. What was he to her? A fierce, bitter humiliation overcame him. His throat turned dry and burning, he almost choked, the silence was becoming intolerable, when suddenly he saw her closing her eyes slowly.

"What can I do?" he broke out, almost groaning. "Is there anything I can do?"

The woman opened her eyes and looked at him. At first she pressed her lips together and blushed a little. She must have noticed. His anguished, devout face, naive and wistful at once, the great, dumb passion burning in the fine clouded, dark brown eyes, the shaking of the lean, bony shoulders, the trembling excitement and the vain effort to hide his emotion. She saw it all and she could not but understand that this was genuine love, the mature love of a man, silent, serious and determined; love without explanation, rhyme or reason. Beside her stood a man ready to offer her his whole being at the very moment when everything she had lived for was about to leave her. Once more, for the last time - love, youth. Was it of this that she was thinking?

"What can I do? I would do anything!" the boy kept on repeating stubbornly, without meaning - because he was in need of words that said nothing. Then a sigh escaped, a slight, involuntary sigh - her sigh. Sorrow, perhaps it was more then sorrow, lay in her humid eyes; her warm glance was charged with smouldering mysteries, with dreamily lurking dangers. She held out her right hand, gently and lithely nestling it softly into the rough palm of the hard, brown hand, compliantly, and left it there for a moment. A long moment. And that was all.

She withdrew her hand and let it drop. A minute passed, and nothing happened. Already she looked straight into his eyes, earnestly, with friendly, melancholy superiority.

"Yes," she said, "if you want to do a good deed, please, go after him! Go and take care of him! He will listen to you. You will do this, won't you?"

The youth bowed mutely. And he took his coat, humbly, miserably, cast out. He was yearning to go out into the fresh air, where he might stop somewhere, and, leaning against a wall, give vent to his tears at last.

1910