Читать книгу The Old Room - Ewald Carl - Страница 5

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Cordt sat in one of the armchairs by the chimney, reading.

He was in evening clothes and held his crush-hat and his gloves on his knees. He turned the pages quickly. Every moment, he swept his thick hair from his forehead; every moment, he looked at Fru Adelheid, who was walking up and down the floor with her hands behind her back.

She was very tall and slender. Her face was as white as her white gown. Her mouth was very red, her eyes looked large and strange. She wore flowers in her hair and at her waist.

“You are not reading, Cordt,” she said; but she passed with her back to him.

He closed the book and laid it aside. Then he moved the chair so as to turn his face towards her. His eyes were larger than hers and steadier, his mouth firmer.

“How beautiful you are!” he said.

She laughed softly and took his hand and kissed it:

“How charming of you!” she said.

She began to walk again. He stretched out his legs and lay with his head back in the chair, but followed her all the time with his eyes. Now and again, she stopped, smoothed her gown, let her fingers stray over the keys of the spinet and then went out on the balcony through the open door. He could not see her from where he was sitting, but the white train of her dress lay inside the room and he looked at that.

Then she returned, sat on the arm of the other chair and swung her foot to and fro.

“I do not like you to be in good spirits, Adelheid,” he said.

Her eyes shone. She looked at the fireplace, where a log lay glowing:

“You should drink a glass of wine, Cordt.”

“I do not care for wine.”

“No more do I. But I like its exhilaration. It makes one so light-hearted. Then everything becomes so charming.”

“Have you been drinking?”

“But, Cordt ... what makes you ask that?”

“Because you are so light-hearted and I so charming.”

She went up to him and laid her cheek against his hair:

“Now don’t spoil it for me,” she said. “You can, with a single word, and that would be a great, great sin. You say I am pretty; and I am glad because you think so and because I am going out with you and because you are handsome and belong to me. We shall be far from each other and close together for all that. We shall nod to each other, as we always do, and know what we know.”

He released himself from her gently:

“Sit down a little,” he said, “and talk to me.”

She kissed him and sat down in the chair and then and there forgot her despondency. Her eyes shone as before. He raked out the embers and threw a log upon them. They sat and watched it catch fire and saw the smoke surround it and rise up. Her foot tapped the carpet; he shaded his eyes with his hand and pursued his thoughts:

“In my first year at the university,” he said, “there were five of us who were chums and we used to meet every Saturday evening. It was generally at my rooms, for I could best afford it. We used to sit and drink wine until bright daylight and then take one another home.”

“You must have drunk a great deal.”

“I don’t know. Perhaps we did. We talked so loud and deep. The wine made us feel bigger, braver and cleverer. Next day, we were quite different, more reserved and cool. But we could look one another boldly in the face, for we had nothing to repent of. It did not matter if we had allowed ourselves to be carried away. We knew one another so well and trusted one another.”

She sat and looked at him as he spoke, but said nothing. Lost in thought, he continued to throw logs on the fire until she took one out of his hand and put it aside:

“You’ll set the house on fire!”

“One should never drink wine with strangers,” he said. “You see, it is so degrading to be stripped bare. And that is just what happens.”

“You say that as if it meant getting drunk.”

He paid no attention to her words, but went on:

“One unbuttons one’s self, one reveals one’s self. Look at your eyes and your smile. I have felt it in my own eyes: hundreds of times, I have suddenly seen them all naked together round the table.”

“In good company, Cordt?”

“Where else?”

“I don’t understand that,” she said.

“I do not know the people whom you speak of.”

“You will be with them this evening, Adelheid.”

She shrugged her shoulders discontentedly and tapped her foot on the carpet.

“Adelheid.”

She looked at him and her eyes were dark and angry. He took her hand and held it fast in his:

“I have seen it in eyes that were looking at you, Adelheid.”

She drew her hand away:

“This is hideous, Cordt!”

She rose and went to the balcony-door. He looked after her and his eyes gleamed:

“Adelheid.”

She stood with her back to him, leaning against the window-frame, and buttoned her gloves. He leant forward and gripped the arms of his chair with his hands:

“I have seen it in your eyes, Adelheid.”

She did not move, uttered not a word. When she had finished buttoning her gloves, she gathered up her train and went out on the balcony.

The May air was cold and she shivered in her thin gown. The lamps shone dimly through the mist; many carriages drove across the square. She could hear the tinkling of the harness-bells in the gateway; the footman was tramping up and down below.

She turned and stood at the window and looked at Cordt. He had moved his chair round towards the fireplace. She could see nothing of him but one shoulder and arm, his thick hair and his legs.

“The carriage is there,” she said.

He rose and went to her.

“You must not be angry with me,” he said, gently. “I am out of sorts.”

“Are you ill?”

“Yes ... perhaps.... No, not that.”

“Well, for all that I care, we can stay at home. You have spoilt my pleasure.”

“Have I?”

“Of course you have. It was for you I made myself look so nice ... it was with you I wanted to go out.”

“Was it?”

He took her hand and drew her to the fire:

“Sit down, Adelheid ... there ... only for a minute. Shall we stay at home to-night ... get some wine ... have a party of our own...?”

“Yes ... you’re in such a festive mood!”

“Now be good, Adelheid. You are my only dissipation.... You know you are ... there have been hundreds of delightful days to prove it. If you are of my mind to-night, we will do this. And you will be beautiful for me and I for you and our eyes will sparkle together.”

She did not look at him, but shook her head:

“I will stay at home, if you wish it,” she said.

They sat silent. The candles on the mantelpiece flickered and guttered in the draught.

“It is strange,” he said. “Do you remember the evening in London, Adelheid, when we were to go to that great ball? Then I begged you to stay at home and you did and you were glad.”

She lay far back in her chair, with her arms behind her neck:

“I was not glad that evening,” she said.

He raised his head and listened.

“I submitted, Cordt, but I was not glad to. I was acting a part, for your sake.”

She met his eyes. Hers were still and sad and she did not remove them while she spoke:

“I was wicked, Cordt. I hated you. I told you a lie. I was dancing at the ball, hour after hour, while I sat and held your hand and laughed so gaily.”

She slipped from her chair and crouched before him, with her hands folded round his knee and her eyes fixed humbly on his face:

“Do not look at me so strangely, Cordt. That is how I am. I love you. But I cannot live without the others ... without having them to see it, to see my happiness. I want to be pretty and I want them to fall in love with me and I want to belong to you. I only care to be pretty if I am loved. Don’t look like that, Cordt.”

She clung to him with eyes of entreaty.

“I am not really wicked, Cordt ... am I? I was with our little baby day and night when he was ill ... wasn’t I, Cordt?”

“Yes,” he said.

“Yes ... I was. But I cannot always be quiet.”

He lifted her from her chair and crossed the room with his arm round her waist. They went out on the balcony. A carriage came across the square at a brisk trot, followed soon after by a multitude of others. They came from the streets all round, but drove away in the same direction and disappeared round a street-corner. The horses’ hoofs clattered against the pavement, the lamps shone on the glittering carriages, coachmen and footmen sat stiff and black on their boxes.

“Come, Adelheid,” he said. “Let us go.”

The candles on the mantelpiece burnt down and the faces in the big chairs grinned in the darkness. When day dawned, the old servant came and arranged the room. When it was evening, he lit the candles.

He did this the next day and the next and many days after. The sun rose and the sun set. The water splashed in the fountain. The lamps shone and the people swarmed over the square. The balcony was bright with its red flowers and, every evening, the light fell through the open door.

But the summer passed and no one entered the room.