Читать книгу The Old Room - Ewald Carl - Страница 6

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Fru Adelheid stood on the balcony. She plucked the red flowers and threw them into the square below. She wore a long, white gown; her gloves and her white boa lay on the ground. She had just come from the theatre and had been bored.

Now she turned towards the room.

Cordt sat huddled together before the fireplace and stared in front of him. She wanted to see his face and called to him. He pushed back his chair and looked up:

“I was thinking of the play we have been to see,” he said.

“Yes, it was stupid.”

She drew the other chair over the floor, so that she could look at the jar with the naked man writhing through thorns.

“There was a time when I was tired of law,” said Cordt. “I was glad when the poet showed me a marriage that was broken for love. I used to think that people grew greater through it and that Heaven seemed higher and earth more green.”

She shuddered again and wrapped her skirt closer about her feet.

“Now I am so tired of lawlessness. I loathe these women and their lovers.”

“You are married yourself now,” she answered.

“What do you say?”

He looked up. She could see that he had not caught her words and she was glad.

“There must be a struggle, no doubt,” she said.

“Of course there must. There is. In the old days, they were not allowed to come together and now they are not allowed to stay together.”

She said nothing, but let her hand glide over the jar.

“All these faithless wives have lowered love. I could imagine a woman of refinement stifling her love, because she would not give it scope.”

“Because she was afraid.”

“Because she was refined.”

They sat silent for a time and looked at the live embers in the white ashes.

“Do you think there are many who do that?”

He looked up.

“Do you think there are many faithless wives?”

“I don’t know. Why shouldn’t there be?”

He leant his head on his hands. Fru Adelheid played with the jar.

“But I can’t understand that people care to go to the theatre.”

“Where would you have them go?”

He pushed back his chair so that he could see her. She remained sitting as she sat and thought of nothing.

“Adelheid,” he said, “I suppose you wouldn’t care to stay at home to-night?”

She lay back in her chair and looked at her hands.

“Oh,” she said, “I wanted to go out to supper.”

“I should so much like to talk to you.”

“But I did come home from the theatre, dear,” she replied and put out her hand to him.

He did not see it and she let it fall.

“I would rather have stayed at home after the theatre, Adelheid.”

“Yes, I see,” she answered and just shrugged her shoulders. “I did not understand.”

“But you understood it in the theatre. And now you want to sup out all the same.”

He bent over to her to catch her eyes. She said nothing and did not look at him.

“Adelheid.”

Fru Adelheid knit her brow:

“I don’t go to the theatre, you see, for the sake of the play,” she said. “That does not amuse me. But it amuses me to watch that sea of people and to hear them clamor and then fall silent. I like the way they clap and the way they are quite still when anything good is being said on the stage. Then something sings inside me and I enjoy it.”

He looked at her for a moment; then he laughed and rubbed his hands. Fru Adelheid turned her chair towards him, so close that her knees touched his:

“What is it that you wanted to talk to me about this evening?” she asked. “That couldn’t be postponed until the theatre was over? That couldn’t wait for an hour, now that I feel like going out to supper?”

He looked at her and shook his head.

“Was it anything? Or were you only tired and empty, as I was ... and as the faithless wives are ... and the modern poets and ... and everybody?”

“No, Adelheid,” he said. “No. It was nothing. Nothing at all.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” she said and suddenly flung herself violently back in her chair. “There is something behind your words.”

Cordt nodded.

“You are angry with me. What is it that I do? We live no differently, that I know of, from other people in our circle. We travel, we go to the theatre, we go out and we receive our friends at home. We meet amusing people, artists ... everybody who is anybody.”

“Are you always amused among amusing people?”

She looked at him a little doubtfully:

“There is no such thing as always anywhere.”

“No,” he said, “more’s the pity. There is not.”

They sat silent, both steeped in thought. Then he pushed his hair from his forehead and said, calmly:

“Try if you can understand me, Adelheid. When a woman marries and becomes a mother, she usually becomes quiet ... quieter, I mean. I mean that there are victories which she cannot win, triumphs which she cannot achieve ... which she does not trouble about. She does not trouble about them, Adelheid, because she has deepened her life ... because she has come so near to one man that the approach of other men is distasteful to her. Then she becomes quiet ... quieter. And this quietness is not empty, but just richer than all the rest.”

She looked at him with a strangely inquisitive flash in her angry eyes:

“Are you jealous?” she asked.

He shook his head and made a gesture of denial with his hand. But she sprang from her chair and stood before him with great, proud eyes:

“You ought to be, Cordt,” she said. “You ought to be. I am yours and I love you. You won me once: see to it that you know how to keep me. Fight for me, Cordt. I am young, I am pretty and the world is full of men.”

He rose deliberately and looked at her till she thought for a moment that he would strike her.

“You will be twenty-six next month,” he said. “And, besides, we in our family don’t fight to keep our wives.”

“Cordt.”

She sat down without knowing what she was doing. He looked at her and she looked back at him. She could not help thinking how tall he was; and how easily he wore his clothes; and that one of his shoulders was a little lower than the other.

Then he crossed the room, so quickly that he nearly tripped over the carpet. He struggled with the old spinning-wheel and pulled it over the floor. She followed him with her eyes.

“Can you spin on my great-grandmother’s wheel, Adelheid?” he asked.

She crossed her arms on her breast and looked at him.

“Can’t you, Adelheid? Couldn’t you learn? Not if I begged you to?”

He pulled the spinning-wheel right in front of her and placed it as if she were to use it then and there. Then he sat down in his chair again.

“Don’t you think you could, Adelheid?”

They looked hard at each other. Then they became timid and shy and dropped their eyes.

They both thought of holding out their hands, but neither could see the other’s. They longed to throw themselves into each other’s arms, but they sat as stiff as statues. Their lips trembled; but they did not look at each other and neither knew anything of the other’s thought.

“I am thinking how very small we look in these big chairs,” he said, at last.

His voice was calm and she grew quite calm at once. It was all over; there was peace in their souls. It was not a reconciliation, for they remembered no quarrel. Their glances rested confidently upon each other.

There was nothing between them and they were friends.

“I wonder if we are inferior to those who sat here before us,” she said. “Different, yes; but inferior?”

They both rose.

“Much inferior,” said Cordt, “and much less happy.”

They crossed the room and went out on the balcony, as was their custom before they went to bed.

The stars of the September night rode in a high sky. Most of the lamps were extinguished and there were but few people in the square. A drunken man was singing far away. The sound of the water falling in the fountain swelled up in the silence.

“How beautiful it is here!” he said.

“Yes.”

“And now the summer nights are over and we have not enjoyed them.”

She laid her head on his shoulder and closed her eyes.

“I do not think that in the whole world there is a square so pretty as this,” he said.

“Oh, yes ... in Florence....”

He sighed and led her into the room:

“We have travelled too much, Adelheid.”

She crossed the floor quickly and opened the door. He remained standing on the balcony.

It had all seethed up in him again. He fought against it, but to no purpose.

“Are you coming, Cordt?”

She was outside in the passage and could not see him.

“Do you go.... I will come presently.”

He forced his voice to be as calm as possible, but it sounded very unnatural in his own ears. He stood quite still and listened. She remained standing for a moment, as though she were considering.

Then she closed the door and went. He could hear that she went hurriedly.