III
A GREY head with a white morning cap, with pale-blue, kindly eyes, looked in through the door. Lucy opened her eyes.
“What, already up! Good morning! Once more welcome to our home! Through sleeping? And did you rest well? Dear child, I did not close an eye from joy of having you here,” chattered the old lady as she approached the bed.
She offered her withered hand, and Lucy was about to imprint a kiss upon it, but the old lady exclaimed loudly, “Never mind!” and stroked the girl’s forehead and luxuriant hair.
“I just wanted to ask you whether I might offer you something of my old wardrobe. Poor girl, your garments are so dreadfully wet!—To be sure, there was a downpour last night, but why could not my Jiří have found a carriage somewhere? Well, well, done is done,—I will pick you out something of my own, just for to-day; to-morrow the tailor will bring you new raiment. Perhaps my clothes will fit you. I once was of your height, but that was very long ago, to-day I am but a dried-up old woman. . . . I will be back in fifteen minutes.”
She went away. Lucy was all that time as if on burning coals before that pure, dim eye. She drew her coverlet up to her chin.
Then she drew a deep breath, jumped out of bed like a doe, and slipped with lightning speed into her stockings and shoes. She threw on a morning gown of a flowery pattern, which the thoughtful old lady had left with her the night before, washed herself, arranged her hair a little, and looked curiously around the room.
The living room of a nascent old bachelor. The care of a woman’s hand lay over it, but the slovenliness of the inmate peeped out everywhere. Lucy could not harmonize that room with the man who had been so earnest, deep, and stern with her. The table, with photographs of half-naked ballet dancers upon it; the picture of some club upon the wall,—the photographer had immortalized it during a drinking bout,—with Jiří standing in the middle, smoking a pipe and grinning in a peculiar manner; the locked bookcase, with beautifully bound but dust covered books; the hopping canary in its cage, looking playful with its chubby head,—these impressions fell like molten drops into the depth of Lucy’s soul, where lay the picture of the man, the first who had held her respect.
She stepped abashed to the window. Drawing the shades, she saw before her a large garden in all its flowery beauty. A fresh breeze bore upwards the scent of the elders and flooded the room with it. The trees were in bloom. Their tops looked as though they had been powdered; their leaves, still wet, moved to and fro, glistening like diamonds. The grass lay prostrate, bent by the weight of the raindrops. The flowers gleamed in fresh colors in their beds. White and blue butterflies flew out of them and flitted upwards. A bird with an iridescent breast,—a finch it was,—flapped its wings in the damp sand of the walk, then flew upon a tree, and began to chirp. . . . Beyond the garden could be seen the red roofs of the houses. . . . Over everything lay the immeasurable azure of the heavens. . . .
The calm and peace of that morning, with the smile and power of the spring upon it, stirred Lucy’s heart. All saddenly became clear to her oppressed and crushed soul. A new life, a new life! The past was shut out, and she would turn upon her new road with fresh vigor. . . .
She folded her hands: she was moved by the pious faith of her childish years. From the depth of her soul poured forth fervent, whispered words of prayer.
She was praying for herself, her father, her dead mother, the kind lady, under whose roof she was living, Jiří, the old woman, her wretched companions, who were still weltering in the mire,—sympathy for everybody, love for everything flowed from her soul.
“Dear child, pray, forgive me,” were the gentle words which she heard. With gentle care, such as we use towards holy relics, the old lady spread strange, old-fashioned garments upon the table and the couch. The perfume of lavender issued from the folds of those raiments. In those colors, ribbons, and frills breathed the forties,—bygone pleasures, bygone beauty, bygone people, a bygone life. . . .
“Now this one here I had on as I went with my dear departed husband to the wedding of Jiří’s father.” The old lady handed her a green silk garment which glistened with a reddish-golden sheen.
Lucy timidly took off her robe, and still more timidly, began to put on that old-fashioned dress. . . .
“Don’t be afraid, dear child,” said the old lady, helping her to dress, “it will not tear so easily, for it is good old material. . . . This gown has lasted a long while,” she said, as she laced the girl’s waist in the back. “My husband was so fond of it! Ah, he has been lying in God’s earth these twenty-five years!”
She drew a sigh, straightened out the skirt, ruffled the sleeves a little, stepped three steps back, and smiled:
“Just see how becoming it is to you! What a beautiful girl you are! O Lord! At least take a look at yourself!”
She led her to the mirror, and, with folded hands, proudly gazed at her. In the looking-glass appeared the lithe form of a fair maiden; the bell-shaped skirt hung down from her slender waist, while a girdle of black ribbons wound around it. The bodice was gathered in front into a series of ruffles, and was held below by a gold buckle. The large, puffed-up sleeve made her hand appear as small as a child’s, Her neck stood out against the green garment like white marble. Her eyes glistened with a soft, liquid brilliancy.
“This is the way, my child, the hair used to be combed.” The enthusiastic old lady showed her how. “Here over the temples, and down to the cheeks, and then back again, and behind, gathered into a braid,—you see, that is the way they wore it then,—O Lord, while I am talking to you, the coffee is getting cold! Come to breakfast!”
She led her into the next room. Lucy cast a passing glance around her. In the middle stood a round table, and the cloth, with its floral design, reached the floor. The coffee was steaming in dainty cups.
She saw a wealth of flowers in the windows: cacti, myrtles, azaleas and begonias. On a tall chest of drawers gleamed a gilt crucifix under a glass bell, and nearby stood two wax candles and a clock, the face of which was supported by winding pillars of alabaster.
Above them, the wall was covered with ambrotypes, with black silhouettes and wax profiles,—all in pretty frames. Between the windows, at the head of the room, hung an oil painting of a stern-looking man, in a blue coat and black neckeloth. Underneath it, behind glass, were a few withered leaves,—a dried-up wedding wreath. Near the door was fastened a water basin, and from it peeped fresh twigs of pussy willow. In the corner stood a china closet lined with a shining mirror and full of cups, vases, and silver, and tiny porcelain figures. A yellow filigree spinet glistened dimly on the other side. Solid antiquity looked out of all corners with a soft and peaceful glance.
“Do take one more cup! The cream is not very good,—city quality!—Do you see there,” she pointed at the portrait between the windows, “that’s he, my husband. He looks so stern,—that was his habit, but his heart was golden. Here you see him once more.” She took down from the wall an ambrotype: “You, my dear one, are resting in the Lord!” and she shook her head over it.
“And this Jiří is just like him: he growls and gets angry, but that is only his shell; the kernel is gold, gold, I tell you,” and the old lady continued in that strain.
Jiří was in the meantime sleeping, in his room that had been changed to the other end of the corridor. She told of his childhood, his parents, the town where Jiří had a mill and an estate,—she spoke with the pleagure of a person who had for a long time been deprived of her full say.
Then, without saying a word, an old wizened servant cleared off the table and, measuring Lucy with the eye of a basilisk, put upon the table linen, cloth, patterns, ribbons, needles, and thread,—each in its proper place, as if by habit.
The old lady was not disturbed by all this, but continued speaking, holding her hands all the time upon her breast, while her eyes shone with the fire of joyful recollections.
The blood beat strongly in Lucy’s temples. She had not yet spoken a word; she was waiting with trembling for some question, though she did not know what it was to be. She was waiting, like a captured animal, for some sudden injury; but the old lady kept on talking, never asking a question, and resting her eyes from time to time upon her with unspeakable kindness. Something was choking Lucy, and she would fain have put all her strength in one painful cry,—suddenly, some strange torrent carried her off her feet, sent her head a-whirling,—she sobbed out loud, tears burst forth in her eyes, and with a subdued cry she fell to the feet of the old lady.
“Dear child, my child, what is the matter with you?” The old lady was frightened, and she lifted her up.
Lucy hid her face in her hands and made a confession. Words, incoherent, bitter, terrible, poured forth from her stormy breast. Self-accusations followed each other without evasion; she read the blackest pages in the book of life, commenting upon them pitilessly.
The old lady could not grasp it all and kept silent for a moment; then she suddenly closed the reproachful mouth with a kiss.
“I know it all. Jiří told me. Calm yourself. It will be different now. That happened long ago,” and large tears dropped on the girl’s blonde hair. She pressed her to her breast and sobbed aloud: “Calm yourself, dear child!”
“My presence is a sin, a sin against you, kind lady, against this room, against everything,” Lucy sobbed again. “As I look at the mire in which I have been. . . .”
“Dear child, last night, before Jiří came to me, my thoughts were heavy,—you see, I can’t sleep much,—I was thinking what little good there was in dragging along my old bones . . . why should I be living, since I am alone in this world, like a lonely pear-tree in a wide field? My husband is dead, I have no children, Jiří has long been as a stranger to me,—just then he entered. I was frightened, but he kissed my brow,—he had never done so before,—and he said: ‘You have a guest. I want to return to life a fallen girl,—but it can be done only with your help, dear aunt.’ You see, it is the will of the Lord. You are mine. When I saw you, wet through and through and trembling, I pitied you with my whole heart. You will stay here for my sake.”
Saying that, she kissed her brow and gently smoothed her hair, wiping her wet face with her handkerchief.
A new peace took possession of Lucy’s soul. She felt as though she had ascended the summit of a mountain. A soft breeze circled around her. Infinity lay stretched out before her eyes. Beautiful colors gleamed in the splendor of the sun, Man was lost unto himself. . . .
Women’s tears. . . . Reader, they are a salutary property of Eve’s daughters in this world. There is not a sorrow of a woman, not a grief, burden, memory, not one shadow, that cannot be washed away by a few salty, bitter tears! Once again, her soul is changed and free, playing like the many-colored butterfly that flits about in the golden light over a flowery meadow. . . .
Lucy was sitting at the spinet. The old lady placed a sheet of music before her.
“Here is the song of which my deceased husband used to be very fond. It is a German song,—yet he was a patriot and a good Bohemian. As a student he used to frequent Jungmann’s[1] house! My child, how many tears we used to shed over it! . . . My husband too . . . both of us, both. . . .”
Lucy read the inscription of the song: “Die Thräne, ein Lied von Kücken” Her hands then fell upon the keys. The weak, subdued tones sounded like the whispered words of a toothless old man. The old lady rested her left hand upon her side, and with beaming eyes looked at that yellow paper, while with her right hand she beat time; then she fell to singing:
“Macht man in’s Leben
Kaum den ersten Schritt.”
It was a thin voice, which got to rasping in the upper tones, as it trembled forth from her lips. Her old heart was more and more strongly agitated by the breath of recollections, and her sered face became colored with the red hue of an autumn leaf. . . .
“Bringe man als Kind schon
Eine Thräne mit,
Und Freudenthränen
Giebt, als ersten Gruss,
Dem Kind die Mutter
Mit dem ersten Kuss;
Man wächst empor dann
Zwischen Freud’ und Schmerz,
Da zieht die Liebe in das junge Herz,
Und offenbart
Das Herz der Jungfrau sich,
Spricht eine Thräne:
Ja! ich liebe dich! . . .”
A strong voice in the door sang out the refrain with them. The women grew silent.
“I see, Aunty,” laughed Jiří, “you are making a good display of all your favorite things.”
He stood there, foppishly dressed, in all his glory, and bowed urbanely.
Lucy rose from her seat. She offered him her hand for a greeting.
“That was not a bad idea, Aunty, this gown is becoming to the young lady,” he remarked in a careless way, as he looked at her.
They seated themselves at the table, and talked. The old lady told Lucy about her poor, about her sewing for the little folk, showed her the patterns, the cloth, the linen, needle, thread, and asked her opinion of this and that, Lucy seemed to be interested in everything. She listened attentively and announced her views with a clear voice. Jiří, in the meantime, looked at her with the usual scornful and ironical expression about his lips. From time to time he cracked a joke, put in a word or a short sentence, or yawned.
A secret unrest nestled in the souls of these three people. The old lady felt provoked for having been so moved by her “Thräne.” Then she was seized with terror at the lack of consideration which showed in Jiří’s words, and at this glimpse of the soul from which she had become estranged.
To Lucy his appearance brought the memory of her past days and of the place where she had lived, where she had seen him for the first time. Besides, he seemed to her to be somehow changed, in some way smaller, more trifling, and empty. She thought of his room, those photographs of women, and the pictures on the wall—and something urged her to watch every word and smile and motion of his. She felt a strange rustiness growing in her soul, and effacing his picture which was imprinted somewhere in its depth.
Jiří again saw himself in a very peculiar situation: he had sobered down from the enthusiasm of the night before, and that girl was a stranger to him in his aunt’s house, at that table, and in that gown. There was no longer that penetrating perfume of orgies, and this was not the large parlor in that house. What would happen next? It occurred to him that he really had had no intention beforehand of doing what he later did,—what was it that had impelled him to take her away and bring her here? It was stupid and ridiculous! It was as though he had carelessly stepped upon the edge of a steep and precipitous rock: one unwary moment, and he would be flying downwards. . . . As that picture arose in his mind, he closed his eyes a little, with the resignation of a fatalist.
They continued their conversation. An hour later Jiří rose from his seat and bade them good-bye. He said he would look in at the tailor’s to order some gowns for Lucy, then he would buy a few things, and so forth,—in reality, ennui and his old habits drove him to the coffeehouse, to the Příkopi, and to his friends. . . .
The women sat down to work. The old lady started again on her recollections, all the time sewing, cutting and measuring. Lucy with dainty stitches was hemming some babies’ shirts. A gentle warmth filled their souls. Outside gleamed a bright spring day. The voices of chirping sparrows reached them from the street. . . .
Then Lucy burst out laughing,—for the first time here. The old lady was telling of her wedding: the bridegroom had arrived, all dressed up; he ran into the room, immediately turned about, and ran back; he once more jumped into the coach, hunted in all the corners, and gloomily returned,—he had somewhere lost his bridal bouquet! Only at the dinner, after the toasts, did he suddenly fish it out from his endless folds, all crushed and withered. The old lady laughed so much that her eyes were filled with tears. . . .
- ↑ Josef Jungmann (1773–1847) was the most prominent of the founders of a New-Bohemian literature.