By five o'clock on the following day I was in Dresden. As soon as I had unpacked my things, and dined in my usual restaurant, I thought of going to see my prospective mother-in-law—not so much on account of politeness or inquisitiveness, as for the reason that I was thus indirectly communicating with Minna.
It was not many minutes' walk to "Seilergasse," where Mrs. Jagemann lived. The house was exactly like the neighbouring and opposite ones. Through the open front door one entered an arched, whitewashed passage that at the other end led into the garden, and in the centre had the usual winding stone staircase whitened with hearthstone, leading up to the upper floors. On the first landing I stopped at an open window and looked out. Just as the interior had already pleased me by its familiarity, so also did the view, which reminded me of the few places where I had lived, and of the homes of my friends. It was, in short, a commonplace Dresden home of the regulation citizen type.
The garden was joined on all three sides to other gardens, and these again to neighbouring ones, so that they formed a big garden square, surrounded by rather low two-storeyed houses. By this plan the Dresdeners gained air and light, even in the old, narrow parts of the town. The sinking afternoon sun beamed over the various trees, while the pathways and small lawns lay in monotonous shadow. In a neighbouring garden some young boys were running to and fro, in another several little girls were playing; in one place some drying clothes waved gently. The little garden beneath was empty. In a bed, in front of the vine-covered summer-house, roses were flowering; an acacia and a pretty cherry-tree stretched their branches over almost the whole space, and the elder-tree was not missing, "der Hollunder," in the absence of which, since the days of Kleist, one cannot imagine German love-scenes, and in the presence of which one cannot avoid thinking of them. It is true that the tree was not in flower, but at the end of August it could scarcely be blamed for that.
On the first floor a faded visiting-card in a small frame announced that College-teacher Jagemann lived there. I rang the bell time after time, but in vain. As I could not decide to leave this place, the only one in the beautiful town where I could find anything that was associated with Minna, I went into the garden and sat down in the summer-house.
It was almost as quiet as if one had been in the country, for only now and then did the heavy rumble of a cart remind me that I was in a town. From the garden in which the small girls were playing, voices could be heard constantly singing
"Here we go round the mulberry bush,
Here we go round the mulberry bush,
Here we go round the mulberry bush,
So early in the morning."
This childish play made me think of what had happened in these gardens ten years before.
One of these voices was Minna's, and it was her pink dress which, through the bushes, I saw turning round like a top. She was visiting a friend of hers, for here, on account of her father, she did not dare to play with the other children. But once he nearly caught her in this crime, and I began to wonder into which of the two adjoining gardens she might have escaped. Behind me was some wooden boarding—that way was fairly barred; to the left was a hedge of hawthorn behind a paling, but it didn't look sufficiently old; opposite me the paling was a little higher, but in the corner the ground sloped upwards, so that it was easier to climb over; and also this was the place most hidden from any one who came through the entrance door. All this I examined just as carefully as an historian would inspect the localities at Pharsalia in order to get a clear idea of the plan of Cæsar's battle; and it cost me just as much head-work to decide upon the neighbouring house and the window from which her friend's beloved and his friend, her first adorer, had made their salutations.
In the end the elder tree occupied all my attention. It stood in a corner against the neighbouring garden, and overshadowed a little bench which was made of two or three boards and looked extremely old. I moved from my seat in the summer-house to this one. It was not exactly a comfortable seat for an old man who wished to take a nap in the mid-day heat, but it was very suitable for a young couple who didn't demand much comfort. And then this romantic "Hollunder"! It was not in flower now, but it had flowered for him! Like the shadow from this bush jealousy filled my soul, the jealousy which my feeling of happiness and Minna's presence had so far kept away. I wanted to own her altogether, would like to have seen her as a child; in imagination I could picture her leaving her play-fellows in order to put her little plump arms round my neck. If there were a pre-existence, it seemed to me that this also should have been mine. But not even her first youth had belonged to me! Another had possessed this beautiful fragment of her life, and had kept it as a jewel with which to deck his vanity. In the end, however, it was I who had won the treasure, while he had been blind enough to be satisfied with a few baubles. This thought consoled me the more because it flattered my sense of self-esteem.
I got up and went out into the street. The twilight had deepened. On the one side some dark tree-tops over a garden wall had caught the roseate glow of evening, on the other it was quite dark between the houses, the upper windows of which sparkled like gold, while the lanterns were lighted at their feet. As I had no particular aim in view I went towards the bright side.
At the corner was, of course, the inevitable beer-shop.
A little old woman, who, in spite of the heat, was wrapped up in a thick woollen shawl, toddled in. This reminded me that Minna had said that her mother, towards evening, usually took her beer in "Zur Katze." The site of this restaurant I recollected well, for I had always noticed its very humorous sign.
So I directed my steps to the centre of the town and soon reached the brilliantly lit-up Schloss Strasse, which was crowded with people. Several oldish men were sitting in the restaurant. I saw directly that it was not a place that would tempt many casual visitors, but depended chiefly upon regular customers. One of the men, who had a bundle of newspapers and a portfolio in front of him, scowled at me furiously as I approached, just like a dog which growls when one goes too near its dish of bones. A well-preserved, clean-shaven gentleman sat in a corner and rather loudly entertained a couple of decayed Philistines with the last scandal from the Court Theatre.
An open door led into a smaller room. I peeped in, and saw an old woman seated close to the door; just opposite to her, in the big room, an old-fashioned mirror was hanging. As I wished to be undisturbed while I looked at her reflection in the mirror, I quickly retired, and once more seriously terrified the newspaper reader by sitting down next to him. By way of pretence I took up the paper he had laid aside; but even against this he protested with a discontented murmur. The waiter placed a glass of beer in front of me.
I could not, however, imagine that the old woman in the inner room could be my future mother-in-law. Minna had said that there was some resemblance between them, and it was impossible for me to find any trace of such a thing. The forehead was not at all high, but strongly arched, the eyes were not deeply set, and the lips were thick and shapeless, as was the rest of her greyish face. It looked like a thing which had been so long in water that it had become soaked and puffy, and such a condition might to be sure have effaced any resemblance which had ever existed.
I called the waiter, so that I could pay him, and asked if he knew a widow of the name of Jagemann who was often supposed to come there. "She sits in the small room," he answered, and I got up immediately and went to her. She moved uneasily on her sofa-corner, and, as I stepped up to her with a greeting, she looked so terrified that one would at least have thought that she was alone with me in a railway compartment.
I told her who I was, and supposed that she through a letter
"Yes, indeed, to be sure, Minna has written that dear child, oh dear me!… Well, I am glad.… So you have come up to town, Mr. Tenger"
"Fenger."
"Ah! certainly, Fenger, of course, you really must be kind enough to excuse me. It was in a letter, and the capitals are so much alike, my eyes also are not very good, and Minna writes rather indistinctly … don't you think so? My good husband wrote such a clear hand, he also gave writing lessons, you know, and Latin as well. Oh dear me, yes, he really was very learned.… Minna, too, was well educated, it was quite different in my time, but the young people nowadays.… Won't you take a seat? You really must sit down."
I placed a chair close to the table, and when I saw that she thought of offering me some refreshment, I hastened to anticipate her.
"You really are too kind. Indeed I don't know, perhaps for company's sake, but only a small glass, please. I suppose you drink many glasses. Young people! Dear Jagemann was also a heavy beer drinker … from the student days, you know. Do you drink much beer in Denmark?"
I tried in vain to start a sensible conversation while we drank our beer. Sometimes she became limp and stared stupidly at me, not answering anything but "Oh dear me, yes." Then, directly afterwards, she would start, as the Germans say, "to talk the blue off the sky"; evidently not for the pleasure of talking, but from nervousness, and especially from a fear of being obliged to speak of the relationship between Minna and myself. It seemed to me that she had not much belief in it, and I thought that very likely she was judging her daughter by the standard of her own flighty youth. Sometimes, when she thought that I was not noticing, she looked at me critically, as if she was thinking, "What kind of fellow is this that Minna has now got hold of?" Then if I looked at her she put her glass to her lips so quickly that she spilt drops of beer down her black shawl, which showed signs of having been dyed.
When we left, I wanted to take her home, but on no account would she allow me to go out of my way; and, when I insisted, she told me that she had some shopping to do. She disappeared down the first dark turning, not, however, before I had given the promise, or the threat—I do not know which she considered it—to visit her the next day.
I went straight from the Polytechnic to her flat.
When I rang for the second time I noticed that in a window, which opened on to the stairs, a dirty little curtain moved slightly in one corner, and from the darkness behind, an eye peeped out at me, after which the curtain fell back in its place. Having waited for some time I heard shuffling footsteps, and at last the door was opened by Mrs. Jagemann, who, had I been the tax-collector, could not have looked more alarmed. I was on the point of asking her why in the world she was so frightened, when it struck me that very likely I myself was the cause of the trouble. She seemed to have forgotten that I was going to call, or she had regarded what I had said as merely an empty form of politeness. The dyed black shawl, which I had seen on the previous evening, enveloped her and seemed to be thrown over her chemise, while her skirt bore a marked resemblance to a petticoat. She took me to the sitting-room with many apologies, and then disappeared for half an hour, "so that she could offer me a cup of coffee."
The rather small room, facing the garden square which I have mentioned, was bright and cheerful, and got plenty of sun. The furniture, however, was not only plain, and even partly broken, but everything showed symptoms of an entire want of order. The lid of the upright piano was quite grey with dust, and on the top of it, on a bundle of music, stood a plate containing half a smoked herring. It has always been a mystery to me how it ever arrived there, for I soon discovered that Mrs. Jagemann never inhabited this room, but muddled about the whole day long in the almost dark kitchen, where she prepared and ate her meals, slept, and read Dresdener-Nachrichten. In a corner stood a bookcase almost entirely filled with green-bound volumes which I at once recognised as Minna's classical treasures, the gift from that severe aunt who would haunt her as a spirit, if she ever parted with them. A door in the middle of one of the walls was covered with a green rug, and a sofa had been placed in front of it. With this rug as a background, an oil-painting was hanging, on which I saw part of a fishing village under low dunes, near a bay. In the foreground sat a couple of young girls netting, while they at the same time carried on a flirtation with a town dandy who was conspicuous by the addition of a paint-box and had an unmistakable likeness to Stephensen. His pointing finger and the laughing expression of the girls evidently suggested that a deeper meaning was signified in this netting. While the figures were as conventionally painted as they were tastelessly thought out, there was a good deal of freshness and nature-study in the beach and the sunlight on the sand-dunes, and the picture with its powerful bright colours beamed in the little room, to the more than plain furniture of which it stood out in striking contrast. Every one was bound to wonder how it had come there. And to me, for whom this question was answered beforehand, it spoke in a forcible manner of all that I would fain forget. Surely he appreciated her and their friendship, since, years after, he had sent her such a finished picture. But, at the same time, what indelicate coquetry, to suggest himself flirting with two young fisher-maidens in a gift to her! What feelings would it not awaken in a German girl, whose heart was full of love for the Danish painter, and whose fancy was full of poems by Heine! "Du schönes Fischermädchen" and "Das Meer erglänzte weit hinaus" would constantly sing out to her from this canvas, both awakening in her an intense longing after the unknown romantic charm of his fatherland, and creating a perpetual jealous unrestfulness. A refined self-love and a stupid heartlessness seemed to me to have drawn this bragging monogram on the stone on which the dandy put his boot, a boot, by-the-bye, that was so shiny that it could not possibly have trodden even a few steps on the dusty road.
Besides this picture there were two others in the room done by the same hand. They hung under one another between the window and the bureau: A pastel portrait of Minna and a pencil drawing of a middle-aged man with a high forehead, a straight nose and small, compressed lips—which combined with overhanging brows and deep-set eyes gave him a discontented and bitter look—thin hair and big whiskers, that did not conceal a small but firmly shaped and clean-shaven chin. Especially in the chin and forehead there was a striking likeness to Minna, and when I examined it closely, the shape of the lips also was the same; but her nose was broader and shorter. This drawing was cleverly done and showed a good solid training.
But I could on no account reconcile myself to the pastel portrait. It was a head and shoulder picture in three-quarter size. She was in a black dress without the slightest relief, which rendered her much exaggerated paleness still more striking, and the whole thing floated away in a blue mist so that one would think it was a young tobacco-smoking woman who had just enveloped herself in smoke; only that this did not seem to stream out of her compressed bloodless lips but rather from her indistinct, expressionless eyes an art which, as everybody knows, is not yet discovered. This kind of misty picture had in those days just come into vogue. And this was a man who had painted his beloved! Where was the love that goes into all details, the jealous care that preserves even the smallest of them, because it sees that which is greatest behind, the self-forgetting losing of oneself in the object, the love's realism in which there is only room for a loving idealism, which far from hiding the individuality only wants to put it in the clearest and truest light? Nothing of all this; everything here was sketchy, and the whole thing done in a careless sort of way in order to blur it in the indistinct fashion of the moment, affecting an artistic "vue" rather than giving a human aspect. The more I looked at this portrait the stronger became my disgust and fury against this man, who had painted Minna in such a way, this artist, who so boldly had prepared a picture after the last recipe, who had taken his beloved as a "subject" and had dodged all the difficulties, and indeed everything that should have been made clear. It seemed to me that, if he came into the room, I should take him by the collar, drag him in front of this sinful work, shake him soundly and shout into his ear, "What a beastly modern and artistically decayed ass you really are! Look there, you knight of the palette, what a disgusting scarecrow of a lie in colours you have made, with the most beautiful of God's creation imaged in your eyes, nay, in your heart, too, if one could only believe you!" And I heard him answer: "And what kind of fellow are you, and what can you do? I have at least been able to paint a portrait of her, that anyhow can be recognised, and which every one will see represents a pretty girl, and in which an artist would see talent.… Maintenant à vous, monsieur. Take colour and canvas and place yourself, with your 'self-forgetting,' losing of yourself in the object, 'your love realism,' and then see what kind of a fright you will get out of it! But never mind, try all the same: they are very agreeable hours, I assure you; you have the sweet girl sitting in front of you, and can look at her to your heart's content; she will blush, therefore you must moderate the colour a little. I recommend you to tone the shades a little cooler than one usually does.…" In this manner I worked myself up to such a degree of jealous fury, that I very likely should have seized the picture and thrown it on the floor, had not Mrs. Jagemann at last appeared with the coffee.
It gave her a great fright to find me on my feet, and she hurried to get me seated on the little sofa behind the rather shabby mahogany table, on which she served the Saxon drink. An important change had taken place in her, and she had now quite a dignified matronly appearance in a dark blue, white spotted delaine dress, and a big cap with lilac ribbons. She herself sat on the edge of a chair just opposite me and sipped her coffee slowly, putting her head right down to the cup. I had already for some time noticed a sweet sickly smell which now constantly grew stronger, and I realised that on the other side of this covered door a very common tobacco was being smoked. Mrs. Jagemann seemed to guess my thoughts; and presently she began to cough—
"Oh dear me, yes … it's this tobacco smoke, it will make its way in here. Our lodger lives in there, a very pleasant young man, but he smokes all day long. Do you also smoke? Please don't hesitate to do so on my account; it tastes so well with the coffee, they say. We have lodgers, otherwise we could not keep the flat going, you know, and when one is accustomed to good living.… But it has its disadvantages, as now, this tobacco smoke. Of course one can get lodgers who smoke less, or who are not so much at home … there are even those who do not smoke at all, but there might be other objections. Dear me, Mr. Fenger, there are so many bad men in the world! As, for instance, this lodger, there is not much to say against him. He always pays me, even if he is sometimes a month late, but, good gracious, there are also those who do not pay at all. I have had plenty of them; they clear out suddenly, with promises, of course, that they will come and pay.… Oh, dear me, bad people, Mr. Fenger!"
I again began to stare at the irritating portrait, and suddenly burst out with—"What a beastly modern artistically decayed ass!" And Mrs. Jagemann, who saw what I was looking at, began at once to praise the portrait.
"Yes, that's a portrait of my Minna, as you can see. It is really very good, almost as good as a photograph. Oh dear me, yes! What wonderful skill! What they can do nowadays, Mr. Fenger! In America they can now take photographs in colours, so the papers say. My goodness, what will happen to the poor painters? What are they to do? Art moves on, the one flies higher than the other, one's death is the other's bread, as the saying is. By the way, it was painted by a countryman of yours; he was also one of our lodgers.… Mr. Stephensen was his name; he lived here for six months."
She spoke slowly, with constant pauses between her jerky sentences, and she looked at me as craftily as she could with those dull eyes of hers.
"Yes, I know all about Stephensen. Minna has told me. She does not keep any secrets from me," I replied.
"No, of course not! Yes, he is a countryman of yours, and even an artist, of course you have heard of that," she said quickly, evidently satisfied to know that I understood what she was talking about, but at the same time anxious not to pursue the subject.
"Oh yes, such talent," she prattled, "you are quite right in that!" (I had not referred in any way to his talent). "And a nice man, so pleasant to have dealings with! He always paid me punctually, sometimes even before the time; not because I asked him to do so, but times were hard, and he was very considerate. He only smoked cigarettes … very different to our present lodger. By the way, he is also a painter, that is to say, he comes from Holstein. It's houses he decorates, ceilings and walls.… But Mr. Stephensen only smoked cigarettes. Oh, when in those days one came into the room, it was just like smelling the incense in the Catholic Church. Yes, you have been there? Dear me, so lofty, isn't it, and all the candles on the altar? Yes, and how they sing! It's just as if one heard the angels. I've been there with Minna. She said it was Latin they sang; my good husband was an excellent Latin scholar. Otherwise, I go to the Anna Church near here. It's a wonderful parson we have; he shook hands with me the other day and asked for Minna. He confirmed her, but for some reason she doesn't like him. She easily takes fancies … and of course she's right in a way, there are so many bad people. Good gracious, it is a trouble to know what to do among them all, therefore we have religion. What should we be without religion, Mr. Fenger?"
"Well, I am sorry to say I am not very churchy, but I think that Minna and I also in that respect"
"Oh, dear me, yes, young people, you see! When I was young … it was just the same … then one only thought of amusing oneself. And, upon my word, why not, as long as one doesn't do anything bad!"
"Anyhow, I think also about earning something, and hope soon to be in a position to marry. I have an uncle who is a factory-owner in England, and he wants me to go over there."
"To England, oh, I say! I had a sister who was several years in England. Oh dear, what tales she could tell! It must be an awful town, London! All the fog and smoke! There also they live on several storeys, and the whole family take their dinner in the kitchen."
When at last it was clear to me that it was hopeless to try to lead the conversation into a sensible track, I let her babble on to her heart's content, and made no attempt to stop her. She had at first spoken fairly correctly, but as she got excited her provincial accent became apparent; she said "m'r" for "wir" and "sein" for "sind," and interlarded her talk with many slang expressions and terms; and it then amused me to remark that Minna, when she sometimes jokingly chattered her Dresden dialect, resembled her mother very strikingly, even in countenance and features. Consequently, I was as patient and attentive a listener as the old woman could have desired.
When I at last took my leave, she did not make any attempt to detain me, but accompanied me to the door with many curtsies and salutations.
Well, I had made acquaintance with my future mother-in-law, and was in a way not at all discontented with the result, however far it was from being brilliant. The reason was, that when I had pictured the future and imagined the happiness of bringing a beloved woman home as bride, I had always shuddered at the thought of a mother-in-law, and had been terrified by the prospect of marrying into a family which might provide me with a tail of brothers-in-law and sisters-in-law, and a new outfit of aunts and uncles, and so forth. Now in this case there was evidently no idea whatever of a family; if Minna did not bring me any dowry in money, she did not bring me any superfluous relations. As far as the mother was concerned, of whom, I knew, that Minna had in her own mind formed an unusual but sound judgment, she seemed to be a rather modest being, who would certainly prefer to toddle about in peace in her kitchen, and take a nap in "Zur Katze," and who was so wrapped up in her Dresden customs that there could hardly be any idea of bringing her to England. Supposing that I had got a stately lady as "mamma" who embraced me in a motherly way, criticised my habits, was discontented with my prospects, mixed herself up in the household affairs, put the daughter against me as much as possible, insisted upon visiting on regular evenings! My goodness, how easily I had got out of it with this homely motherly soul!
If I had written a diary, I should, that day, have put down: "At ease on one point, mother-in-law harmless."