On the table in my little room were two letters, the one with an English the other with a German stamp. I knew both handwritings, and quickly opened the letter from my uncle.
He wrote, in his usual short and business-like manner, that on account of a change in the staff at the factory it would be better if I came to London within four weeks. I should thus be obliged to give up my studies at the Polytechnic, and forego the chance of passing my examination, but it would not harm my career, and it was very necessary not to lose this favourable opportunity of beginning practical work. In a few days he would send me sufficient money for my outfit and travelling expenses. He asked for an answer by return of post in order that he might know that his letter had been promptly delivered. This communication, or rather order, put me into a state of great excitement.
It was evident that if the worst happened, if the bond between Minna and me should be broken, then nothing could be more desirable—if wishes and hopes could then any longer be spoken of—than this arrangement. I should at once be removed from these surroundings that would be so lull of heart-rending associations, and where, perhaps, for some time I should be likely to meet her, in order to be thrown into work under new conditions which would require me to strain my energies to the utmost. But naturally my thoughts did not willingly linger over a desire, that was founded upon so painful a supposition. On the other hand if I was chosen, it would be as inconvenient as possible to leave her while she was still shaken by the emotional crisis through which she had passed, and would, more than ever, be needing a faithful support—to leave her just at the instant when a constantly renewed and strengthened feeling that the love, to which she had given herself up, neither could nor would forsake her was of the greatest consequence to her welfare. To leave her alone, perhaps for years, with nothing left to her but correspondence and—the Danish Dictionary! The possibility that quicker than I expected I might gain a position to justify my marriage seemed not to make up for the misery of a separation at this moment.
But the terms I was on with my uncle, whom I only knew, or did not know, through letters, were not of such a nature that I dared to think of trying to alter his decision; and besides, just at this moment when I was to give an answer, I was prevented from confiding in him.
A bit of English sticking-plaster, in case I got a deadly wound, and if I conquered, a peremptory command, which would draw me away from the happiness I had won, this was the not exactly brilliant promise that the letter held out. I felt even more miserable than when I had entered the room.
Outside it rained heavily, and the narrow street darkened the room so much that I was obliged to go to the window so that I might read the other letter. It was from my friend Immanuel Hertz (he was named after Kant) in Leipzig.
After having congratulated me on my engagement (he begged to be excused for his congratulations being a little late—"much business"), he added that he had been very upset to hear through his mother that his dear old father had not yet got rid of the cold which he had caught in Prague; he feared that his mother might be keeping something back in order not to alarm him, and asked me to say openly what I thought of his father's illness.
I was, of course, too selfishly absorbed in my own grief to let old Hertz's cough appear fatal to me. Therefore this inquiry did not give me much thought, whereas I pondered, with an interpreter's profundity, over his congratulatory remarks, and tried to imagine that they were rather forced. The honest Immanuel Hertz began to have an especial interest for me. I remembered how Minna had always avoided speaking of him; and Stephensen's remark of last evening regarding Minna and him, seemed, though quoted as an example, to have something behind it. All this pointed in the same direction; and, besides, to know Minna and to love her were in my eyes two things so indissolubly united, that my supposition very soon grew into a certainty.
So he had burnt also himself!—How had he got over it? He was surely no easy-going character, but perhaps he had a more self-controlled than passionate disposition, and therefore the wound would hardly have been incurable. New surroundings and hard work had, anyhow, surely been the remedy for him also.
However detestable the thought was that for me also this panacea might be necessary, I, nevertheless, gradually lost myself in fantastic English dreams of the future, which, by the way, left out the most important item—the work—as something taken for granted; but as a reward I imagined my own dear self, two or three years older, galloping in a grand cavalcade through Hyde Park (which I supposed to be like "Grosser Garten"), dancing at balls, which were sparkling with all the diamonds and stars of "High life," or moving as guest in an old country-seat hidden in tremendous woods and deer parks; an honoured guest, the champion at tennis, riding to hounds, and presenting myself in evening dress on the signal of the dinner bell, "the tocsin of the soul," as Byron has it. Of course, in Hyde Park, in the ball-room, and at the country-seat I was surrounded by those young ladies, who have the name of being the most beautiful women of the world, all of whom were heiresses to millions of pounds, though not by any means scornful of the homage that a broken heart still owes to beauty and attractiveness.… But then, as the image of Minna appeared very vividly before my mind's eye on this background, which brought out its unpretentious and simple grace, as a dimly seen tapestry of fantastic, luxurious Gobelin that the effect-seeking hand of an artist has painted behind the portrait study of a dark and calm woman's form—these dreams at once dissolved into nothingness. Not because I looked upon them as impossibilities; but because even the realisation was bound to be empty and without value in comparison with the pure and gentle ideal before which all that was noble in me seemed to rise to the surface, and all the baser and lower elements of my nature to sink into the soul's unconscious depths.
Ashamed at having at this moment unfaithfully allowed myself to be led astray by such digressing fancies, I offered them as a sacrifice on her altar, and I hastened to resign all these glories (which naturally would come to a youngster in a subordinate position at a china factory), and to give myself up to the bliss of possessing her or to the grief of losing her.
I was overwhelmed by a feverish longing to see her, and could not imagine how I should bear to remain the whole evening in solitude, knowing that she was also alone and within a few minutes' walk. Dusk had already fallen, and it did not seem as if I was going to be sent for. Now I realised quite clearly that I had all the time supported myself by the hope that his presence at the Jagemanns' would also make mine necessary.
At last I began to light the lamp, in order to write to my uncle. At the same moment the bell rang.
I placed the globe of the lamp on the table—or rather on the edge of the table, and heard it crash on the floor before I reached the door, which I only just opened. As far as I could make out, I had been interrupted by a coal-heaver. Furious and desperate, I was going to bang my door, when I heard a weak childish voice exchanging some words with the servant, of which one word had a faint resemblance to my name.
I listened breathlessly. Tiny pattering steps approached, and I heard a gentle tap at the door.
Again I opened it; in front of me stood a tiny girl about seven years of age, with a tear-stained face, which I recognised; the child lived in the same house as the Jagemanns, and old Mrs. Jagemann was very interested in her and her little sisters.
"Do you want me, my little friend?"
The child looked down and snuffled.
"Have you any message, or have you brought me something?"
She now howled and rubbed her eyes with the one hand; the other she kept wrapped up in a handkerchief. I dragged her inside.
"But what is it, then? Perhaps you were to bring me a little book?"
But now she absolutely yelled.
"Good gracious, what does it all mean?" I thought, and fidgeted about in impatient despair.
"It's not my fault," she started at last. "I had—I was to—it was the little Jagemann—she gave me the little book, and the big Jagemann gave me a cake—to eat on my way, and then it happened"
I rushed forward and seized my hat. The child took her left hand out of the handkerchief, and stretched out the soiled pocket-book to me.
"Couldn't help it, it was a nasty boy—he pushed me, and then the little book fell—into a pool—ugh! in Dibbels-walder Square—ugh!"
I hastened to find a silver coin, which I pushed into her small wet hand, and flew out at the door past the servant and the coal-heaver, whose laughter followed me down the stairs.
In a few minutes—how precious they all were now!—I reached Seilergasse.