I leaned over and touched the Advanced Lady's hand. 'Hasn't it been a nice afternoon?' I said questioningly. 'But you know, that theory of yours about women and Love—it's as old as the hills—oh, older!'
From the road a sudden shout of triumph. Yes, there he was again—white beard, silk handkerchief and undaunted enthusiasm.
'What did I say? Eight kilometres—it is!'
'Seven and a half!' shrieked Herr Erchardt.
'Why, then, do you return in carts? Eight kilometres it must be.'
Herr Erchardt made a cup of his hands and stood up in the jolting cart while Frau Kellermann clung to his knees. 'Seven and a half!'
'Ignorance must not go uncontradicted!' I said to the Advanced Lady.
12. THE SWING OF THE PENDULUM.
The landlady knocked at the door.
'Come in,' said Viola.
'There is a letter for you,' said the landlady, 'a special letter'—she held the green envelope in a corner of her dingy apron.
'Thanks.' Viola, kneeling on the floor, poking at the little dusty stove, stretched out her hand. 'Any answer?'
'No; the messenger has gone.'
'Oh, all right!' She did not look the landlady in the face; she was ashamed of not having paid her rent, and wondered grimly, without any hope, if the woman would begin to bluster again.
'About this money owing to me—' said the landlady.
'Oh, the Lord—off she goes!' thought Viola, turning her back on the woman and making a grimace at the stove.
'It's settle—or it's go!' The landlady raised her voice; she began to bawl. 'I'm a landlady, I am, and a respectable woman, I'll have you know. I'll have no lice in my house, sneaking their way into the furniture and eating up everything. It's cash—or out you go before twelve o'clock to-morrow.'
Viola felt rather than saw the woman's gesture. She shot out her arm in a stupid helpless way, as though a dirty pigeon had suddenly flown at her face. 'Filthy old beast! Ugh! And the smell of her—like stale cheese and damp washing.'
'Very well!' she answered shortly; 'it's cash down or I leave to-morrow. All right: don't shout.'
It was extraordinary—always before this woman came near her she trembled in her shoes—even the sound of those flat feet stumping up the stairs made her feel sick, but once they were face to face she felt immensely calm and indifferent, and could not understand why she even worried about money, nor why she sneaked out of the house on tiptoe, not even daring to shut the door after her in case the landlady should hear and shout something terrible, nor why she spent nights pacing up and down her room—drawing up sharply before the mirror and saying to a tragic reflection: 'Money, money, money!' When she was alone her poverty was like a huge dream-mountain on which her feet were fast rooted—aching with the ache of the size of the thing—but if it came to definite action, with no time for imaginings, her dream-mountain dwindled into a beastly 'hold-your-nose' affair, to be passed as quickly as possible, with anger and a strong sense of superiority.
The landlady bounced out of the room, banging the door, so that it shook and rattled as though it had listened to the conversation and fully sympathised with the old hag.
Squatting on her heels, Viola opened the letter. It was from Casimir:
'I shall be with you at three o'clock this afternoon—and must be off again this evening. All news when we meet. I hope you are happier than I.—CASIMIR.'
'Huh! how kind!' she sneered; 'how condescending. Too good of you, really!' She sprang to her feet, crumbling the letter in her hands. 'And how are you to know that I shall stick here awaiting your pleasure until three o'clock this afternoon?' But she knew she would; her rage was only half sincere. She longed to see Casimir, for she was confident that this time she would make him understand the situation... 'For, as it is, it's intolerable—intolerable!' she muttered.
It was ten o'clock in the morning of a grey day curiously lighted by pale flashes of sunshine. Searched by these flashes her room looked tumbled and grimed. She pulled down the window-blinds—but they gave a persistent, whitish glare which was just as bad. The only thing of life in the room was a jar of hyacinths given her by the landlady's daughter: it stood on the table exuding a sickly perfume from its plump petals; there were even rich buds unfolding, and the leaves shone like oil.
Viola went over to the washstand, poured some water into the enamel basin, and sponged her face and neck. She dipped her face into the water, opened her eyes, and shook her head from side to side—it was exhilarating. She did it three times. 'I suppose I could drown myself if I stayed under long enough,' she thought. 'I wonder how long it takes to become unconscious?... Often read of women drowning in a bucket. I wonder if any air enters by the ears—if the basin would have to be as deep as a bucket?' She experimented—gripped the washstand with both hands and slowly sank her head into the water, when again there was a knock on the door. Not the landlady this time—it must be Casimir. With her face and hair dripping, with her petticoat bodice unbuttoned, she ran and opened it.
A strange man stood against the lintel—seeing her, he opened his eyes very wide and smiled delightfully. 'Excuse me—does Fraulein Schafer live here?'
'No; never heard of her.' His smile was so infectious, she wanted to smile too—and the water had made her feel so fresh and rosy.
The strange man appeared overwhelmed with astonishment. 'She doesn't?' he cried. 'She is out, you mean!'
'No, she's not living here,' answered Viola.
