“You dreamed”, I interrupted her, “that you took this temporary position? Such things do happen occasionally.”
“No; that wasn’t it.”
“What then?”
“I have been ordered to help.”
I gave a start, “How do you mean?”
She looked at me with a tormented expression on her face:
“You must forgive me. I’m talking nonsense. Sometimes I have to struggle with my imagination. But it is of no importance. I must get down to my work now. Please excuse me for taking up your time.”
She turned quicky to leave the room. I caught her by the hand, perhaps a little too violently, for the pressure of my fingers around her wrist seemed to cause her some alarm. She gave a jerk, as if struck by an electric current, and then stood there, limp. In total submission, she left her hand in mine; her features underwent an odd transformation, her eyes became unfocused. I could not understand what was happening to her, but I found myself in the grip of a bizarre fancy: I have already experienced all this, right down to the last detail, so many – how many? – years ago. Without thinking what I was doing or saying, I gently forced her down into the chair by the desk. I kept hold of her hand and the words seemed to form on my lips of their own accord:
“There are times, Frau Fromm, when we all have to struggle with our imaginations. You say you want to help me. Let us help each other. You see, for the last few days I have been struggling with the idea that I am my own ancestor, an Englishman from the ...”
She interrupted my with a soft cry. I looked up. She was staring at me.
“What is upsetting you?” I broke off. For the space of a few seconds her stare, which seemed to go right through me, was uncanny and glowed like a burning coal within.
Frau Fromm nodded absent-mindedly and replied:
“I was in England once. I was married to an old Englishman – –“
“Is that all?” – I had to smile and felt a sense of relief, though I could not have said why. At the same time I was surprised that such a young woman should already have two marriages behind her – “You were married to someone in England before you married Dr. Fromm?”
She shook her head.
“– – or Dr. Fromm himself was...? Forgive me for asking such a personal question, but I know nothing about your past life.”
She gave a vigourously dismissive wave of her hand.
“Dr. Fromm was my husband for a very short time. It was a mistake. He died soon after we separated. He wasn’t English and had never been to England.”
“And your first husband?”
“I married Dr. Fromm when I was eighteen, straight from school. I have not been married again.”
“But I don’t understand. My dear Frau Fromm ...”
“I don’t understand it, either,” she said, with a tormented expression as she turned her face towards me, as if appealing for help. “It was on the day of my wedding to Dr. Fromm that I realised that – – that I belong to another”
“To an old Englishman, you said. Good. – Was he a childhood friend; someone you met as a young girl?”
She nodded her head vehemently then looked bewildered again.
“It’s not like that at all. It’s quite different.”
She pulled herself together in the armchair – it obviously cost a great effort – withdrew her hand from my clasp, straightened up and spoke in a monotone, as if it were something she had learnt by heart; I have noted down the main points:
“I was an only child. My family was quite well-off. My father was a tenant farmer in Styria. Later he had some bad luck and we became poor. As a child I went on several short journeys, but never outside Austria. Before I married I had only once been to Vienna. That was the longest journey I had made. But as a child I often dreamed of a house in an area which I had never seen with my waking eye. And I knew: the house and the countryside are in England. How it was I was so sure, I cannot say. The obvious answer would be to put it all down to childish imagination, but several times I described the landscapes I dreamed of to a distant relative of ours who worked for a while on our farm; he was half English, had been brought up in England, and he said I must have been dreaming of the Scottish hills or of Richmond: my descriptions suited those two places precisely, except that the buildings were not at all as old-fashioned as I described them. Since then my dreams have had an odd confirmation, if you can call it that, from another side. Another dream I often had as a child was of an old, gloomy city; the image was so sharp and detailed that I could walk around in it and find my way easily to particular streets, squares and houses. And I always found what I was looking for so that it was hard to say it was only a dream. Our relative did not know this city and said he was sure it was not in England at all. It must be an old city on the continent. It lay on either side of a largish river and the two parts were connected by an old stone bridge which was guarded on both sides by dark fortified gates. Above the tightly-packed jumble of houses on one bank there rose a hill with a mighty castle towering over its tree-covered slopes.. One day I was told it was Prague, but many of the details, which I could describe precisely, had disappeared or been changed, although many of the things I knew corresponded to an old map. To this very day I have never been to Prague and I am afraid
