Ulrica. She must manage to bring in Ulrica without giving her anything to do. Just to have her to look at. The height of darkened room above her rose to a sky. An animated discussion, led by Bertha Martin, was going on in the hall.
They had chosen “beehive.” It would be a catch. Fräulein was always calling them her Bienenkorb and the girls would guess Bienenkorb and not discover that they were meant to say the English word.
“The old things can’t possibly get it. It’ll be a lark, just for the end,” said Jimmie.
“No.” Miriam announced radiantly. “They’d hate a sell. We’ll have Romeo.”
“That’ll be awfully long. Four bits altogether, if they don’t guess from the syllables,” objected Solomon wearily.
Rapidly planning farcical scenes for the syllables she carried her tired troupe to a vague appreciation of the final tableau for Ulrica. Shrouding the last syllable beyond recognition, she sent a messenger to the audience through the hall door of the Saal to beg for Ulrica.
Ulrica came, serenely wondering, her great eyes alight with her evening’s enjoyment and was induced by Miriam.
“You’ve only to stand and look down—nothing else.” To mount the schoolroom table in the dimness and standing with her hands on the back of a draped chair to gaze down at Romeo’s upturned face.
Bertha Martin’s pale profile, with her fair hair drawn back and tied at the nape of her neck and a loose cloak round her shoulders would, it was agreed, make the best presentation of a youth they could contrive, and Miriam arranged her, turning her upturned face so that the audience would catch its clear outline. But at the last minute, urged by Solomon’s disapproval of the scene, Bertha withdrew. Miriam put on the cloak, lifted its collar to hide her hair and standing with her back to the audience flung up her hands towards Ulrica as the gas behind the little schoolroom door was turned slowly up. Standing motionless, gazing at the pale oval face bending gravely towards her from the gloom, she felt for a moment the radiance of stars above her and heard the rustle of leaves. Then the guessing voices broke from the Saal. “Ach! ach! Wie schön! Romeo! That is beautifoll. Romeo! Who is our Romeo?” and Fräulein’s smiling, singing, affectionate voice, “Who is Romeo! The rascal!”
Taking the top flight three stairs at a time Miriam reached the garret first and began running about the room at a quick trot with her fists closed, arms doubled and elbows back. The high garret looked wonderfully friendly and warm in the light of her single candle. It seemed full of approving voices. Perhaps one day she would go on the stage. Eve always said so.
People always liked her if she let herself go. She would let herself go more in future at Waldstraße.
It was so jolly being at Waldstraße.
“Qu’est-ce que vous avez?” appealed Mademoiselle, laughing at the door with open face. Miriam continued her trot. Mademoiselle put the candle down on the dressing table and began to run, too, in little quick dancing steps, her wincey skirt billowing out all round her. Their shadows bobbed and darted, swelling and shrinking on the plaster walls. Soon breathless, Mademoiselle sank down on the side of her bed, panting and volleying raillery and broken tinkles of laughter at Miriam standing goose-stepping on the strip of matting with an open umbrella held high over her head. Recovering breath, she began to lament. … Miriam had not during the whole evening of dressing up seen the Martins’ summer hats. … They were wonderful. Shutting her umbrella Miriam went to her dressing table drawer. … It would be impossible, absolutely impossible … to imagine hats more beautiful. … Miriam sat on her own bed punctuating through a paper-covered comb. … Mademoiselle persisted … non, écoutez—figurez-vous—the hats were of a pale straw … the colour of pepper … “Bee …” responded the comb on a short low wheeze. “And the trimming—oh, of a charm that no one could describe.” … “Beem!” squeaked the comb … “stalks of barley” … “beem-beem” … “of a perfect naturalness” … “and the flowers, poppies, of a beauty”—“bee‑eeem-beeem” … “oh, oh, vraiment”—Mademoiselle buried her face in her pillow and put her fingers to her ears.
Miriam began playing very softly “The March of the Men of Harlech,” and got to her feet and went marching gently round the room near the walls. Sitting up, Mademoiselle listened. Presently she rounded her eyes and pointed with one finger to the dim roof of the attic.
“Les toiles d’araignées auront peur!” she whispered.
Miriam ceased playing and her eyes went up to the little window frames high in the wall, farthest away from the island made by their two little beds and the matting and toilet chests and scarcely visible in the flickering candlelight, and came back to Mademoiselle’s face.
“Les toiles d’araignées,” she breathed, straining her eyes to their utmost size. They gazed at each other. “Les toiles …”
Mademoiselle’s laughter came first. They sat holding each other’s eyes, shaken with laughter, until Mademoiselle said, sighing brokenly, “Et c’est la cloche qui va sonner immédiatement.” As they undressed, she went on talking—“the night comes … the black night … we must sleep … we must sleep in peace … we are safe … we are protected … nous craignons Dieu, n’est ce pas?” Miriam was shocked to find her at her elbow, in her nightgown, speaking very
