She sank down upon a stool, and took the letter from her bosom which he had given her yesterday over the garden wall. She already knew it by heart, but she liked to see the trace of the loved hand.
“Why did you not try to let me know that you would be at the station? You could have written quite safely to Schönau; it was mere chance that I came by that train—mere chance that I made acquaintance with your cousin in the carriage. How can we ever get on, how can we even prolong our present miserable existence, if we leave everything to chance? If we do not struggle for our happiness by boldly meeting our cruel fate? As it was, I had to find some excuse for tumbling head over heels out of the carriage; and how easily I might have missed you, or found you with your father, and then there would have been another opportunity lost! I hope now things may be a little better. Your cousin is, so he told me, acquainted with my sister, and she herself explained how they had made acquaintance on the road, and he made himself extremely useful to the party. My sister speaks of him very highly, and assures me that my father is delighted with him. He will, of course, call upon my father; at all events I shall come and thank my ‘comrade’ for the service he has done my belongings, either commissioned by Elsa and my father, or without any commission at all—leave that to me. At all events it will give us an opening that will be very useful, as your cousin seems a pleasant fellow, with whom little ceremony will be necessary. Get on good terms with him, and make use of ‘my cousin’ to take you out walking and to concerts, theatres, and exhibitions. By the way, go tomorrow—splendid opportunity—to the Exhibition. I shall only be on duty till , so perhaps at I may persuade Elsa to go, as she has already expressed a wish to do so. I can take the opportunity of introducing you to her all the more easily that we were formally introduced yesterday; so be prepared for it. I write these lines, as usual, in flying haste, during the few minutes that I dare steal away from the family circle; forgive such a scrawl. I kiss your lovely hand now in my thoughts as I did erewhile when you gave it me over the garden wall for the first time—not for the last, I swear!” …
She let the letter fall into her lap. And no word of his father! not a word that could show that he was in earnest, in real earnest; that he would at least make an attempt to free them from their present humiliating situation! And he knew nothing yet of last night’s scene! She crumpled up the paper which lay under one hand, and seizing it the next moment with both hands covered it with kisses, smoothed it carefully out, and replacing it in her bosom, laid her hot forehead upon the marble slab of the little table.
“Una febbre che mi divora,” she murmured; “il sangue mi abbrucia, il cervello mi si spezza—sono stanca di questa vita! Yes, yes!” she cried, starting up, “I am tired of this life, which is no life at all, but a hideous mockery of life, a death before death—worse—a living grave! I will force my way out of this ghastly tomb, or die by my own hand!”
She walked up and down the room, wringing her hands and sobbing, now throwing herself upon a chair and gazing wildly before her, now starting up and again wandering about with gestures of despair. The loud clang of the great bell caught her attention for a moment. She knew that it was something quite unusual—perhaps some great accident had happened: a boiler burst, the saws of one of the machines bent, and the wall to which it was fastened pulled down and in ruins, as had happened a few months ago; perhaps a fire—what did it signify to her whether people were crushed and killed, or all burnt together? Was not she broken and wounded in soul and body, wandering amongst the ruins of the happiness which had never existed except in her dreams! A despairing woman, to whom a hair shirt would be suitable and ashes on her head, that head that she had once carried so proudly—like her father! It was all his fault. He it was, who had declared war between them! And he did not know yet; but the hour was coming soon, even today if she were followed—and then?
She had lain awake the whole night thinking over that question; she had racked her mind over it the whole morning. And then? and then?
How could she alone find an answer without him? And he—he! When last night she described in a few hasty words the scene that had taken place at table, had he given the one only answer that she had expected—“Then we must try to settle it without our fathers’ consent!” He had answered nothing, not a word! and his silence confirmed what she had most feared—the only thing that she had feared and dreaded—that he was not prepared to carry the matter out to the last, to its extreme end—that he did not love her as she loved him!
Of what use were her courage and determination? She was helpless! She—helpless!
She stood still before a looking-glass which she was just passing. She examined her face, her figure as though she were the model whom she had ordered for the next day, and wished to see whether the form thus reflected were really what it laid claim to
