In a German Pension [36]
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.
"But--pardon--one moment." He moved from the door lintel, standing squarely in front of her. He unbuttoned his greatcoat and drew a slip of paper from the breast pocket, smoothing it in his gloved fingers before handing it to her.
"Yes, that's the address, right enough, but there must be a mistake in the number. So many lodging-houses in this street, you know, and so big."
Drops of water fell from her hair on to the paper. She burst out laughing. "Oh, HOW dreadful I must look--one moment!" She ran back to the washstand and caught up a towel. The door was still open...After all, there was nothing more to be said. Why on earth had she asked him to wait a moment? She folded the towel round her shoulders, and returned to the door, suddenly grave. "I'm sorry; I know no such name" in a sharp voice.
Said the strange man: "Sorry, too. Have you been living here long?"
"Er--yes--a long time." She began to close the door slowly.
"Well--good-morning, thanks so much. Hope I haven't been a bother."
"Good-morning."
She heard him walk down the passage and then pause--lighting a cigarette. Yes--a faint scent of delicious cigarette smoke penetrated her room. She sniffed at it, smiling again. Well, that had been a fascinating interlude! He looked so amazingly happy: his heavy clothes and big buttoned gloves; his beautifully brushed hair...and that smile..."Jolly" was the word--just a well-fed boy with the world for his playground. People like that did one good--one felt "made over" at the sight of them. SANE they were--so sane and solid. You could depend on them never having one mad impulse from the day they were born until the day they died. And Life was in league with them--jumped them on her knee--quite rightly, too. At that moment she noticed Casimir's letter, crumpled up on the floor--the smile faded. Staring at the letter she began braiding her hair--a dull feeling of rage crept through her--she seemed to be braiding it into her brain, and binding it, tightly, above her head...Of course that had been the mistake all along. What had? Oh, Casimir's frightful seriousness. If she had been happy when they first met she never would have looked at him--but they had been like two patients in the same hospital ward--each finding comfort in the sickness of the other--sweet foundation for a love episode! Misfortune had knocked their heads together: they had looked at each other, stunned with the conflict and sympathised..."I wish I could step outside the whole affair and just judge it--then I'd find a way out. I certainly was in love with Casimir...Oh, be sincere for once." She flopped down on the bed and hid her face in the pillow. "I was not in love. I wanted somebody to look after me--and keep me until my work began to sell--and he kept bothers with other men away. And what would have happened if he hadn't come along? I would have spent my wretched little pittance, and then--Yes, that was what decided me, thinking about that 'then.' He was the only solution. And I believed in him then. I thought his work had only to be recognised once, and he'd roll in wealth. I thought perhaps we might be poor for a month-- but he said, if only he could have me, the stimulus...Funny, if it wasn't so damned tragic! Exactly the contrary has happened--he hasn't had a thing published for months--neither have I--but then I didn't expect to. Yes, the truth is, I'm hard and bitter, and I have neither faith nor love for unsuccessful men. I always end by despising them as I despise Casimir. I suppose it's the savage pride of the female who likes to think the man to whom she
"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.
"But--pardon--one moment." He moved from the door lintel, standing squarely in front of her. He unbuttoned his greatcoat and drew a slip of paper from the breast pocket, smoothing it in his gloved fingers before handing it to her.
"Yes, that's the address, right enough, but there must be a mistake in the number. So many lodging-houses in this street, you know, and so big."
Drops of water fell from her hair on to the paper. She burst out laughing. "Oh, HOW dreadful I must look--one moment!" She ran back to the washstand and caught up a towel. The door was still open...After all, there was nothing more to be said. Why on earth had she asked him to wait a moment? She folded the towel round her shoulders, and returned to the door, suddenly grave. "I'm sorry; I know no such name" in a sharp voice.
Said the strange man: "Sorry, too. Have you been living here long?"
"Er--yes--a long time." She began to close the door slowly.
"Well--good-morning, thanks so much. Hope I haven't been a bother."
"Good-morning."
She heard him walk down the passage and then pause--lighting a cigarette. Yes--a faint scent of delicious cigarette smoke penetrated her room. She sniffed at it, smiling again. Well, that had been a fascinating interlude! He looked so amazingly happy: his heavy clothes and big buttoned gloves; his beautifully brushed hair...and that smile..."Jolly" was the word--just a well-fed boy with the world for his playground. People like that did one good--one felt "made over" at the sight of them. SANE they were--so sane and solid. You could depend on them never having one mad impulse from the day they were born until the day they died. And Life was in league with them--jumped them on her knee--quite rightly, too. At that moment she noticed Casimir's letter, crumpled up on the floor--the smile faded. Staring at the letter she began braiding her hair--a dull feeling of rage crept through her--she seemed to be braiding it into her brain, and binding it, tightly, above her head...Of course that had been the mistake all along. What had? Oh, Casimir's frightful seriousness. If she had been happy when they first met she never would have looked at him--but they had been like two patients in the same hospital ward--each finding comfort in the sickness of the other--sweet foundation for a love episode! Misfortune had knocked their heads together: they had looked at each other, stunned with the conflict and sympathised..."I wish I could step outside the whole affair and just judge it--then I'd find a way out. I certainly was in love with Casimir...Oh, be sincere for once." She flopped down on the bed and hid her face in the pillow. "I was not in love. I wanted somebody to look after me--and keep me until my work began to sell--and he kept bothers with other men away. And what would have happened if he hadn't come along? I would have spent my wretched little pittance, and then--Yes, that was what decided me, thinking about that 'then.' He was the only solution. And I believed in him then. I thought his work had only to be recognised once, and he'd roll in wealth. I thought perhaps we might be poor for a month-- but he said, if only he could have me, the stimulus...Funny, if it wasn't so damned tragic! Exactly the contrary has happened--he hasn't had a thing published for months--neither have I--but then I didn't expect to. Yes, the truth is, I'm hard and bitter, and I have neither faith nor love for unsuccessful men. I always end by despising them as I despise Casimir. I suppose it's the savage pride of the female who likes to think the man to whom she