Books: Maurice Guest

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He gave a guilty start, and turned to the stage, where Hunding
had just entered to a pompous measure. In his endeavours to understand
what followed, he was aided by his companions, who prompted him
alternately. But Siegmund's narration seemed endless, and his thoughts
wandered in spite of himself.

"Listen to this," said Dove of a sudden. "It's one of the few songs
Wagner has written." He swayed his head from side to side, to the
opening bars of the love-song; and Maurice found the rhythm so
inviting that he began keeping time with his foot, to the indignation
of a music-loving policeman behind them, who gave an angry: "Pst!"

"One of the finest love-scenes that was ever written," whispered
Madeleine in her decisive way. And Maurice believed her. From this
point on, the music took him up and carried him with it; and when the
great doors burst open, and let in the spring night, he applauded
vigorously with the rest, keeping it up so long that Dove disappeared,
and Madeleine grew impatient.

"Let us go. The interval is none too long."

They went downstairs to the first floor of the building, and entered a
long, broad, brilliantly lighted corridor. Here the majority of the
audience was walking round and round, in a procession of twos and
threes; groups of people also stood at both ends and looked on; others
went in and out of the doors that opened on the great loggia.
Madeleine and Maurice joined the perambulating throng, Madeleine
bowing and smiling to her acquaintances, Maurice eagerly scanning the
faces that came towards him on the opposite side.

Suddenly, a stout gentleman, in gold spectacles, kid gloves tight to
bursting, and a brown frock coat, over the amplitude of which was
slung an opera-glass, started up from a corner, and, seizing both
Madeleine's hands, worked them up and down. At the same time, he made
a ceremonious little speech about the length of time that had elapsed
since their last meeting, and paid her a specious compliment on the
taste she displayed in being present at so serious an opera. Madeleine
laughed, and said a few words in her hard, facile German: the best was
yet to come; "DIE MORAN" was divine as Brunnhilde. Having bowed and
said: "Lohse" to Maurice, the stranger took no further notice of him,
but, drawing Madeleine's hand through his arm, in a manner half
gallant, half paternal, invited her to take ices with him, at the
adjoining buffet.

Maurice remained standing in a corner, scrutinising those who
passed him. He exchanged a few words with one of his companions of the
dinner-table--a small-bodied, big-headed chemical student called
Dickensey, who had a reputation for his cynicism. He had just asked
Maurice whether Siegmund reminded him more of a pork-butcher or a
prizefighter, and had offered to lay a bet that he would never attend
a performance in this theatre when the doors of Hunding's house flew
open, or the sword lit up, at exactly the right moment--when Maurice
caught sight of Dove and the Cayhills. He excused himself, and went to
join them.

Not one of the three looked happy. Johanna was unspeakably bored and
did not conceal it; she gazed with contempt on the noisy, excited
crowd. Dove was not only burning to devote himself to Ephie; he had
also got himself into a dilemma, and was at this moment doing his best
to explain the first act of the opera to Johanna, without touching on
the relationship of the lovers. His face was red with the effort, and
he hailed Maurice's appearance as a welcome diversion. But Ephie, too,
greeted him with pleasure, and touching his arm, drew him back, so
that they dropped behind the others. She was coquettishly dressed this
evening, and looked so charming that people drew one another's
attention to DIE REIZENDE KLEINE ENGLADNDERIN. But Maurice soon
discovered that she was out of spirits, and disposed to be cross. For
fear lest he was the offender, he asked if she had quite forgiven him,
and if they were good friends again. "Oh, I had forgotten all about
it!" But, a moment after, she was grave and quiet--altogether unlike
herself.

"Are you not enjoying yourself, Ephie?"

"No, I'm not. I think it's stupid. And they're all so fat."

This referred to the singers, and was indisputable; Maurice could only
agree with her, and try to rally her. Meanwhile, he continued
surreptitiously to scour the hall, with an evergrowing sense of
disappointment.

Then, suddenly, among those who were passing in the opposite
direction, he saw Louise. In a flash he understood why he had not been
able to find her in the row of seats: he had looked for her in a black
dress, and she was all in white, with heavy white lace at her neck.
Her companion was an Englishman called Eggis, of whom it was rumoured
that he had found it advisable abruptly to leave his native land:
here, he made a precarious living by journalism, and by doing
odd jobs for the consulate. In spite of his shabby clothes, this man,
prematurely bald, with dissipated features, had polished manners and
an air of refinement; and, thoroughly enjoying his position, he was
talking to his companion with vivacity. It was plain that Louise was
only half listening to him; with a faint, absent smile on her lips,
she, too, restlessly scanned the crowd.

They all caught sight of Schilsky at the same moment, and Maurice, on
whom nothing was lost, saw as well the quick look that passed between
Louise and him, and its immediate effect: Louise flashed into a smile,
and was full of gracious attentiveness to the little man at her side.

Schilsky leant against the wall, with his hands in his pockets, his
conspicuous head well back. On entering the FOYER, he had been pounced
on by Miss Jensen. The latter, showily dressed in a large-striped
stuff, had in tow a fellow-singer about half her own size, whom she
was rarely to be seen without; but, on this occasion, the wan little
American stood disconsolately apart, for Miss Jensen was paying no
attention to him. In common with the rest of her sex, she had a
weakness for Schilsky; and besides, on this evening, she needed
specially receptive ears, for she had been studying the role of
Sieglinde, and was full of criticisms and objections. As Ephie and
Maurice passed them, she nodded to the latter and said: "Good evening,
neighbour!" while Schilsky, seizing the chance, broke away, without
troubling to excuse himself. Thus deserted, Miss Jensen detained
Maurice, and so he lost the couple he wanted to keep in sight. But at
the first pause in the conversation, Ephie plucked at his sleeve.

"Let us go out on the balcony."

They went outside on the loggia, where groups of people stood
refreshing themselves in the mild evening air, which was pleasant with
the scent of lilac. Ephie led the way, and Maurice followed her to the
edge of the parapet, where they leaned against one of the pillars.
Here, he found himself again in the neighbourhood of the other two.
Louise, leaning both hands on the stone-work, was looking out over the
square; but Schilsky, lounging as before, with his legs crossed, his
hands in his pockets, had his back to it, and was letting his eyes
range indifferently over the faces before him. As Maurice and Ephie
came up, he yawned long and heartily, and, in so doing, showed all his
defective teeth. Furtively watching them, Maurice saw him lean
towards his companion and say something to her; at the same time, he
touched with his fingertips the lace she wore at the front of her
dress. The familiarity of the action grated on Maurice, and he turned
away his head. When he looked again, a moment or two later, he was
disturbed anew. Louise was leaning forward, still in the same
position, but Schilsky was plainly conversing by means of signs with
some one else. He frowned, half closed his eyes, shook his head, and,
as if by chance, laid a finger on his lips.

"Who's he doing that to?" Maurice asked himself, and followed the
direction of the other's eyes, which were fixed on the corner where he
and Ephie stood. He turned, and looked from side to side; and, as he
did this, he caught a glimpse of Ephie's face, which made him observe
her more nearly: it was flushed, and she was gazing hard at Schilsky.
With a rush of enlightenment, Maurice looked back at the young man,
but this time Schilsky saw that he was being watched; stooping, he
said a nonchalant word to his companion, and thereupon they went
indoors again. All this passed like a flash, but it left, none the
less, a disagreeable impression, and before Maurice had recovered from
it, Ephie said: "Let us go in."

They pressed towards the door.

"I'm poor company to-night, Ephie," he said, feeling already the need
of apologising to her for his ridiculous suspicion. "But you are
quiet, too." He glanced down at her as he spoke, and again was
startled; her expression was set and defiant, but her baby lips
trembled. "What's the matter? I believe you are angry with me for
being so silent."

"I guess it doesn't make any difference to me whether you talk or
not," she replied pettishly. "But I think it's just as dull and stupid
as it can be. I wish I hadn't come."

"Would you like to go home?"

"Of course I wouldn't. I'll stop now I'm here--oh, can't we go quicker?
How slow you are! Do make haste."

He thought he heard tears in her voice, and looked at her in
perplexity. While he contemplated getting her into a quiet corner and
making her tell him truthfully what the matter was, they came upon
Madeleine, who had been searching everywhere for Maurice. Madeleine
had more colour in her cheeks than usual, and, in the pleasing
consciousness that she was having a successful evening, she brought
her good spirits to bear on Ephie, who stood fidgeting beside them.

"You look nice, child," she remarked in her patronising way.
"Your dress is very pretty. But why is your face so red? One would
think you had been crying."

Ephie, growing still redder, tossed her head. "It's no wonder, I'm
sure. The theatre is as hot as an oven. But at least my nose isn't red
as well."

Madeleine was on the point of retorting, but at this moment, the
interval came to an end, and the electric bells rang shrilly. The
people who were nearest the doors went out at once, upstairs and down.
Among the first were Louise and Schilsky, the latter's head as usual
visible above every one else's.

"I will go, too," said Ephie hurriedly. "No, don't bother to come with
me. I'll find my way all right. I guess the others are in front."

"There's something wrong with that child to-night," said Madeleine as
she and Maurice climbed to the gallery. "Pert little thing! But I
suppose even such sparrow-brains have their troubles."

"I suppose they have," said Maurice. He had just realised that the
longed-for interval was over, and with it more of the hopes he had
nursed.

Dove was already in his seat, eating another roll. He moved along to
make room for them, but not a word was to be got out of him, and as
soon as he had finished eating, he raised the opera-glass to his eyes
again. Behind his back, Madeleine whispered a mischievous remark to
Maurice, but the latter smiled wintrily in return. He had searched
swiftly and thoroughly up and down the fourth row of the PARQUET, only
to find that Louise was not in it. This time there could be no doubt
whatever; not a single white dress was in the row, and towards the
middle a seat was vacant. They had gone home then; he would not see
her again--and once more the provoking darkness enveloped the theatre.

This second act had no meaning for him, and he found the various
scenes intolerably long. Dove volunteered no further aid, and
Madeleine's explanations were insufficient; he was perplexed and
bored, and when the curtains fell, joined in the applause merely to
save appearances. The others rose, but he said he would not go
downstairs; and when they had drawn back to let Dove push by and hurry
away, Madeleine said she, too, would stay. However they would at least
go into the corridor, where the air was better. After they had
promenaded several times up and down, they descended to a
lower floor and there, through a little half-moon window that gave on
the FOYER below, they watched the living stream which, underneath, was
going round as before. Madeleine talked without a pause.

"Look at Dove!" She pointed him out as he went by with the two
sisters. "Did you ever see such a gloomy air? He might sit for Werther
to-night. And oh, look, there's Boehmer with his widow--see, the
pretty fattish little woman. She's over forty and has buried two
husbands, but is crazy about Boehmer. They say she's going to marry
him, though he's more than twenty years younger than she is."

At this juncture, to his astonishment, Maurice saw Schilsky and
Louise. He uttered an involuntary exclamation, and Madeleine
understood it. She stopped her gossip to say: "You thought she had
gone, didn't you? Probably she has only changed her seat. They do that
sometimes--he hates PARQUET." And, after a pause: "How cross she looks!
She's evidently in a temper about something. I never saw people hide
their feelings as badly as they do. It's positively indecent."

Her strictures were justifiable; as long as the two below were in
sight, and as often as they came round, they did not exchange word or
look with each other. Schilsky frowned sulkily, and his loose-knitted
body seemed to hang together more loosely than usual, while as for
Louise--Maurice staring hard from his point of vantage could not have
believed it possible for her face to change in this way. She looked
suddenly older, and very tired; and her mobile mouth was hard.

When, an hour later, after a tedious colloquy between Brunnhilde and
Wotan, this long and disappointing evening came to an end, to the more
human strains of the FEUERZAUBER, and they, the last of the
gallery-audience to leave, had tramped down the wooden stairs,
Maurice's heart leapt to his throat to discover, as they turned the
last bend, not only the two Cayhills waiting for them, but also, a
little distance further off, Louise. She stood there, in her white
dress, with a thin scarf over her head.

Madeleine was surprised too. "Louise! Is it you? And alone?"

The girl did not respond. "I want to borrow some money from you,
Madeleine--about five or six marks," she said, without smiling, in one
of those colourless voices that preclude further questioning.

Madeleine was not sure if she had more than a couple of marks
in her purse, and confirmed this on looking through it under a lamp;
but both young men put their hands in their pockets, and the required
sum was made up. As they walked across the square, Louise explained.
Dressed, and ready to start for the theatre, she had not been able to
find her purse.

"I looked everywhere. And yet I had it only this morning. At the last
moment, I came down here to Markwald's. He knows me; and he let me
have the seats on trust. I said I would go in afterwards."

They waited outside the tobacconist's, while she settled her debt.
Before she came out again, Madeleine cast her eyes over the group,
and, having made a rapid surmise, said good-naturedly to Johanna:
"Well, I suppose we shall walk together as far as we can. Shall you
and I lead off?"

Maurice had a sudden vision of bliss; but no sooner had Louise
appeared again, with the shopman bowing behind her, then Ephie came
round to his side, with a naive, matter-of-course air that admitted of
no rebuff, and asked him to carry her opera-glass. Dove and Louise
brought up the rear.

But Dove had only one thought: to be in Maurice's place. Ephie had
behaved so strangely in the theatre; he had certainly done something
to offend her, and, although he had more than once gone over his
conduct of the past week, without finding any want of correctness on
his part, whatever it was, he must make it good without delay.

"You know my friend Guest, I think," he said at last, having racked
his brains to no better result--not for the world would he have had his
companion suspect his anxiety to leave her. "He's a clever fellow, a
very clever fellow. Schwarz thinks a great deal of him. I wonder what
his impressions of the opera were. This was his first experience of
Wagner; it would be interesting to hear what he has to say."

Louise was moody and preoccupied, but Dove's words made her smile.

"Let us ask him," she said.

They quickened their steps and overtook the others. And when Dove,
without further ado, had marched round to Ephie's side, Louise, left
slightly to herself, called Maurice back to her.

"Mr. Guest, we want your opinion of the WALKURE."

Confused to find her suddenly beside him, Maurice was still more
disconcerted at the marked way in which she slackened her pace
to let the other two get in front. Believing, too, that he heard a
note of mockery in her voice, he coloured and hesitated. Only a moment
ago he had had several things worth saying on his tongue; now they
would not out. He stammered a few words, and broke down in them
half-way. She said nothing, and after one of the most embarrassing
pauses he had ever experienced, he avowed in a burst of forlorn
courage: "To tell the truth, I did not hear much of the music."

But Louise, who had merely exchanged one chance companion for another,
did not ask the reason, or display any interest in his confession, and
they went on in silence. Maurice looked stealthily at her: her white
scarf had slipped back and her wavy head was bare. She had not heard
what he said, he told himself; her thoughts had nothing to do with
him. But as he stole glances at her thus, unreproved, he wakened to a
sudden consciousness of what was happening to him: here and now, after
long weeks of waiting, he was walking at her side; he knew her, was
alone with her, in the summer darkness, and, though a cold hand
gripped his throat at the thought, he took the resolve not to let this
moment pass him by, empty-handed. He must say something that would
rouse her to the fact of his existence; something that would linger in
her mind, and make her remember him when he was not there. But they
were half way down the GRIMMAISCHESTRASSE; at the end, where the
PETERSTRASSE crossed it, Dove and the Cayhills would branch off, and
Madeleine return to them. He had no time to choose his phrases.

"When I was introduced to you this afternoon, Miss Dufrayer, you did
not know who I was," he said bluntly. "But I knew you very well--by
sight, I mean, of course. I have seen you often--very often."

He had done what he had hoped to do, had arrested her attention. She
turned and considered him, struck by the tone in which he spoke.

"The first time I saw you," continued Maurice, with the same show of
boldness--"you, of course, will not remember it. It was one evening in
Schwarz's room--in April--months ago. And since then, I . . . well . . .
I----"

She was gazing at him now, in surprise. She remembered at this minute,
how once before, that day, his manner of saying some simple thing had
affected her disagreeably. Then, she had eluded the matter with an
indifferent word; now, she was not in a mood to do this, or in
a mood to show leniency. She was dispirited, at war with herself, and
she welcomed the excuse to vent her own bitterness on another.

"And since then--well?"

"Since then . . . "He hesitated, and gave a nervous laugh at his own
daring. "Since then . . . well, I have thought about you more
than--than is good for my peace of mind."

For a moment amazement kept her silent; then she, too, laughed, and
the walls of the dark houses they were passing seemed to the young man
to re-echo the sound.

"Your peace of mind!"

She repeated the words after him, with such an ironical emphasis that
his unreflected courage curled and shrivelled. He wished the ground
had swallowed him up before he had said them. For, as they fell from
her lips, the audacity he had been guilty of, and the absurdity that
was latent in the words themselves, struck him in the face like
pellets of hail.

"Your peace of mind! What has your peace of mind to do with me?" she
cried, growing extravagantly angry. "I never saw you in my life till
to-day; I may never see you again, and it is all the same to me
whether I do or not.--Oh, my own peace of mind, as you call it, is
quite hard enough to take care of, without having a stranger's thrown
at me! What do you mean by making me responsible for it! I have never
done anything to you."

All the foolish castles Maurice had built came tumbling about his
cars. He grew pale and did not venture to look at her.

"Make you responsible! Oh, how can you misunderstand me so cruelly!"

His consternation was so palpable that it touched her in spite of
herself. Her face had been as naively miserable as a child's, now it
softened, and she spoke more kindly.

"Don't mind what I say. To-night I am tired . . . have a headache . . .
anything you like."

A wave of compassion drowned his petty feelings of injury, and his
sympathy found vent in a few inadequate words.

"Help me?--you?" She laughed, in an unhappy way. "To help, one must
understand, and you couldn't understand though you tried. All you
others lead such quiet lives; you know nothing of what goes on in a
life like mine. Every day I ask myself why I have not thrown myself
out of the window, or over one of the bridges into the river,
and put an end to it."

Wrapped up though she was in herself, she could not help smiling at
his frank gesture of dismay.

"Don't be afraid," she said, and the smile lingered on her lips. "I
shall never do it. I'm too fond of life, and too afraid of death. But
at least," she caught herself up again, "you will see how ridiculous
it is for you to talk to me of your peace of mind. Peace of mind! I
have never even been passably content. Something is always wanting.
To-night, for instance, I feel so much energy in me, and I can make
nothing of it--nothing! If I were a man, I should walk for hours,
bareheaded, through the woods. But to be a woman . . . to be cooped up
inside four walls . . . when the night itself is not large enough to
hold it all!----"

She threw out her hands to emphasise her helplessness, then let them
drop to her sides again. There was a silence, for Maurice could not
think of anything to say; her fluency made him tongue-tied. He
struggled with his embarrassment until they were all but within
earshot of the rest, at the bottom of the street.

"If I . . . if you would let me . . . There is nothing in the world I
wouldn't do to help you," he ended fervently.

She did not reply; they had reached the corner where the others
waited. There was a general leave-taking. Through a kind of mist,
Maurice saw that Ephie's face still wore a hostile look; and she
hardly moved her lips when she bade him good-night.

Madeleine drew her own conclusions as she walked the rest of the way
home between two pale and silent people. She had seen, on coming out
of the theatre, that Louise was in one of her bad moods--a fact easily
to be accounted for by Schilsky's absence. Maurice had evidently been
made to suffer under it, too, for not a syllable was to be drawn from
him, and, after several unavailing attempts she let him alone.

As they crossed the ROSSPLATZ, which lay wide and deserted in the
starlight, Louise said abruptly: "Suppose, instead of going home, we
walk to Connewitz?"

At this proposal, and at Maurice's seconding of it, Madeleine laughed
with healthy derision.

"That is just like one of your crazy notions," she said "What a
creature you are! For my part, I decline with thanks. I have to get a
Moscheles ETUDE ready by to-morrow afternoon, and need all my
wits. But don't let me hinder you. Walk to Grimma if you want to."

"What do you say? Shall you and I go on?" Louise turned to Maurice;
and the young man did not know whether she spoke in jest or in
earnest.

Madeleine knew her better. "Louise!" she said warningly. "Maurice has
work to do to-morrow, too."

"You thought I meant it," said the girl, and laughed so ungovernably
that Madeleine was again driven to remonstrance.

"For goodness' sake, be quiet! We shall have a policeman after us, if
you laugh like that."

Nothing more was said until they stood before the housedoor in the
BRUDERSTRASSE. There Louise, who had lapsed once more into her former
indifference, asked Madeleine to come upstairs with her.

"I will look for the purse again; and then I can give you what I owe
you. Or else I am sure to forget. Oh, it's still early; and the night
is so long. No one can think of sleep yet."

Madeleine was not a night-bird, but she was also not averse to having
a debt paid. Louise looked from her to Maurice. "Will you come, too,
Mr. Guest? It will only take a few minutes," she said, and, seeing his
unhappy face, and remembering what had passed between them, she spoke
more gently than she had yet done.

Maurice felt that he ought to refuse; it was late. But Madeleine
answered for him. "Of course. Come along, Maurice," and he crossed the
threshold behind them.

After lighting a taper, they entered a paved vestibule, and mounted a
flight of broad and very shallow stairs; half-way up, there was a deep
recess for pot-plants, and a wooden seat was attached to the wall. The
house had been a fine one in its day; it was solidly built, had
massive doors with heavy brass fittings, and thick mahogany banisters.
On the first floor were two doors, a large and a small one, side by
side. Louise unlocked the larger, and they stepped into a commodious
lobby, off which several rooms opened. She led the way to the furthest
of these, and entered in front of her companions.