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Madeleine did not look up till she had finished her letter and addressed
the envelope. Maurice had shut his eyes.

"Are you asleep?" she roused him. "Or only tired?"

"I've a headache."

"I'll make you some tea."

He watched her preparing it, and, by the time she handed him his cup, he
was in the right mood for making her his confidant.

"Look here, Madeleine," he said; "I came up to-night--The fact is, I've
done a foolish thing. And I want to talk to some one about it."

Her eyes grew more alert.

"Let me see if I can help you."

He shook his head. "I'm afraid you can't. But first of all, tell me
frankly, how you thought I got on last night."

"How you got on?" echoed Madeleine, unclear what this was to lead to.
"Why, all right, of course.--Oh, well, if you insist on the truth!--The
fact is, Maurice, you did no better and no worse than the majority of
those who fill the ABEND programmes. What you didn't do, was to reach the
standard your friends had set up for you."

"Thanks. Now listen," and he related to her in detail his misadventure of
the afternoon.

Madeleine followed with close attention. But more distinctly than what he
said, she heard what he did not say. His account of the two last days,
with the unintentional sidelight it threw on just those parts he wished to
keep in darkness, made her aware how complicated and involved his life had
become. But before he finished speaking, she brought all her practical
intelligence to bear on what he said.

"Maurice!" she exclaimed, with a consternation that was three parts
genuine. "I should like to shake you. How COULD you!--what induced you to
do such a foolish thing?" And, as he did not speak: "If only you had come
to me before, instead of after! I should have said: hold what ridiculous
opinions you like yourself, but for goodness' sake keep clear of Schwarz
with them. Yes, ridiculous, and offensive, too. Anyone would have taken
your talk about being dissatisfied just as he did. And after the way he
has been treated of late, he's of course doubly touchy."

"I knew that, when it was too late. But I meant merely to speak straight
out to him, Madeleine--one man to another. You surely don't want to say
he's incapable of allowing one to have an independent opinion? If that's
the case, then he's nothing but the wretched little tyrant Heinz declares
him to be."

"Wait till you have taught as long as he has," said Madeleine, and, at his
muttered: "God forbid!" she continued with more warmth: "You'll know then,
too, that it doesn't matter whether your pupils have opinions or not. He
has seen this kind of thing scores of times before, and knows it must be
kept down."

She paused, and looked at him. "To get on in life, one must have a certain
amount of tact. You are too naive, Maurice, too unsuspecting--one of those
people who would like to carry on social intercourse on a basis of
absolute truth, and then be surprised that it came to an end. You are
altogether a very difficult person to deal with. You are either too
candid, or too reserved. There's no middle way in you. I haven't the least
doubt that Schwarz finds you both perplexing and irritating; he takes the
candour for impertinence, and the reserve for distrust."

Maurice smiled faintly. "Go on--don't spare me. No one ever
troubled before to tell me my failings."

"Oh, I'm quite in earnest. As I look at it, it's entirely your own fault
that you don't stand better with Schwarz. You have never condescended to
humour him, as you ought to have done. You thought it was enough to be
truthful and honest, and to leave the rest to him. Well, it wasn't. I
won't hear a word against Schwarz; he's goodness itself to those who
deserve it. A little bluff and rude at times; but he's too busy to go
about in kid gloves for fear of hurting sensitive people's feelings."

"Why did you never take private lessons from him?" was her next question.
"I told you months ago, you remember, that you ought to.--Oh, yes, you
said they were too expensive, I know, but you could have scraped a few
marks together somehow. You managed to buy books, and books were quite
unnecessary. One lesson a fortnight would have brought you' more into
touch with Schwarz than all you have had in the class. As it is, you don't
know him any better than he knows you. "And as she refilled his tea-cup,
she added: "You quoted Heinz to me just now. But you and I can't afford to
measure people by the same standards as Heinz. We are everyday mortals,
remember.--Besides, in all that counts, he is not worth Schwarz's little
finger."

"You're a warm advocate, Madeleine."

"Yes, and I've reason to be. No one here has been as kind to me as
Schwarz. I came, a complete stranger, and with not more than ordinary
talent. But I went to him, and told him frankly what I wanted to do, how
long I could stay, and how much money I had to spend. He helped me and
advised me. He has let me study what will be of most use to me afterwards,
and he takes as much interest in my future as I do myself. How can I speak
anything but well of him?--What I certainly didn't do, was to go to him
and talk ambiguously about feeling dissatisfied with him . . ."

"With myself, Madeleine. Haven't I made that clear?"

But Madeleine only sniffed.

"Well, it's over and done with now," she said after a pause. "And talking
about it won't mend it.--Tell me, rather, what you intend to do. What are
your plans?"

"Plans? I don't know. I haven't any. Sufficient unto the day, etc."

But of this she disapproved with open scorn. "Rubbish! When your
time here is all but up! And no plans!--One thing, I can tell you anyhow,
is, after to-day you needn't rely on Schwarz for assistance. You've spoilt
your chances with him. The only way of repairing the mischief would be the
lesson I spoke of--one a week as long as you re here."

"I couldn't afford it."

"No, I suppose not," she said sarcastically, and tore a piece of paper
that came under her fingers into narrow strips. "Tell me," she added a
moment later, in a changed tone: "where do you intend to settle when you
return to England? And have you begun to think of advertising yourself
yet?"

He waved his hand before his face as if he were chasing away a fly. "For
God's sake, Madeleine! . . . these alluring prospects!"

"Pray, what else do you expect to do?"

"Well, the truth is, I . . . I'm not going back to England at all. I mean
to settle here."

Madeleine repressed the exclamation that rose to her lips, and stooped to
brush something off the skirt of her dress. Her face was red when she
raised it. She needed no further telling; she understood what his words
implied as clearly as though it were printed black on white before her.
But she spoke in a casual tone.

"However are you going to make that possible?"

He endeavoured to explain.

"I don't envy you," she said drily, when he had finished. "You hardly
realise what lies before you, I think. There are people here who are glad
to get fifty pfennigs an hour, for piano lessons. Think of plodding up and
down stairs, all day long, for fifty pfennigs an hour!"

He was silent.

"While in England, with a little tact and patience, you would soon have
more pupils than you could take at five shillings."

"Tact and patience mean push and a thick skin. But don't worry! I shall
get on all right. And if I don't--life's short, you know."

"But you are just at: the beginning of it--and ridiculously young at that!
Good Heavens, Maurice!" she burst out, unable to contain herself. "Can't
you see that after you've been at home again for a little while, things
that have seemed so important here will have. shrunk into their right
places? You'll be glad to have done with them then, when you are in
orderly circumstances again."

"I'm afraid not," answered the young man. "I'm not a good
forgetter."

"A good forgetter!" repeated Madeleine, and laughed sarcastically. She was
going on to say more, but, just at this moment, a clock outside struck
ten, and Maurice sprang to his feet.

"So late already? I'd no idea. I must be off."

She stood by, and watched him look for his hat.

"Here it is." She picked it up, and handed it to him, with an emphasised
want of haste.

"Good night, Madeleine. Thanks for the truth. I knew I could depend on
you."

"It was well meant. And the truth is always beneficial, you know. Good
night.--Come again, soon."

He heard her last words half-way down the stairs, which he took two at a
time.

The hour he had now to face was a painful ending to an unpleasant day. It
was not merely the fact that he had kept Louise waiting, in aching
suspense, for several hours. It now came out that, after their
disagreement of the previous night, she had confidently expected him to
return to her early in the day, had expected contrition and atonement.
That he had not even suspected this made her doubly bitter against him. In
vain he tried to excuse himself, to offer explanations. She would not
listen to him, nor would she let him touch her. She tore her dress from
between his fingers, brushed his hand off her arm; and, retreating into a
corner of the room, where she stood like an animal at bay, she poured out
over him her accumulated resentment. All she had ever suffered at his
hands, all the infinitesimal differences there had been between them, from
the beginning, the fine points in which he had failed--things of which he
had no knowledge--all these were raked up and cast at him till, numb with
pain, he lost even the wish to comfort her. Sitting down at the table, he
laid his head on his folded arms.

At his feet were the fragments of the little clock, which, in her anger at
his desertion of her, she had trodden to pieces.

VI.

Their first business the next morning was to buy another clock. By
daylight, Louise was full of remorse at what she had done, and in passing
the writing-table, averted her eyes. They went out early to a shop in the
GRIMMAISCHESTRASSE; and Maurice stood by and watched her make her choice.

She loved to buy, and entered into the purchase with leisurely enjoyment.
The shopman and his assistant spared themselves no trouble in fetching and
setting out their wares. Louise handled each clock as it was put before
her, discussed the merits of different styles, and a faint colour mounted
to her cheeks over the difficulty of deciding between two which she liked
equally well. She had pushed up her veil; it swathed her forehead like an
Eastern woman's. Her eagerness, which was expressed in a slight
unsteadiness of nostril and lip, would have had something childish in it,
had it not been for her eyes. They remained heavy and unsmiling; and the
disquieting half-rings below them were more bluely brown than ever.
Leaning sideways. against the counter, Maurice looked away from them to
her hands; her fingers were entirely without ornament, and he would have
liked to load them with rings. As it was, he could not even pay for the
clock she chose; it cost more than he had to spend in a month.

In the street again, she said she was hungry, and, glad to be able to add
his mite to her pleasure, he took her by the arm and steered her to the
CAFE FRANCAIS, where they had coffee and ices. The church-steeples were
booming eleven when they emerged; it did not seem worth while going home
and settling down to work. Instead, they went to the ROSENTAL.

It was a brilliant autumn day, rich in light and shade, and there was only
a breath abroad of the racy freshness that meant subsequent decay. The
leaves were turning red and orange, but had not begun to fall; the sky was
deeply blue; outlines were sharp and precise. They were both in a mood
this morning to be susceptible to their surroundings; they were even eager
to be affected by them, and made happy. The disagreements of the two
preceding nights were like bad dreams, which they were anxious to
forget, or at least to avoid thinking of. Her painful, unreasonable
treatment of him, the evening before, had not been touched on between
them; after his incoherent attempts to justify himself, after his bitter
self-reproaches, when she lay sobbing in his arms, they had both, with
one accord, been silent. Neither of them felt any desire for open-hearted
explanations; they were careful not to stir up the depths anew. Louise was
very quiet; had it not been for her eyes, he might have believed her
happy. But here, just as an hour before in the watchmaker's shop, they
brooded, unable to forget. And yet there was a pliancy about her this
morning, a readiness to meet his wishes, which, as he walked at her side,
made him almost content. The old, foolish dreams awoke in him again, and
vistas opened, of a gentle comradeship, which might still come true, when
the strenuous side of her love for him had worn itself out. If only an
hour like the present could have lasted indefinitely!

It was a happy morning. They ended it with an improvised lunch at the
KAISERPARK; and it remained imprinted on their minds as an unexpected
patch of colour, in an unending row of grey days, given up to duty.

The next one, and the next again, Louise continued in the same yielding
mood, which was wholly different from the emotional expansiveness of the
past weeks. Maurice took a glad advantage of her willingness to please
him, and they had several pleasant walks together: to Napoleon's
battlefields; along the GRUNE GASSE and the POETENWEG to Schiller's house
at Gohlis; and into the heart of the ROSENTAL--DAS WILDE ROSENTAL--where
it was very solitary, and where the great trees seemed to stagger under
their load of stained leaves.

A burst of almost July radiance occurred at this time; and one day, Louise
expressed a wish to go to the country, in order that, by once more being
together for a whole day on end, they might relive in fancy the happy
weeks they had spent on the Rochlitzer Berg. It was never her way to urge
over-much, which made it hard to refuse her; so it was arranged that they
should set off betimes the following Saturday.

Maurice had his reward in the cry of pleasure she gave when he wakened her
to tell her that it was a fine day.

"Get up, dear! It's less than an hour till the train goes."

For the first time for weeks, Louise was her impetuous self again. She
threw things topsy-turvy in the room. It was he who drew her attention to
an unfastened hook, and an unbound ribbon. She only pressed forward.

"Make haste!--oh, make haste! We shall be late."

An overpowering smell of newly-baked rolls issued from the bakers' shops,
and the errand-boys were starting out with their baskets. Women and
house-porters were coming out to wash pavements and entrances: the
collective life of the town was waking up to another uneventful day; but
they two were hastening off to long hours of sunlight and fresh air,
unhampered by the passing of time, or by fallacious ideas of duty; were
setting out for a new bit of world, to strange meals taken in strange
places, reached by white roads, or sequestered wood-paths. In the train,
they were crushed between the baskets of the marketwomen, who were
journeying from one village to another. These sat with their wizened hands
clasped on their high stomachs, or on the handles of their baskets, and
stared, like stupid, placid animals, at the strange young foreign couple
before them. Partly for the frolic of astonishing them, and also because
he was happy at seeing Louise so happy, Maurice kissed her hand; but it
was she who astonished them most. When she gave a cry, or used her hands
with a sudden, vivid effect, or flashed her white teeth in a smile, every
head in the carriage was turned towards her; and when, in addition, she
was overtaken by a fit of loquacity, she was well-nigh devoured by eyes.

They did not travel as far as they had intended. From the carriage window,
she saw a wayside place that took her fancy.

"Here, Maurice; let us get out here."

Having breakfasted, and left their bags at an inn, they strayed at random
along an inviting road lined with apple-trees. When Louise grew tired,
they rested in the arbour of a primitive GASTHAUS, and ate their midday
meal. Afterwards, in a wood, he spread a rug for her, and she lay in a
nest of sun-spots. Only their own voices broke the silence. Then she fell
asleep, and, until she opened her eyes again, and called to him in
surprise, no sound was to be heard but the sudden, crisp rustling of some
bird or insect. When evening fell, they returned to their lodging, ate
their supper in the smoky public room--for, outside, mists had risen--and
then before them stretched, undisturbed, the long evening and the longer
night, to be spent in a strange room, of which they had hitherto not
suspected the existence, but which, from now on, would be indissolubly
bound up with their other memories.

The first day passed in such a manner was as flawless as any they had
known in the height of summer--with all the added attractions of closer
intimacy. In its course, the shadows lifted from her eyes; and
Maurice ceased to remember that he had made a mess of his affairs. But the
very next one failed--as far as Louise was concerned--to reach the same
level: it was like a flower ever so slightly overblown. The lyric charms
that had so pleased her--the dewy freshness of the morning, the solitude,
the unbroken sunshine--were frail things, and, snatched with too eager a
hand, crumbled beneath the touch. They were not made to stand the wear and
tear of repetition. It was also impossible, she found, to live through
again days such as they had spent at Rochlitz; time past was past
irrevocably, with all that belonged to it. And it was further, a mistake
to believe that a more intimate acquaintance meant a keener pleasure; it
was just the stimulus of strangeness, the piquancy of feeling one's way,
that had made up half the fascination of the summer.

With sure instinct, Louise recognised this, even while she exclaimed with
delight. And her heart sank: not until this moment had she known how high
her hopes had been, how firmly she had pinned her faith upon the revival
of passion which these days were to bring to pass. The knowledge that this
had been a delusion, was hard to bear. In thought, she was merciless to
herself, when, on waking, the second morning, she looked with unexpectant
eyes over the day that lay before her. Could nothing satisfy her, she
asked herself? Could she not be content for twenty-four hours on end? Was
it eternally her lot to come to the end of things, before they had
properly begun? It seemed, always, as if she alone must be pressing
forward, without rest. Here, on the second of these days of love and
sunshine, she saw, with absolute clearness, that neither this nor any
other day had anything extraordinary to give her; and sitting silent at
dinner, under an arbour of highly-coloured creeper, she was overcome by
such a laming discouragement, that she laid her knife and fork down, and
could eat no more.

Maurice, watching her across the table, believed that she was over-tired,
and filled up her glass with wine.

But she did not yield without a struggle. And it was not merely rebellion
against the defects of her own nature, which prompted her. The prospect of
the coming months filled her with dismay. When this last brief spell of
pleasure was over, there was nothing left, to which she could look
forward. The approaching winter stretched before her like a starless
night; she was afraid to let her mind dwell on it. What was she to
do?--what was to become of her, when the short dark days came down
again, and shut her in? The thought of it almost drove her mad. Desperate
with fear, she shut her eyes and went blindly forward, determined to
extract every particle of pleasure, or, at least, of oblivion, that the
present offered.

Under these circumstances, the poor human element in their relations
became once again, and more than ever before, the pivot on which their
lives turned. Louise aimed deliberately at bringing this about. Further,
she did what she had never yet done: she brought to bear on their
intercourse all her own hardwon knowledge, and all her arts. She drew from
her store of experience those trifling, yet weighty details, which, once
she has learned them, a woman never forgets. And, in addition to this, she
took advantage of the circumstances in which they found themselves,
utilising to the full the stimulus of strange times and places: she fired
the excitement that lurked in surreptitious embrace and surrender, under
all the dangers of a possible surprise. She was perverse and capricious;
she would turn away from him till she reduced him to despair; then to
yield suddenly, with a completeness that threatened to undo them both. Her
devices were never-ending. Not that they were necessary: for he was
helpless in her hands when she assumed the mastery. But she could not
afford to omit one of the means to her end, for she had herself to lash as
well as him. And so, once more, as at the very beginning, hand grew to be
a weight in hand, something alive, electric; and any chance contact might
rouse a blast in them. She neither asked nor Showed mercy. Drop by drop,
they drained each other of vitality, two sufferers, yet each thirsty for
the other's life-blood; for, with this new attitude on her part, an
element of cruelty had entered into their love. When, with her hands on
his shoulders, her insatiable lips apart, Louise put back her head and
looked at him, Maurice was acutely aware of the hostile feeling in her.
But he, too, knew what it was; for, when he tried to urge prudence on her,
she only laughed at him; and this low, reckless laugh, her savage eyes,
and morbid pallor, invariably took from him every jot of concern.

They returned to Leipzig towards the middle of the first week, in order
not to make their absence too conspicuous. But they had arranged to go
away again, on the following Saturday, and, in the present state of
things, the few intervening days seemed endless. Louise shut herself up,
and would see little of him.

The next week, and the next again, were spent in the same fashion.
A fine and mild October ran its course. For the fourth journey, towards
the end of the month, they had planned to return to Rochlitz. At the last
moment, however, Maurice opposed the scheme, and they left the train at
Grimma. It was Friday, and a superb autumn day. They put up, not in the
town itself, but at an inn about a mile and a half distant from it. This
stood on the edge of a wood, was a favourite summer resort, and had lately
been enlarged by an additional wing. Now, it was empty of guests save
themselves. They occupied a large room in the new part of the building, at
the end of a long corridor, which was shut off by a door from the rest of
the house. They were utterly alone; there was no need for them even to
moderate their voices. In the early morning hours, and on the journey
there, Maurice had thought he noticed something unusual about Louise, and,
more than once, he had asked her if her head ached. But soon he forgot his
solicitude.

Next morning, he felt an irresistible inclination to go out: opening the
window, he leaned on the sill. A fresh, pleasant breeze was blowing; it
bent the tops of the pines, and drove the white clouds smoothly over the
sky. He suggested that they should walk to the ruined cloister of
Nimbschen; but Louise responded very languidly, and he had to coax and
persuade. By the time she was ready to leave the untidy room, the morning
was more than half over, and the shifting clouds had balled themselves
into masses. Before the two emerged from the wood, an even network of
cloud had been drawn over the whole sky; it looked like rain.

They walked as usual in silence, little or nothing being left to say, that
seemed worth the exertion of speech. Each step cost Louise a visible
effort; her arms hung slack at her sides; her very hands felt heavy. The
pallor of her face had a greyish tinge in it. Maurice began to regret
having hurried her out against her will.

They were on a narrow path skirting a wood, when she suddenly expressed a
wish for some tall bulrushes that grew beside a stream, some distance
below. Maurice went down to the edge of the water and began to cut the
rushes. But the ground was marshy, and the finest were beyond his reach.

On the path at the top of the bank, Louise stood and followed his
movements. She watched his ineffectual efforts to seize the further reeds,
saw how they slipped back from between his hands; she watched him
take out his knife and open it, endeavour once more to reach those he
wanted, and, still unsuccessful, choose a dry spot to sit down on; saw him
take off his boots and stockings, then rise and go cautiously out on the
soft ground. Ages seemed to pass while she watched him do these trivial
things; she felt as if she were gradually turning to stone as she stood.
How long he was about it! How deliberately he moved! And she had the odd
sensation, too, that she knew beforehand everything he would and would not
do, just as if she had experienced it already. His movements were of an
impossible circumstantiality, out of all proportion to the trifling
service she had asked of him; for, at heart, she cared as little about the
rushes as about anything else. But it was an unfortunate habit of his, and
one she noticed more and more as time went on, to make much of paltry
details, which, properly, should have been dismissed without a second
thought. It implied a certain tactlessness, to underline the obvious in
this fashion. The very way, for instance, he stretched out his arm,
unclasped his knife, leant forward, and then stooped back to lay the cut
reeds on the bank. Oh, she was tired!--tired to exasperation!--of his ways
and actions--as tired as she was of his words, and of the thousand and one
occurrences, daily repeated, that made up their lives. She would have
liked to creep away, to hide herself in an utter seclusion; while,
instead, it was her lot to assist, hour after hour, at making much of
what, in the depths of her soul, did not concern her at all. Nothing, she
felt, would ever really concern her again. She gazed fixedly before her,
at him, too, but without seeing him, till her sight was blurred; trees and
sky, stream and rushes, swam together in a formless maze. And all of a
sudden, while she was still blind, there ran through her such an intense
feeling of aversion, such a complete satedness with all she had of late
felt and known, that she involuntarily took a step backwards, and pressed
her palms together, in order to hinder herself from screaming aloud. She
could bear it no longer. In a flash, she grasped that she was unable,
utterly unable, to face the day that was before her. She knew in advance
every word, every look and embrace that it held for her: rather than
undergo them afresh, she would throw herself into the water at her feet.
Anywhere, anywhere!--only to get away, to be alone, to cover her face and
see no more! Her hand went to her throat; her breath refused to come; she
shivered so violently that she was afraid she would fall to the ground.