Money and other stories/At the Castle

“ Mary, D,” repeated Olga with mechanical patience.

Little Mary reluctantly hammered out a very easy study on the piano: they had been at that piece already a fortnight and the longer time they spent the worse was the result. That detested childish tune haunted Olga even in her dreams.

“D, Mary, be careful: C D G D,” Olga hummed it with a feeble voice and played it over. “Take more pains: C D G D—but, Mary, D—D, why do you persist in playing E?”

Mary did not know why she was playing badly, she only knew that she was compelled to play: her eyes flashed with hatred, she kicked against the stool and at the earliest possible moment she would run to papa; meanwhile she purposely played E again and again. Olga gave up attending and gazed out of the window with eyes of anguish. The sun was shining, the great trees in the park waved in a hot breeze, but there was no liberty in ​the park nor even in the rough fields beyond—ah, when would the lesson be up? And E again and again!

“D, Mary, D,” repeated Olga most despairingly, and suddenly burst out, “you will never know how to play.”

The little girl drew herself up, scorched Olga with a glance of ancestral pride, and retorted—Why don’t you say that before papa?”

Olga bit her lips. “Play,” she cried with undue sharpness, noticing the child’s glance of hatred, and started to count with impatient emphasis, “one, two, three, four; one, two, three, four; one, two, three, four; C D G D. Badly. One, two, three, four———”

The door of the drawing-room was shaking. No doubt the old count was behind it again so as to listen. Olga subdued her voice.

“One, two, three, four. C D G D. Very well, Mary.” It was certainly not well, but the old count was listening. “One, two, three, four. Now it is quite well. It is really not so difficult, eh? One, two———”

The door flew open and the lame count entered, clattering along with his stick.

“Ha ha, Mary, wie geht’s? Hast du schön gespielt? Eh, miss?”

“Oh yes, my lord,” asserted Olga heartily, rising from the piano.

“Mary, du hast Talent,” cried the crippled old ​man, and all at once—it was almost terrible to look at—he fell heavily on his knees with a hollow sound on the floor, and with a kind of sobbing whine kissed his child on the neck with noisy, wild caresses. “Du hast Talent,” he murmured, “du bist so gescheit, Mary, so gescheit! Sag’mal, was soll dir dein Papa schenken?”

“Danke, nichts,” replied Mary, wriggling her sensitive little shoulders beneath his caresses, “ich möchte nur———”

“Was, was möchtest du?” babbled the count enthusiastically.

“Ich möchte nur nit so viel Stunden haben,” ejaculated Mary.

“Ha ha, natürlich,” laughed the count, enchanted, “nein, wie gescheit bist du! Isn’t she, miss?”

“Yes,” breathed Olga.

“Wie gescheit,” repeated the old man and wanted to stand up. Olga sprang to help him. “Let me be,” cried the count fiercely, and standing on knee and hand like an animal tried to rise. Olga turned away. Then five convulsive fingers gripped her arm, and leaning his whole weight thereon the old count stood up. Olga for a wonder did not stumble under the weight of this huge, apoplectic, fearful body; it was above her courage. Little Mary laughed.

​The count straightened himself, put on his glasses, and gazed at Olga with surprise as though he had not seen her before.

“Miss Olga.”

“Please?” breathed the girl.

Then in English. “Miss Olga, you speak too much during the lesson: you confound the child by your eternal admonishing. You will make me this pleasure to be a little kinder.”

“Yes, sir,” whispered Olga, blushing to her hair. Mary understood that papa was scolding Olga, and loftily feigned that it did not concern her.

“Very well, good morning, miss,” concluded the count.

Olga bowed and was going out, when on the way, turning with flashing eyes she remarked, “Mary, you might salute when I go out.”

“Ja, mein Kind, das kannst du,” assented the old count benevolently. Mary grinned and flung off a curtsey with lightning speed.

Scarcely was Olga beyond the door when she pressed her hand to her forehead. “Oh heavens, I cannot bear it, I cannot! For five months not a day or even an hour has passed that they have not tormented me. . . . But really they don’t torment me,” she said to herself as she proceeded along the chilly hall with her palms to her temples. “I am a ​stranger and a hired person and no one thinks of me. It’s only the way they are made, God, and nowhere is one so solitary as among strange people. But Mary is wicked,” cried something fiercely within her, “and hates me; she wants to annoy me and is proud and affronts me, but Mary is wicked. The child that I wanted to love. The child with whom I spend the whole day long, the whole day. Heavens, how many years of this?”

Two chambermaids were giggling in the passage. As soon as they noticed Olga they were silent and saluted her with oblique glances. Through sheer jealousy Olga very nearly rounded on them for their laughing; she would have liked to order them about in a lofty way, but did not know how. If at least she were in the servants’ hall with these girls, it occurred to her; squeaking well into the night, gossiping and chasing each other, and Franz, the lackey, with them every moment one or other of them squealing—oh dear, how disgusting it was! A most unpleasant memory forced itself on her; yesterday she surprised Franz with the scullery-maid in an empty guestroom by her bedroom; she could have struck him with her little passionate fist on his face with its idiotic grin as he drew back from the girl. She buried her fingers in her face. No, no, I can’t endure it. C D G D, C D G D—​But these servant girls at least amuse themselves. At least they are not so lonely, they do not take their meals with gentlefolk, they babble the whole day and in the evening sing softly out in the yard. If at least they received me among themselves in the evening. Sweetly, melodiously floated across her mind what they were singing as a part-song yesterday under the old linden—

She listened at her window with eyes full of tears and sang with them in a demi-voice; all was forgiven to them and the hand of ardent friendship was extended to them. Girls, indeed, I am the same as you. Even I am a serving maid and the most unhappy of all of you. “The most unhappy,” repeated Olga to herself as she passed along the hall. “How did the count put it? ‘Miss Olga, you speak too much during the lessons: you confound the child by your eternal admonishing. You will do me the pleasure to be a little kinder.’” She repeated this word for word, so as not to lose a drop of bitterness. She clenched her fist, burning with wrath and pain. Yes, that was her weakness: she took her task of governess too seriously. She came to the ​castle with glowing enthusiasm, already in love with the little girl to be entrusted to her. She passionately threw herself into the instruction, zealous, pedantic, and full of knowledge; she boundlessly believed in the importance of education, but now she was only drudging with tiresome Mary bits of arithmetic and grammar, always being put out, hammering her knuckles on the table and then leaving the schoolroom in tears, while Mary remained triumphantly with her defiance and mistakes. At first she used to play with Mary with exuberance and unrestrained heartiness, childishly taken up with her toys; at length she found that she was making a sport of herself before the cold, mockingly bored glance of the child, and so much for games—and Olga followed at the heels of her little charge like a shadow, not knowing what to say to her or how to amuse her. Accepting the task as a sacred trust, she had come here, filled with a sentiment of love, gentleness and patience; now look at her flaming eyes, listen how violently and unevenly her heart beat; that heart which only can feel pain and no love at all. “Be-a little-kinder,” repeated Olga to herself trembling: Oh heaven, can I do that any longer?

With cheeks flaming with excitement she ran along through rows of figures in tin, knights in armour, at which she used to laugh. ​A thousand things occurred to her to say to the count in reply to his reprimand; expressions full of dignity rushed to her mind, replies decisive and proud, which would make her for ever a person of weight in that house. My lord count, she might say with head erect, I know what I want: I want Mary to learn strict understanding of everything and to teach her self-control; I want to make of her someone who will not allow herself to commit faults. Lord count, it is not a matter of false piano notes but of false training; I cannot love Mary and take no heed of her faults; but if I love her I will be as severe as I am to myself. She became almost cheerful when she said it all with glistening eyes, with her heart inflamed by a recent pain; then she felt relieved, and firmly resolved that soon, to-morrow, she would have it out with the count. The count himself was not so bad after all, he had his generous moments, and after all he suffered so much. If only he had not those terrible, light, domineering eyes staring behind his eyeglasses.

She passed before the castle, dazzled by the sunlight: the pavement glistened, as it had been sprinkled some time before, and a damp odour rose.

“Look out, miss,” cried the shrill voice of Oswald, and at the same instant a wet football ​bounded against Olga’s white dress. Oswald started chuckling, but stopped when he saw the poor girl looked shocked. The skirt was entirely splashed with mud; Olga raised it and without a word of reproach began to sob. Oswald blushed and stammered: I did not see you, miss.”

“Beg your pardon, miss,” cried in English Oswald’s tutor, Mr. Kennedy, who in white shirt and trousers was lolling on the grass plot; with a single movement he bounded up, gave Oswald a cuff on the head and then threw himself down again. Olga merely regarded her skirt: she was so fond of this white dress. Without a word she turned and went home, controlling herself with all her might so that tears should not burst out as she walked.

Her throat already quivered with the desire to weep, when she opened the door of her room. There she stood in horror, hardly understanding what was going forward; the countess was seated in the arm-chair in the middle of the room, and the chambermaid in front of her was rummaging through Olga’s own wardrobe.

“Ah, c’est vous,” greeted the countess without looking round.

“Oui, madame la comtesse,” Olga forced out of herself, scarcely breathing, with staring eyes.

The chambermaid pulled out a whole armful of clothes.

​“My lady, it’s not here really.”

“Very well then,” replied the countess, heavily rising to go out. The amazed Olga did not think to give way as she approached the door. The countess halted three paces before her. “Mademoiselle?”

“Oui, madame.”

“Vous n’attendez pas, peut-être, que je m’excuse?”

“Non, non, madame,” cried the girl.

“Alors il n’y a pas pourquoi me barrer le passage,” grumbled the countess with her guttural r.

“Ah pardon, madame la comtesse,” murmured Olga, swiftly making way. The countess and chambermaid went out: there remained only articles of clothing scattered on the table and bed.

Olga sat on the chair like a wooden image: tears were denied her. They had been looking through her wardrobe as though she were some thieving servant.

“Perhaps you are not waiting for me to apologize?”

No, no, countess: heaven defend you from begging pardon of a girl who is in your pay. Here are my pockets, there is my purse: look through everything, so as to see what I have stolen. I am poor and certainly dishonest. Olga gazed fixedly on the floor. Now at last ​she was aware why so often she had found her dresses and linen sort of thrown about. And I eat with them at the same table, give answer, smile, make one of the company, force myself to be cheerful. Olga was overwhelmed with boundless humiliation. Her eyes were widely staring and tearless, her clenched hands pressed against her breast; there was no capacity for thought, only her heart beat painfully and dreadfully.

A fly settled on her clasped hand, rubbed its tiny head, cleaned its wings and ran to and fro, but the hands did not move. Now and then a hoof stamped or a chain rattled in the stable. Crockery rang in the pantry, a hawk shrieked over the park, and a train whistled at a distant bend. At length it seemed too long even for the fly, which twitched its wings and flew through the open window. Absolute silence fell upon the castle.

One, two, three, four. Four o’clock. Noisily yawning, a cookmaid came to prepare tea. Rapid steps were heard in the yard, the windlass creaked at the well, and a certain haste was noticeable in the house. Olga rose, passed her hands over her brow as if memory failed her, and set herself to arrange neatly the dresses on the table. Then she knelt at the linen-press, took out linen and laid it on the bed. She put her little books on the chairs, ​and when quite ready stood above them all as over the ruins of Jerusalem and rubbed her forehead. What do I specially want with them? Why do I do this?

But I shall go away for good, replied a clear voice within her, as it seemed. I shall give an hour’s notice and be off to-morrow morning at five o’clock. Old Vavrys will take my trunk to the railway. But that will not do, protested Olga puzzled: where should I go from here? How shall I do without a place? I shall go home, replied the voice, which had so far settled matters for her. Of course, Mama will cry, but Daddy will approve. It is good so, little daughter, better honour than a good table.

But Daddy dear, objected Olga with calm and proud joy, what shall I do now? You will go to the factory, replied the voice which had settled everything: you will do manual labour, take weekly wages and help Mama at home, for she is old and weak. You will wash out linen and scrub the floor: you will go to sleep tired and eat when hungry. Little daughter, you will go home.

Olga threw out her hands in rapture. Hence, hence! And to-morrow evening I shall be at home. And how was it, indeed, possible that it did not occur to me long ago? How have I put up with it? At once, directly after tea I ​will give notice and go home; in the evening I shall put everything in order, bring the countess here and show her—this is what I shall take home, if there is a thread yours of pluck it out; only the mud on this dress is yours, my lady, and that I shall take away.

Rosy with joy, Olga flung off her mud-stained dress. To-morrow, to-morrow! I shall hide myself in the corner of the carriage where no one will even see me: I shall fly like a bird from the cage. She put on a tomboy humour, whistled, and sported a red tie. She smiled at herself in the glass, proudly with tousled hair, and whistled as loudly as she could: C D G D, C D G D.

People rushed about the yard: a hoarse gong sounded for tea. Olga flew downstairs, as she did not want for this last time to miss the spectacle of the imposing entry of the count’s family. There, behold, was the old count descending, half-lame, leaning on the shoulder of the haggard Oswald. The countess with her heavy, inflated, sickly body was crossly scolding at Mary and pulling her hair ribbon. Behind lounged athletic Mr. Kennedy, loftily indifferent to all that was going on around him.

The courtly old gentleman reached the door first, opened it and said “Madame.”

​The countess with heavy steps entered the dining-room.

“Mademoiselle,” said the count, glancing at Olga. Olga entered with head erect. After her followed the count, Kennedy, Mary, and Oswald. The count seated himself at the head of the table, with the countess on his right and Olga on his left. The countess rang. The maids entered, with eyes cast down and noiseless steps like puppets, who only heard orders and only noticed signs: as though those young lips never uttered a sound and those downcast eyes were never raised in a look indicative of interest, or understanding. Olga with sharp eyes took in the details of this dumb show, so that I may never forget it again.”

“Du beurre, mademoiselle?” asked the count.

“Merci.” She drank plain tea with dry bread in a week, she revelled in the thought, I shall go to the factory. Meanwhile the count laboured with his false teeth, the countess ate nothing, Oswald spilled cocoa on the tablecloth. Mary left everything, but munched sweets, and only Mr. Kennedy spread a centimetre of butter on his slice of bread. Triumphant scorn of everyone and everything filled Olga’s heart. Poor folks, to-morrow I shall be the sole one of you who is free. I shall remember those dinners of yours with disgust, when you had nothing to say to each other, ​no exchange of sympathies, nothing to laugh about.

From a lofty height Olga looked down on Mr. Kennedy. She hated him heartily from the first day she hated the indifferent facility with which he managed to live his own way, not in the least caring for anyone: she hated him because no one stood up to him and he despised everything and everybody with his detached superiority. Goodness knew why he was there; he boxed roughly with Oswald, went out with him on horseback, and allowed himself to be idolized by him: he went to shoot when he felt inclined, and when he sprawled somewhere in the park nothing could make him stir. Sometimes when alone he would sit at the piano and make up tunes; he played perfectly, but without feeling, only thinking of himself; Olga used to listen secretly, quite offended that she could not enter into this cold, complicated, egotistical music. He paid attention to no one nor anything; if he were directly asked a question he would scarcely move his lips to say “yes or “no.” A powerful young fellow, ruthless, vain, and lazy, who did everything as with condescension: sometimes the old count ventured to invite him to a game of chess; then Mr. Kennedy without a word sat down to the chessboard and in a few unconsidered, violent, ​terribly brutal moves gave check to the old gentleman, who perspired uneasily and stammered like a child, meditating full of excitement half an hour before each move, drawing his piece back fully a dozen times before deciding. Olga regarded this uneven struggle with unconcealed rage; she sometimes used to play chess with the count herself, a good, thoughtful player, when there were endless games full of meditation and considered plans, and to see through them meant flattering the craft of her antagonist and appreciating his play. Olga did not ask if she had a right to it, but felt herself immensely superior to Mr. Kennedy with all his accomplishments, which did not cost him the least effort, and the self-confidence and supreme superiority with which he mastered everyone; she despised him and made him aware of it; yes, all her girlish pride and conceit, outraged so many times daily, revived in this display of contempt.

Meanwhile Mr. Kennedy took his tea with great composure, not in the least minding the hostile glances of Olga glaring. He does not notice, Olga thought excited; and yet every night when he goes to bed he knocks at my door, “Open, Miss Olga.”

In fact it was one of the mysteries of the castle, and Olga was not even aware how greatly this mystery interested the servants’ hall. The ​young Englishman, who ignored the chambermaids in an almost outrageous manner, carried on these secret games a pretty long while. It was his “fancy” that they should arrange a room for him in the castle tower which, it was said for generations, was haunted. Olga did not believe in ghosts at all, and saw in Kennedy’s whim only the comedy of a swanker; but this did not prevent her from being in mortal fear on the stairs and in the passage at night. Besides, it is the absolute truth that sounds were heard at night which it was insufficient to refer to Franz’s wooings or to other mischief in the women’s quarters. In short, one night, when Olga already lay down, Mr. Kennedy knocked at her door, “Open, Miss Olga.” She then flung a dressing-gown round her and asked through the chink of the door what he wanted. Then Mr. Kennedy began to utter a jumble of nonsense in English of which she scarcely understood a quarter, but just enough to grasp that he called her “sweet Aulga,” and other interesting names; this was sufficient for her to slam the door in his face and lock it, and in the morning on first seeing him she asked with severe wide-opened eyes what he was doing at her door at night. Mr. Kennedy did not think it at all necessary to explain or even to make it clear that he remembered anything of it; but from ​that time he knocked every night, said, “Open, Miss Olga,” tried the lock and rattled it in the most waggish manner, while Olga in bed dragged the coverlet up to her chin and screamed tearfully in English: “You’re a rascal,” or “you are crazy,” in all the shades of meaning which that word possesses only in the English language—mortified to despair that this rogue and idiot was laughing. That was his only laugh the whole day long.

Olga gazed with shining eyes at Mr. Kennedy. As soon as he raises his eyes I shall ask him now, before everyone, “Mr. Kennedy, what do you mean by pestering at my room every night?” There will be a scandal, but before I am leaving I will tell other things. Then Mr. Kennedy looked up with steely-blue, calm eyes: Olga began to move her lips, and suddenly reddened. She remembered———

Those beautiful moonlight nights a week ago were to blame. Inexpressibly enchanting nights, nights of clear full moon in the height of summer, silvery nights, moonlight nights of heathen sanctity. Olga was wandering round the castle, having no mind to go to bed on such an enchanting night; she was alone and happy, full of winged amazement at the wealth of beauty which flooded the sleeping world. Slowly, with awe full of delight she ventured into the park. She beheld beauteous birches ​and deep black oaks in the silvery meadows, mysterious shadows and wondrous light: it was more than one could endure. She went on through a large meadow to the little lake with a fountain; and when she had gone round the bushes she spied on the edge of the lake the white statue of a man, with face upraised to the full moon, with hands clasped behind the head, with a powerful chest firmly knit above a slender waist. It was Mr. Kennedy. Olga was not a silly girl, did not scream or start to run. With eyes half-closed she gazed fixedly on the white figure. A vigorous movement of the muscles animated the statue. From the calves passed a wave of contracted muscles up to the chest and into the handsome, powerful arms; again a new muscular wave rose upwards from the slender calves, once more to swell the sculptured biceps of the image. Mr. Kennedy took exercise in this peculiar manner, without stirring from the position. Suddenly he bent backward, lifted his hands, and dived backwards into the lake. The water splashed, glistened, and gurgled. Olga quietly disappeared, and thinking no more of the mysterious and grim shades of night made her way straight home: strange to say, she saw no more the beauteous birches and ancient oaks on silvery lawns. That was the first reason why she blushed.

She really did not know why she should turn ​red, especially; there was nothing whatever in the matter to be ashamed of, and there was so much wonderful beauty in that adventure. But something worse happened, and that the very next day. It was a lovely, clear night: Olga took a walk again before the castle, but did not enter the park at all: she thought of Mr. Kennedy, who was perhaps bathing again that day, of the strange deep gloom of the park, of the white statue of the young man; when a gossiping stewardess approached her she avoided her, wishing to be alone. And then it was getting late, eleven o’clock, and Olga was afraid to go home alone along the steps and passages. Kennedy returned from the park, with his hands in his pockets: when he saw Olga he wanted to begin his queer nocturnal courtship, but Olga cut short his speech and commanded him loftily enough to light her home. Kennedy, somewhat puzzled, carried a candle and said nothing: and when they were at her door he said very mildly, “Good night.” Olga turned round violently, cast at him a glance unnaturally dark, and without waiting to think at all seized a good handful of his hair. It was moist and gently shaggy, like the hair of a young Newfoundland dog just out of the water. Olga gave a whistle of delight, and without knowing what she was about gave it a hard tug. Before he had come ​to himself she had slammed the door and locked it. Mr. Kennedy retired as if thunderstruck, but in half an hour he returned, barefooted and apparently half-undressed and knocked gently, whispering “Olga, O Olga!” She made no reply, and Mr. Kennedy finally stole away.

That incident made Olga now so abashed. It was, of course, shameful stupidity. Olga wanted to sink through the floor for what she had done, but at least she paid out Mr. Kennedy in double measure, for he was to blame for it. The next night she took the rough-coated pug Fritz into her room; when Kennedy came to knock Fritz set up a terrific howling. For a few days Mr. Kennedy kept quiet, but twice he had come round again and chattered in a most lyrical manner, whereupon Olga, sick of it and full of violent hatred of this impudent fellow, buried her ears in the pillow so as not to hear.

That was, I vow, all that had passed between Olga and Mr. Kennedy: and on this account she was so unutterably miserable that she reddened at his glance, and could have struck herself for it. She was vexed beyond measure in her touchy maidenly heart. So much the better, she said to herself, that I go: if for no other reason than on account of that man. She felt weary of the daily struggle and humbled by her own feebleness; such a torrent of dis​gust and resentment rose in her throat that she could have cried out. Glory be to Thee, Lord, she forced herself into ease, that I am going: if I stopped a day longer I should set up a most fearful scandal.

She turned her thoughts away from Mr. Kennedy and her glance fell upon the handsome face of Oswald. Her heart was slightly cheered by a feeling of kindly tenderness. It was no secret from her that the boy was in love with her in his own way; he was, of course, unable to confess it except by unnecessary rudeness and averted eyes. On the other hand Olga took special delight in tormenting him; she would put her hand round his pretty, delicate neck and drag him along the park, enjoying immensely his growling and blissful rage. There, just then, aware of her glance, he swallowed an immense mouthful and glared savagely. Poor Oswald! What will become of you, in that dreadful house, child about to become a youth, weighed down at the same time by an excess of delicacy and ferocity? How will your heart open, and what examples will you see? A spasm of ill-temper struck Olga. Not long ago she had gone into Oswald’s ​room and caught him pounding and boxing the chambermaid Paulina, the worst of all the girls. Ah, one understood, it was only the play of a noisy puppy; but Oswald had no business to flare up, Paulina had no need to have eyes and face so inflamed, in short that should never have happened, certainly, certainly. Olga, full of suspicion, put herself from that time on guard: she never again passed sensitive fingers through Oswald’s hair, never placed her hand on his neck, but began to regard him with Argus eyes, full of alarm and stooping even to spying—resolved not to expose Oswald’s childhood to premature and shameful temptation. Often she suddenly ran away from Mary to look after Oswald; she was coldly severe with him, but only achieved that his youthful love was penetrated with rebellious hatred. But why, Olga now asked herself, should I specially look after him? What have I, an outsider, to do with whatever lessons on life Paulina or any other creature gives him? Why should I plague myself with uneasiness and my own severity, which hurts me more than him? Good-bye, good-bye, Oswald, I shall not tell you that you are my dear child, I shall not tell you that I have loved your boyish innocence, more lovable than girlish innocence; I shall not look after you, just open your eyes and both arms to seize the first ​opportunity—I shall not be there to weep over you.

And you, my lady, Olga suddenly entered upon another reckoning, you have suspected me. You have spied on the time I have passed with Oswald; you have made it evident to me that “it is better for him to be in the company of Mr. Kennedy.” Perhaps it is also better for him to be in the company of Paulina. Paulina is your confidante. When one night Oswald went out with Kennedy secretly to catch an otter you came into my room, I had to let you in; you sought the boy even under the coverlet of my bed. Very well, my lady, he is your child: but you send Paulina to his bedroom to awaken him, Paulina, a woman over thirty and as perverted as a demon. You search my wardrobe and sniff about my chest of drawers; then you call me into your carriage in order to entertain you. You offer me prunes, thank you, Madame, you are so kind. If you set me down for frivolous and for a thief, do send me from the table to go to the servants’ hall, or rather to the laundry; there I shall swallow a bit of bread with tears of rage and humiliation, but at least, at least I shall not be obliged to smile.

“Don’t you hear, miss?”

“Pardon,” Olga reddened.

“Perhaps you are—a little—unwell,” asked ​the count, gazing keenly at her. “Are you not, perhaps—feverish?”

“No, my lord,” objected Olga hastily. “There is nothing whatever the matter with me.”

“So much the better,” uttered the count slowly. “I don’t care for—invalids?”

Olga’s spirits fell at once. I am not a match for these people, she felt despairingly, I do not know how to stand against them. God, give me strength to give notice to-day! God, give me that strength! She was dreadfully afraid of telling the count. He would certainly raise his eyebrows and say: “At once, miss? Such a thing is not done.”

If I could only contrive! How can I explain that I must, must go home immediately, on the instant? I shall run away if I am not allowed to go, I shall certainly run away! Tearfully Olga awaited the moments to come.

The family rose from the tea-table and settled down in the next room; the count and Kennedy smoked, the countess snatched up some embroidery; the afternoon post was expected. As soon as the children go out, decided Olga, I will speak about it. In the meantime with beating heart she forced herself to think of her home. She pictured her mother in a blue apron, the plain deal furniture all scrubbed, her father without his coat smoking as he read the ​newspaper with thoughtful solicitude. That is my only refuge, she felt with growing anxiety, I shall not bear this another day. O Lord, grant me strength in the last moment!

Paulina with downcast eyes brought the letters on a silver salver. The count collected the letters on his lap: he wanted to take also the last letter set aside, but Paulina respectfully withdrew her hand.

“For mademoiselle,” she murmured.

Ah, from a distance Olga recognized her mother’s letter, the pitiful, stained envelope directed in a shocking spelling, a letter of which she was always ashamed and yet which she carried next to her heart. She blushed also to-day—forgive me, Mamma! With trembling fingers she took the dear little country letter, and with emotion read through the too elaborately written address as though the world were evil and refused to yield a letter without detailed direction to the right hands so far away, among strange people—but at that moment a weight fell from her heart: Mamma, how you have helped me! I will read the letter and suddenly cry out that my father is ill, I must go to him, I will get my things and be off, and no one will be able to detain me: in a week I will write that I must stay at home, and let them send my trunk after me. That will be the easiest plan, she joyfully said to herself. ​As with every woman, it was clearly easier to help herself by means of excuses than through giving reasons. Full of delight she tore upon the envelope. When she drew out the letter she felt a sudden pang, held her breath and began to read:

The count ceased reading his letters and stared at Olga.

“Mademoiselle, you are unwell,” he exclaimed in actual terror.

Olga rose listlessly and pressed her hands to her temples.

“Just—my head, my lord,” she gasped.

“Go and lie down at once, miss, go and lie down at once,” cried the count peremptorily and disquieted.

Olga bowed mechanically and slowly went out.

The count cast a questioning glance at his wife; she shrugged her shoulders and said sharply: “Oswald, gerade sitzen.”

Mr. Kennedy smoked and gazed at the ceiling. There was disconcerting silence.

The countess went on sewing with contracted lips. After a while she rang and Paulina appeared.

“Paulina, where has mademoiselle gone?” she asked, scarcely opening her mouth.

​“To her room, my lady,” replied the maid, “and has locked herself in.”

“Have the horses ready.”

The carriage wheels rattled on the sand in the yard, and the coachman led the horses and buckled straps.

“Papa, soll ich reiten?” ventured Oswald.

“Ja,” nodded the count, with a blank stare.

The countess turned on him a searching and hostile glance.

“Wirst du mitfahren?” she asked.

“Nein,” he said absently.

The groom brought the riding horses and saddled them. Kennedy’s horse danced all round the yard before allowing himself to be saddled, while Oswald’s half-blooded animal peacefully and wisely pawed the ground, sadly contemplating his own hoof.

The family went out to the courtyard. Oswald, a good horseman, at once vaulted on his horse into the saddle and could not refrain from casting a glance up at Olga’s window as she so often waved her hand to him when he was starting for his ride. There was nobody at the window.

The countess heavily climbed into the carriage.

“Mary,” she called back peremptorily. Little Mary made a face but followed her ​into the carriage. The countess was not yet quite ready.

“Paulina,” she called the chambermaid, “go, see what Miss Olga is doing. But don’t let her catch you.”

Mr. Kennedy threw away his cigarette, with one bound he was in the saddle and pressed his knees. The horse sprang forward galloping through the vaulted entrance, striking echo in thunder from the boarded floor of the subway, lightning sparks from the cobbled pavement before the castle.

“Hullo, Mr. Kennedy,” shouted Oswald boyishly and dashed after him.

Paulina came running back, her hands in the pockets of her white apron.

“Madam,” she she reported confidentially, “Miss Olga is hanging up her dresses in her wardrobe and is arranging her linen in her chest of drawers.”

The countess waved her hand. “Go on,” she called to the coachman.

The carriage moved off, the old count waved a greeting and he was alone. He sat down on the bench under the arcade, his stick between his knees and bad-humouredly and forlornly he stared out into the courtyard. For half an hour he sat there; and then he stood up and heavily clumped with his paralysed limbs into the drawing-room. He sat down in the arm​chair beside the chessboard where the game which he had been playing yesterday with Olga was still unfinished. He scrutinized the board, obviously he was in a tight corner; Olga had brought up her knight and was attacking. He bent over the chessboard in the effort to foresee her moves: then her neat little scheme which made his own defeat certain dawned upon him. Then he stood up, and erect, went upstairs with clattering stick to the guest quarters. He halted before Olga’s door. It was quiet, quite alarmingly quiet, nothing stirred. At length he knocked, “Miss Olga, how are you?”

A moment’s silence.

“Better now, thank you,” said Olga in a constrained voice. “Do you want anything, my lord?”

“No, no; just lie down.” And suddenly as if he thought that he had said too much and that he might spoil it, he added: “So that you will be able to teach to-morrow.” Then he noisily descended to the drawing-room.

If he had remained a little longer he would have heard feeble groans, broken by ceaseless silent weeping.

Lonely hours are long, very long. At length the carriage returned, the heated horses were being led up and down the yard, and from the kitchen began the usual flustered rattle, as on every day. At half-past seven the gong rang ​for supper. All were seated, but Olga was missing. For a moment all went on as if not noticing this, until the old count raised his eyebrows and asked in surprise, {{lang|de|“Was, die Olga kommt nicht?”

The countess shot a glance at him and was silent. Not until after a pretty long time she called to Paulina: “Ask Miss Olga what she wants to eat.”

Paulina was back in an instant.

“My lady, Miss Olga desires to thank you but she is not hungry and will get up to-morrow.”

The countess slightly tossed her head; there was more than dissatisfaction in that.

Oswald merely trifled with his food and cast beseeching glances at Mr. Kennedy as if imploring him to take him off outside as soon as possible when the meal was over: but Mr. Kennedy, as usual, did not choose to understand.

By now twilight had come, bringing the evening so merciful for those who are tired, so endlessly tedious for those unhappy. There is light, it darkens and night is here; one cannot tell when exactly this darkness starts which stifles and oppresses one, darkness, that abyss of darkness in the depth of which human despair wallows. You silent night, you know, you who hear the breathing of those asleep ​and the groans of the sick, for you have listened carefully to hear the feeble, feverish breath of a girl who has wept long and now no longer weeps; you have held your ear to her heart and heavily contracted throat enwrapped in tousled hair. You have heard sobs smothered in the pillow and then the silence that was even more terrible.

You have heard, dumb night, how the silence has spread over floor by floor, room by room, and you who with burning fingers stifled a woman’s cry of love in the corner of the staircase. You lent echo to the steps of a young man, with hair still wet after bathing, as he strolled belated to his bed gently whistling along the lengthy castle passage.

Dark night, you have seen how a young girl, worn with weeping, trembled at the sound of those young steps. You saw how she bounded off the bed as if hurled forward by some blind force, threw back her hair from her burning forehead, dashing to the door, unlocked it and left it ajar. Then once more she lay rigid on her feverish bed in terrible expectation, as one for whom there is no help.