The Song of Songs. Hermann Sudermann
blue mountains. Let your happiness ever dwell at a safe distance. You are young. It will draw closer. Give it time to become full fledged. I assume you haven't understood a word."
"Oh, yes I have," stammered Lilly, who wished not to be considered stupid, though he was right—his words fell upon her like hailstones, of which she was able to gather only a few here and there. Nevertheless, she had understood the last part, that about dreaming of the remote blue mountains. It did her heart good, and she would take his advice.
"However that may be," Mr. Pieper continued, "some sentence or other will occur to you on occasion. One point more, the most delicate of all, because it is, so to speak, the most spiritual. If what is about you gives no sound or response, if it does not echo to your call, you must not grieve, nor attempt to alter it. Cracked bells should not be rung. Rather make your own music. If I am not mistaken, you have a whole orchestra at your disposal."
"I have the Song of Songs," thought Lilly, triumphantly.
"You cannot imagine, my child, how important it is, when one lives in such close contact with another human being, not to lose one's touch with oneself. Keep a corner reserved for your own thoughts—they will amuse you greatly. He who likes to eat fresh eggs must raise his own chickens. Don't forget that. But keep your corner to yourself. Offer no superfluous resistance. No obstinacy. From the very start you must provide the course of your life with a double track, so that you can ride in either direction, as need be. I shouldn't wonder if under such conditions it wouldn't turn out to be quite a happy marriage, entirely apart from the external advantages—so long as they last—these are matters of adaptation and good luck which our will cannot control in advance. I will send you the marriage contract sealed. Until your coming of age—in about two years, I believe—I am at your disposal. If after a time you see that the milk in your cup has turned permanently sour, break the seal. A thorough lawyer can read all sorts of surprises out of the contract, which laymen do not immediately realise. But, as I said, in one case he cannot. Beware of that one case. It is called in flagranti. Some time cautiously inquire into its meaning. There you are! Now, may I give the colonel your consent?"
CHAPTER XIII
The train rumbled on in the night. Showers of sparks flew past the window. When the stoker added coal, a beam of light was projected far into the darkness, and for an instant created out of the black void purple pine trees, snowy roofs gleaming golden, and fields mottled with yellow.
How beautiful and strange it was!
Lilly leaned her head, heavy with champagne, back against the red velvet cushion.
It was over. A whirl of images, real and imaginary, flitted back and forth in her brain.
A great black inkwell and a little man with a grey beard behind it asking all sorts of useless questions. A white cloud of lace and a myrtle wreath thrown over her head by the wife of the manager of the war office, who fell from one fit of rapture into another. A hateful Protestant minister with two ridiculous little white bibs. He looked like a grave-digger, but he spoke so exquisitely, after all, that you wanted to throw your arms about his neck, and cry. Two black and two gay gentlemen. One of the black gentlemen, Mr. Pieper, one of the gay gentlemen, the colonel.
"The colonel's wife—the colonel's wife," throbbed the wheels.
But if she listened carefully, she also heard them say what the gentlemen had kept saying to her that day:
"La—dy Mertzbach—La—dy Mertzbach."
Keeping time. Keeping time.
The ice cream had been a perfect marvel, a regular mine with shafts and tunnels and mineral veins, and little lights, which set the cut-glass a-sparkle. She could have sat there forever staring at it, but she had to dig in with a large gold spoon, so that a whole mountain side gave way.
Then she had asked him whether she might have ice cream to eat every day, and he had laughed and said "yes." If she had not been a bit tipsy, she would not have been so bold, certainly not. And she determined to ask his forgiveness later.
There he sat opposite, piercing her with his eyes.
That was the only embarrassing thing. If she weren't such a chicken-hearted ninny, she would ask him to look somewhere else for a change.
But to-day she did not experience actual fear. Latterly the old dread had gradually left her, as she came to realise how supernaturally dear he was. Express a wish, and it was fulfilled.
There was something else, about which, of course, she couldn't speak to anyone. Merely to think of it was a crime. He was bow-legged. Regular cavalry legs. They were a little short, besides, for his powerful body, giving his stiff stride a springy sort of uncertainty, as if he were endeavouring all the time to toe the mark, especially since he had donned civilian's clothes and kept his hands stuck in his coat pockets.
From time to time he leaned forward and asked:
"Are you comfortable, little girl?"
Oh, she was ever so comfortable. She could have reclined there the rest of her life, her head leaning back on the red velvet cushion, the soft kid gloves on her hands and the natty tips of new boots every now and then peeping from under her travelling gown.
What a crowd there had been at the station!
No uniforms, of course, because he had not desired an official escort. To compensate, the number of veiled ladies had been all the greater. They pretended to have business to attend to on the platform, and tried to be inconspicuous.
When Lilly walked to the train leaning on his arm, she caught two or three muffled cries of admiration. And God knows, they did not issue from friendly lips.
It all circulated about her heart like a warm, soothing stream.
At the last moment, as the train was moving off, two bouquets flew in through the window.
She looked out. There were the two sisters, making deep courtesies, and weeping like rain spouts.
So great was Lilly's fortune that even envy was disarmed, and all the evil poison in these girls was transmuted into pained participation in another's joy!
And there he sat, the creator of it all.
Overcome by a sense of well-being and gratitude, she knelt on the carpeted floor of the compartment, folded her hands on his knees, and looked up to him worshipfully.
He put his right arm about her, pulled her close to him, and let his left hand stray down her body. Fear came upon her again. She slid from under his grasp back to her seat. He nodded—with a smile that seemed to say:
"My hour will come in due time."
It was there sooner than she had suspected.
"Put on your coat," he said suddenly, "we shall be getting out soon."
"Where?" she asked, frightened.
"At the station—you know—from which a branch line goes to Lischnitz."
"Why, are we going to your place?" Lilly was terrified, because he had always spoken of going to Dresden.
"No," he said curtly. "We remain here."
In a few moments they found themselves on a dark platform among their bags and trunks.
The icy mist formed rainbow-coloured suns about the few lanterns, and white clouds of frozen breath enveloped each shadowy form as it stepped into a circle of light.
The train glided off.
They stood there, and nobody concerned himself for them.
The colonel began to swear violently, a habit acquired probably at drill, when the world did not wag as he wished it to wag.
His