The Wish Part 23

"He preceded me. With difficulty he pushed his huge figure through the half-open door.

"There stood the cradle, lit up by the red rays of the setting sun.

From among the pillows there peeped a little copper-coloured head, hardly larger than an apple. The wrinkled eyelids were closed, and in the little mouth was stuck one of the tiny fists, its fingers contracted, as if in a cramp.

"My glance travelled stealthily up from the child to its father. He had folded his hands. Devoutly he looked down upon this little human being.

An uncertain smile, half-pleased, half-embarra.s.sed, played about his lips.

"Now, for the first time, I was able to contemplate him calmly. The purple evening rays lay bright upon his face, and brought to light, plainly and distinctly, the furrows and wrinkles which the three last years had graven upon it. Shades of gloomy care rested upon his brow, his eyes had lost their l.u.s.tre, and round about his mouth a twitching seemed to speak to me of dull submission and impotent defiance.

"Unutterable pity welled up within me. I felt as if I must grasp his hands and say to him, 'Confide in me--I am strong; let me share your trouble.' Then, when he raised his eyes, I was terrified lest he should have noticed my glance, and hastily kneeling down in front of the cradle, I pressed my lips upon the little face, which started as if in pain at my touch.

"When I got up I saw that he had left the room.

"Martha's eyes shone in anxious expectation when she saw me. She wanted to hear her child admired.

"'Isn't it pretty?' she whispered, and stretched out her weak arms towards me.

"And when her mother's heart was satiated with pride, she bade me sit down beside her on the pillows and nestled with her head up to my knee, so that it almost came to lie in my lap.

"'Oh, how cool that is!' she murmured, closed her eyes, and breathed deeply and quietly as if asleep. With my handkerchief I wiped the perspiration from her forehead.

"She nodded gratefully, and said: 'I am just a little exhausted yet, and my limbs feel as if they were broken; but I hope to be able to get up again to-morrow, and look after the household.'

"'For heaven's sake, what are you dreaming of?' I cried, horrified.

"She sighed. 'I must--I must. It does not let me rest.'

"'What does not let you rest?'

"She did not answer, and then suddenly she began to weep bitterly.

"I calmed her, I kissed the tears from her lashes and cheeks, and implored her to pour out her heart to me. 'Are you not happy? Isn't he good to you?'

"'He is as good to me as G.o.d's mercy; but I am not happy--I am wretched, sister; so wretched that I cannot describe it to you.'

"'And why, in all the world?'

"'I am afraid!'

"'Of what?'

"'That I--make him unhappy; that I am not the right one for him.'

"A sudden icy coldness ran through me. It seemed to emanate from her body upon mine.

"'You see, you feel it too!' she whispered, and looked up at me with great frightened eyes.

"'You are foolish.' I said, and forced myself to laugh; but the chillness did not leave my limbs. A dark suspicion told me that perhaps she might be right. But now it was for me to comfort her!

"'However could you give way to such silly self-torture?' I cried.

'Does not his behaviour at all times prove to you how wrong you are?'

"'I know, what I know,' she answered, softly; with that obstinacy of endurance which is given as a weapon to the weak. 'And what I am now telling you, does not date from to-day--the fear is years old; I had it in my heart already before I was engaged to him, and I quite well knew at that time why I refused him--for very love!'

"'Martha, Martha!' I cried, reproachfully; 'it seems to me that you concealed a great deal from me.'

"'At that time I did tell you everything,' she replied. 'You only would not believe me; you wanted to make me happy by force, and later why should I say anything? On paper everything sounds so different from what one means; you might even have thought you discovered a reproach against him or even against yourself, and naturally I could not risk such a misunderstanding growing up. My misery already began on the first day when we arrived here. I saw how he and his mother fell out, and a voice within me cried: "You are the cause of it." I saw how he grew sadder and gloomier from day to day, and again and again I said in my heart: "You are the cause of it." At nights I lay awake at his side, and tortured myself with the thought: why are you so dull and so depressing, and why can you do nothing but cling to him weeping, and suffer doubly when you see him suffering? Why have you not learnt to greet him with a song as soon as he comes in, and with a laugh to kiss away the wrinkles from his brow? And more than this. Why are you not proud, and strong, and wise, and why can you not say to him: Take refuge with me, when you are fainthearted--from me you shall derive new strength, and I will take care that you do not stumble. This is how you would have done, sister--no--do not contradict me; often enough I have imagined how you would have stood there with your tall figure, and would have opened out your arms to him so that he might seek shelter within them, like in a harbour where storms do not dare to enter....

But look at _me_'--and she cast a pitiable glance at her poor, delicate frame, the haggard outlines of which were traceable beneath the coverlet--'would it not sound ridiculous if I were to say anything of the sort? I, who am almost submerged in his arms, so small and weak am I,--I am only here to seek shelter; to give shelter is not in my power.... Do you see; all this I have thought out in the long, dark nights, and have grown more and more despondent. And in the mornings I forced myself to laugh, and tried to pa.s.s for a sort of cheerful, happy little bird, for this _role_, I thought to myself, is the most suitable one for you, and is most likely to please him; but song and laughter stuck in my throat, and I daresay he could see it too, for he smiled pitifully to it all, so that I felt doubly ashamed.'

"She stopped exhausted, and hid her face in my dress, then she continued:

"'And as that would not do, I tried at least to compensate him in other ways. You know that all my life I have toiled and moiled, but never have I worked so hard as in these three years. And when I felt myself growing faint and my knees threatened to give way under me, the thought spurred me on again: "Show that at least you are of _some_ good to him; do not ever let him become conscious of how little he possesses in you.... But of what avail is it all! My efforts are not the least good.

Everything goes topsy-turvy all the same, as soon as ever I turn my back. I am constantly in terror lest one day my management should no longer suffice him."'

"Thus the poor creature lamented, and I felt positively frightened at so much misery.

"'Listen, I have a favour to ask of you,' she begged at last, and clutched my hands; 'do try and sound him as to whether he is--is satisfied with me, and then come and tell me.'

"I drew her to me; I lavished loving epithets upon her, and endeavoured to soothe away her fear and trouble. Eagerly she drank in every one of my words; her feverishly glowing eyes hung spellbound upon my lips, and from time to time a feeble sigh escaped her.

"'Oh, if I had always had you near me!' she cried, stroking my hands.

But then a fresh idea seemed to make her despondent again. I urged her, but she would not put it into words, until at length it came out with stuttering and stammering.

"'You will do everything a thousand times better than I; you will show him what he _might_ have had, and what he _has_. Through you he will finally realise what a miserable creature I am.'

"I was alarmed; then I felt plainly: my dream of possessing a home was already dreamed out. How could I remain in this place, when my own sister was consuming herself with jealous anxiety on my account?

"She felt herself that she had pained me; stretching up her thin arms to my neck, she said: 'You must not misunderstand me, Olga. What I feel is not jealousy; I am so little jealous, that I have no more ardent wish than that you two should become united after my death, and----'

"'After your death!' I cried, in horror. 'Martha, you are sinning against yourself!'

"She smiled in mournful resignation.

"'I know that better than you.' she said. 'My vital strength has been broken for a long time. The long waiting in those days already undid me. Now, of course, I thought that with this birth all would be nicely at an end, and that is why I longed so for you, because I wanted first to arrange everything clearly between you two. But, however things may turn out, it won't be long before I have to give in and die, and before then I want to feel sure that I am leaving him and the child in good keeping.'

"I shuddered, and then a sudden la.s.situde came over me. I felt as if I must throw myself down at the bedside and weep, and weep--weep my very heart out. Then from the next room came the crying of the child, which had woke up and wanted its nurse. I drew a deep breath, and bethought myself of the duty which was imposed upon me.

"'Do you hear, Martha? 'I cried. 'You are ready to despair when Heaven has bestowed on you the greatest blessing that a woman can know?

Through your child you will raise yourself up anew; its young life will also bring new strength to yours.'

"Her eyes shone for an instant, then she sank back and smilingly closed her lids. The feeling of motherhood was the only one capable of winging her hope.

"Once more she opened her lips, and murmured something. I bent down to her, and asked: 'What is it, sister?'

"'I should like to be of some use in the world,' she said with a sigh, and with this thought she fell asleep.

"It had grown pitch dark when Robert entered the room. In sudden fright I started up. A feeling seized me as if I must hide away, and flee from him to the ends of the earth: 'He must not find you; he shall not find you!' a voice within me cried. My cheeks were flaming, and a vague fear arose in me lest their tell-tale glow might gleam through the darkness.

"He approached the bed, listened for a while to Martha's quiet breathing, and then said softly: 'Come, Olga! You are tired; eat something, and go to rest, too.'