It Happened Yesterday. A novel

Chapter I

" Is it still raining, Frieda ? " asked a feeble voice. A girl rose from the bedside where she was keep ing watch and went wearily to the window. She lifted up the curtain, looked out into one of the dullest of the dull streets of Augsburg, and saw the thick grey drops plashing remorselessly upon the roofs and pavement. For some seconds she gazed, motionless, at the leaden sky ; then her hand fell heavily to her side ; she turned slowly, almost auto matically; came back, with unsteady steps, to the seat she had just quitted, and as she sank into it, an swered faintly, "Yes, grandmother, it is still raining." "Sad without, sad within," murmured the feeble voice. Then there was long silence. The room was cheerless. A bed, a table, a chest A of drawers, a wash-stand, and three straw chairs com posed its furniture ; all were rickety and discoloured, but clean.

Against the wall hung a dingy oval mirror, with a broken frame. A bottle of medicine and a rose in a glass of water were on the table. In the bed lay a wan old woman. On one of the straw chairs sat the girl she had called Frieda, her eyes closed, her head sinking, her arms drooping. Once more the old woman spoke, with difficulty and with intense sadness, "You have to face it, Frieda. Yes, you have to face it. My poor Frieda ! " She moaned and was silent again. Frieda made no reply ; but her shoulders seemed to shrink a little. After a while the sick woman fell asleep. Hearing the deeper breathing, the girl opened her eyes, and, softly, though with an effort, rose. For a minute she stood still, staring at the ground. Then she muttered to herself, " This is my life ! This ! My darling grandmother is dying, and I am to remain alone — alone in want and degradation.

Misery yesterday — misery to-day — greater misery to-morrow ! Where can I turn for hope ? Is hope permitted to an outcast ?" Suddenly she raised her head. For an instant her eyes sought, almost wildly, for light in the future. Then all collapsed again, and with a low sob she fell once more upon the chair. Countess Frieda von Rothenfels was the last of a decayed race of the Old March of Brandenburg, which in other days had given many soldiers to Prussia. Her mother had died when she was born ; her father had been killed during the siege of Stras burg, leaving her penniless. Her grandmother, the sole relation she possessed, had taken charge of her, and (being a Bavarian and a Catholic) had fixed their home at Augsburg. By prodigies of self-denial and economy which are possible nowhere but in Germany, she had managed not only to subsist, but to give Frieda a good education, and even to lay by money, on the pension of £150 a-year which she received as widow of a major-general.

That pension, their only income, would disappear with the old lady, and then Frieda would have to earn her bread as best she could. It was to this situation that her grandmother had alluded when she said, " You have to face it ;" it was this situation that made Frieda feel she was an outcast — an outcast at twenty-three years old. Her nature — impressionable, excitable, enthusiastic — was intensely German, with exaggerations proper to herself. Like many other German girls, she found motives of fervid emotion in the smallest occurrences, and saw thrilling beauties in the most ordinary objects ; like many others, she was easy to offend, about everything and nothing; like many others, she was passionately proud of her birth and nationality ; like many others, she was a dreamer. In each of these tendencies she was excessive ; above all, in dreaming.

Dreaming was the distinctive feature, the special mark, of her character ; it was not only a tendency of her mind, a satisfaction of her aspirations after the unknown beautiful, it was also her refuge in distress. Her life was so full of pain that, to escape from its sorrows, she sought a hiding-place in her inner fancies, where she built up forgetfulness, and drifted, far away, to what she called " das begeisternde Seelenleben." Her conception of being, of its uses and its meanings, was to seek for idealism alone, to fly from contact with reality ; in reality she found a merciless enemy, in idealism a succouring friend ; in the actualities of her life she encountered things as they are, in dreams she saw them as they might be. Her conviction of the value of her imaginings was so earnest that she scarcely even wished to carry them into execution ; it sufficed to her that they existed ; and if they could have gone on existing, without interruption from the hard hand of outer things, she would have asked no more ; her one necessity was to dream on undisturbed.

Enjoyment, in her eyes, had grown to consist in picturing, not in possessing ; picturing was a product of her own will, possessing was beyond her reach. The habit of this condition of mind had produced in her a peculiar development of the thinking faculties ; but the practical use to her of those faculties was almost annulled by the falseness of her views of life, and by her entire inexperience of persons, things, and conduct. Her susceptive nature was opened wide to impressions from without, but as she had never been within reach of teaching or inciting contacts, she was reduced to living on herself alone, was conscious of her own ardours, but was ignorant of her own capacities. Beyond her years in imagining, in medi tating, in feeling, in the power of extracting over strained sensations from almost everything she saw or heard, she was behind them in knowledge of the world, in management, in practical judgment.

She was guided almost entirely by emotion, scarcely at all by reason. Her physical appearance was a reflection of her interior condition. It was vague, unoutlined, aimless, and yet suggestive of possibilities of great charm. It bore no mark of forming influences ; on the contrary, it gave glaring testimony to the absence of all ac quaintance with finished models. She was tall and slight, but not elegant ; supple, but not graceful ; natural, but not calm. Nature had bestowed upon her capabilities of beauty ; circumstances had done nothing to develop them. The very colours of her skin and hair corresponded with her inner dreaminess, and almost typified it. The one was white as snow, as milk, but with fitful glows and hesitating blushes, vague momentary warmths and sudden opalescences, that contradicted all comparison with unliving untrans parent milk or snow, and suggested that, beneath the intense whiteness, young eager life was seeking, unguidedly and confusedly, to break through.

The other, extraordinarily fine, and silky, and abounding, was of a tint between bleached flax and sunlit sand ; it was scarcely credible that it could be hair at all ; its glossy, flowing delicacy was amazing, but it was so unreal in tinge that it might have served to enwrap a vision, and scarcely seemed to be an earthly woman's ornament. Her features were fairly regular, but habitually inexpressive ; there were, however, moments when they were illumined by sudden flashing rushes of impulse, and while those rushes lasted, the glow of her face was admirable. Her eyes, of pale porcelain -blue, were dreamy and vague, excepting when the sudden fire lighted them. And yet, with all these insufficiencies, indefinitenesses, and unfin ishednesses of mind and body, she spread around her an impression of innate powers, of unaroused endow ments, of latent faculties that would break forth lav ishly, if occasion came.

At certain moments, when the impassioned look was on her, she might have been taken for an Undine waiting to be called to earth, longing, as in the Rhine legend, to shake off from the border of her robe the water that betrayed her origin, claiming to share, rejoicingly, in life, in hope, in love. In a position such as theirs it was natural that old Countess Rothenfels and her grandchild should have few acquaintances. Their pride could bear neither slights from above, nor familiarities from below. They had, indeed, but one real friend : Herr Muller, a canon of the cathedral, was the only visitor who came often to them. He knew their history; he had watched the formation of the character of Frieda, was deeply interested in her, and had tried, though with small success, to lead her to a practical appreciation of her position and of the combat that was before her.

As she sat at the bedside, in lonely wretchedness, the door-bell rang gently. She roused herself and went to see who was there. The Canon was standing on the landing, in a waterproof, holding a dripping umbrella in his hand. " Well, my poor child," he said, affectionately, " how is she ? Can I come in 1 " " Oh yes, come in, Hochwurden," exclaimed Frieda. " It is so kind of you to think of us. She is about the same. She is asleep." " Ah ! if she is asleep I will not disturb her. And perhaps it is better so, for I have something to say to you — something 1 had rather say when you are in a desponding fit, than when you are away, up in the sky, in one of your raptures. Can I put my wet coverings where they will do no harm ; and can we go into the Wohnzimmer for a moment?" The sitting-room was almost as dreary and as poorly furnished as the bedroom, and its habitual coldness was increased by the look of abandonment it wore.

It had not been used since the old lady had fallen ill. " My dear child," said the white-haired priest, taking Frieda's hand, "I have been thinking a great deal about you. I have expressed to you many times the opinion that the question of your future ought not to be left undealt with until the sad moment comes when you will find yourself alone. It is impossible to shut our eyes to the gravity of the condition of your grandmother, and I feel more and more each day that it is my duty to occupy myself seriously about you. Only, before I do anything, I want to lead you, if possible, to some clear and accepted plan of action. Hitherto we have alluded only in general terms to the anxieties that hang over you ; but the time has come, I fear, when I must urge you to speak plainly with a faithful friend like me.

You are not, usually, very precise, my child, in your processes of reasoning ; we have often battled about them ; make an effort to be precise to-day ; aid my old affection for you to obtain a definite result, and let us see, together, without further delay, how we are to com mence our inquiries. Will you, Frieda ? " " How good and patient you are !" she murmured, in a broken voice. " I will do whatever you may think best." " Well, now ; tell me what it is that you yourself would wish to do — supposing that it were possible for you to choose." "I — I do not know. I am very useless. I have read a great deal. I know what is taught in schools. I can talk French, and a little English and Italian. I can play the piano rather well, and you know that I have a voice and have learnt how to use it. I can make my clothes and do many sorts of sewing.

I can cook — especially pastry. And you have often told me that I have too intense emotions, and — and I think that is all. There never was any reality in me. How can I, incapable as I am, earn wages ? " " I am acquainted with those facts, Frieda," answered the Canon, making an effort to suppress an involuntary smile. " In spite of your incapacity, as you call it, we must find some means of enabling you to ' earn wages '; and for that reason, I want you to tell me, if you can, in what direction you would like me to seek those means. Your nature is rather — how shall I describe it ? — well, rather mystic, you know ; rather full of aspirations towards the unattainable and the undefin able. I am all the more anxious, therefore, to adopt all the precautions that are within my reach, to avoid shocking your susceptibilities and causing you pain, by proposing to you arrangements that might be repellent to you."

" Really, I do not — quite understand," stammered out Frieda, looking nervously at the Canon. " My child," he went on, " I will try to explain myself more clearly ; but there are ideas I do not like to ex press ; there are hypotheses I do not like to raise. I had rather, much rather, that you should look the future in the face, steadily, deliberately, and that, out of your own heart, you should make a choice between the various solutions which, so far as we can suppose, may offer themselves for your consideration." " But, indeed, indeed, I do not comprehend. I am aware of one thing only, that I must obtain a place and be paid by somebody, and my whole being recoils from it." "Alas, poor child, it has to be done! If you could write poetry, which was your dream when you were little— do you remember, Frieda? — and get money for it, we might dispense with the ne cessity of a 'place.' But the poetry is not ready, and we are forced to think, together, what kind of place it is to be.

Now, in trade there are many openings . . ." " In trade ? " gasped Frieda, colouring to her hair. " In trade ? I ? — I in a shop ? But I am a Rothen fels! And," she went on, with a cry of passionate anguish, " never will I disgrace the name which I alone shall be left to bear." "Now you have been precise at last, my poor friend. Now you have given me an answer — on one point, at least. You exclude commercial em ployments from your future. We will allude to them no more — unless we are forced to do so. Then — teaching ? What do you say to teaching ? " " How can I teach ? I am too ignorant." "That is not always considered to be a reason for abstaining from teaching," remarked the Canon, taking a pinch of snuff rather vehemently, as if he wished to accentuate the force of the observation. " And really, with your knowledge of music and your grand voice, you might teach singing — most certainly you might.

But we will exclude teaching too — for the present at least. Next, there are the posts occupied by women in the railways and the tele graphs ; you could easily pass the examination for them." " If I did that, I should have to mix with common persons, of low thoughts. I have seen them. Oh no, no ! it would be horrible." "My child," insisted Herr Muller, "necessity is the harshest taskmaster the world knows, for there is no conceivable limit to its despotism. You must resolve to face it in some one of its many shapes. In your sad case (as in most others, indeed) it is only a question of form and degree. It is my office, as your only friend, to urge you to be practical and to face the difficulty before you. You say ' no ' to every suggestion that I make. And yet we have to reach a decision. AVhat is it to be ?

" " Could I be a companion to somebody ? " she asked, frightenedly. " I think I could be agreeable — if I tried ; and I would try — indeed I would. My writing is very legible ; I have had five prizes at school for literary composition ; I delighted in it because it was a form of expansion and expression of myself, and because it satisfied my love of the refinements of form. I think I could write letters, as a sort of secretary. I could read aloud ; I have always read aloud to grandmother. When I said, just now, that I can do nothing, I did not mean such things as those." "We will see— we will see. We will try that channel first, since you prefer it. But if we fail there — and remember that situations as companions are not very abundant— we shall have to fall back, I fear, on one of the other plans."

Frieda hung down her head; tears trickled on her cheeks. " I must put one more question to you," continued the Canon. "Which would be the less disagreeable to you — to remain in Germany, or to go to some foreign country ? " " Oh, not in Germany, not in Germany ! My name is known in Germany. It was once an honoured name" — as she spoke, a flash passed through her eyes — " but foreigners might not know it, and might not see the shame on it. I would rather go away and hide myself. But, Hochwurden, dear grand mother may live for a long time yet, though she is so old and so ill ; and it may not be essential to decide anything now. I do fear all this with such deep terror. Can we not wait ? " "You may wait, my child; but I must act. God has placed on me a heavy responsibility about you, and I must discharge it.

Happily, a channel of action is open to me. I have a friend in France, a great friend; you have heard me speak of him; the Bishop with whom I lived so long in Rome. I am certain he will do his best to help me; I will write to him ; we shall see what he says. Mean while, my poor Frieda, remember that you are not abandoned by Providence, and that I am here to watch over you, whatever may happen." " How can I thank you ! How can I thank you ! " " And now, before I leave you, let us go gently to your grandmother's side and say a prayer together for her." Agitated, fevered by this conversation, Frieda prayed with deep excitement ; and for a few in stants after the departure of the priest, the emotion stirred up in her by the fervour of her supplications gave her some release from suffering. But the sooth ing did not last.

She went to the window, looked at the rain, and grief returned. " Sad without, sad within," she muttered. " Grand mother spoke truly. I am to be a slave. It is not the working for bread ; I think I do not object to that, for there is something worthy in labour, something noble even, something that may stimulate the imagi nation and content the idea of duty. No, it is not the work, it is the being obedient to a master that I loathe; it is the odious contact with coarse natures, which will claim the right of mastery over me because I have to hold out my hand for money. I am the last Rothenfels, but I am the first of us to accept domestic wages. Yet I must accept wages, or die of hunger." She seized her head with her two hands and rocked herself in pain. " I am awake," said the feeble voice again.

Frieda went quickly to the bedside, leaned over her grandmother, kissed her gently, and whispered, " Herr Muller came, dearest, while you were sleeping, and we said a prayer together at your pillow. I am sure you are much better since." " Am I, darling ? " Then the old lady murmured, with three intonations of increasing despondency, " Dear child ! Good child ! Poor child ! " After a short silence she asked, "And what did Herr Muller say?" " He said that he is going to look out for a situation for me," answered Frieda, with a trembling of the corners of her mouth. The old lady shook a little, but she replied, with an effort to be calm, " He is quite right. I expected he would do so. I shall not last much longer. It is better to see about it beforehand." A moment afterwards she broke down aud cried, burstingly, " Oh, Frieda ! my child, my Frieda !

" They sobbed in silence, their heads and hands pressed throbbingly together. Next day the old Countess was distinctly worse. She begged the doctor to tell her how long he ex pected her to live ; and when he left, sent the woman who came in the mornings to help Frieda with the housework, to fetch Herr Muller. She said to him, " I have explained to Frieda what is to be done. She is to sell this poor furniture ; its value will add a trifle to the eighteen hundred marks I have saved up for her ; they are in the top drawer. And you — you will not abandon her. There is no one else but you. No, no, you will not abandon her ! You will guide her — for she must be guided. She will soon be alone — alone in the weary world ! My Frieda, alone ! " " I will not abandon her," said the Canon simply A week later the old lady died.

As soon as the funeral was over, Frieda, exhausted and in intense grief, went to lodge with her former schoolmistress. The Canon saw her every day, and endeavoured to console and encourage her by wise words. But she was so excited by the scenes she had passed through, the loss of her grandmother had produced in her such an unbearable sensation of heart loneliness, that she was eaten up by a violent reaction from the fancies in which she habitually sought asy lum, and gave way unresistingly to destroying paiii in the present and to crushing terror about the future. This state continued for many days. While it endured she ceased to dream. She sank under the load of immediate sorrow as completely as if she had never learnt to thrust facts aside, and had never found escape from their unpitying presence by absorbing herself in air-built imaginations.

The Canon profited by her breakdown to urge upon her the unreliability of her cherished ideal of a mental existence detached from and irrespective of the actu alities of life. She listened to him respectfully, and made no objections to his arguments ; but, within her self, she longed to get back to her loved condition of world-forgetting musings as the sole shelter open to her weary spirit. At last she rallied from her prostration ; not gradu ally, but almost with a sudden leap. She re-entered her kingdom of reverie, and tried, once more, to make of life a distant vapour. One morning the Canon came in and woke her again to reality by telling her he had received an answer from France. " Yes, my dear child," he went on, " I have an answer, a most satisfactory answer so far as it goes. Our very first attempt may perhaps lead us to success.

I have the hope that your desire to join a lady as companion may, not impossibly, be realised under acceptable conditions. Here is the Bishop's letter ; read it — and thank God." The letter said : — " A very rich widow, Madame Jean Jelle, who lives principally in Paris, but who has a country house in my diocese, is seeking for a companion. She spoke to me some weeks ago on the matter, indicated vaguely that she wanted a rare person (though she did not explain in what the rarity was to consist), and asked if I could help her. "When your story came, about Mademoiselle de Rothenfels, Madame Jelle was away ; I had to wait to see her, and that has caused delay. " I have explained to her the painful circumstances in which the young lady finds herself, and I have mentioned the outlines of her history and character which you communicated to me.

The result is, that Madame Jelle seems much interested — tempted even — by what I said, desires to know more of your protigie, and, to my surprise, makes no difficulty at all about her German nationality. " I fancy the position would be agreeable — as much so, at least, as such positions can be, — for Madame Jelle assures me that, if she can find the right person, she will treat her as a friend. " I have told her I will suggest, for your consideration, that the best plan of action will be for Made moiselle de Rothenfels to write and state her ideas. The address is, — Madame Jean Jelle, Chdteau de la Soigne, near Amboisc. "Let me know what is done, so that I may see 1; what assistance I can give to the completion of the arrangement. "It may be useful to add that, as Madame Jelle is a woman of decided character and prompt intelligence, it would be advisable to speak very simply and straightforwardly to her."

When Freida had got through the letter, she laid it down and closed her eyes. Her spirit went to the grave by which she had stood a few days before, and whispered, " Grandmother, I suffer. Come into your child's heart and strengthen her." "Well," asked Herr Muller, "do you not think that Providence is aiding you ? " "Certainly," she answered, rather wanderingly " Providence is very good to me." " And you must be good to yourself as well, and be wise and practical ; and you must deal with this carefully, and write, as the Bishop says, a simple, straightforward letter." "Yes, I must write. I suppose I have to write, and to go away amongst strangers. Of course I know that I must accept this proposal. But it is indeed hateful to me." " Frieda, are you absolutely without reason ? " ex claimed the Canon, with evident distress.

"Here is an opportunity, unhoped for, apparently most ad vantageous, and you hesitate to pursue it ? I do not say to 'accept,' as you do, because, as yet, there is nothing before you to accept ; but I do say that you ought to place yourself at once in communication with this Madame Jelle, and do your very best to obtain the appointment." " If you think so, Hochwiirden, I will write at once — though it is so sudden, and though it implies so much. But — oh, how I abhor it ! " " Poor Frieda," said the Canon, taking her hand ; " is it impossible to put common-sense into you ? " " Common-sense is only one, and one of the leas I. elevated, of our motives of conduct." " Oh, Frieda, Frieda ! why do you force me to speak hardly to you ? If you possessed fifty pounds a-year you could go on living without common-sense.

But, child, you have no bread. If . . ." " No bread ; that is the truth," moaned Frieda, dropping back suddenly to realities. " I must take this place, and . . ." "If you can get it," interrupted the Canon. "Do write directly. As soon as your letter is sent off, 1 will let the Bishop know, so that he may support your application." " My application ! Yes, that is the name to give to it. I have to make an application — an applica tion ! — to a stranger — for wages ! " " Now, my child, my dear child," urged the priest, becoming slightly impatient, " write at once. And remember that you are to employ simple, straightforward language, and not to make what you call a ' literary composition.' " " I will obey," she answered gravely. "I will come back this afternoon to see your letter." Herr Muller went away, and Frieda sat down and thought.

After a while, with a movement which, in any one else, would have indicated decision, she pulled her chair to the table, took a pen, and wrote rapidly. When the Canon returned, she held to him the letter she had prepared, saying, "I think, Hoch wurden, this is simple and straightforward." She had written, in French : — "Madame, — Circumstances oblige me to earn my bread. " Hearing that you desire a companion, I write to say that I am ready to assume the duties of that position towards you. " I believe myself to be capable of discharging them in a manner worthy of myself and of my name. " I do not disguise from you that it is most painful to me to address this communication to you. " I await your reply. " Receive, Madame, the assurance of my best sen timents. Countess Frieda v. Rothenfels. " P.S. — May I ask you to have the kindness to ex plain to me what I should have to do ?