Mr. Sandor did not come to meet me this time. He told me in his letter that I would find my way easily now that I knew Buda-Pesth, and, furthermore, the house of the family who had engaged me was situated close to the station. I found it to be exactly as he said; after having crossed the street I reached my destination.

I had grown very indifferent of late, and mounted the broad staircase without the slightest trace of my usual embarrassment and fear.

After I had pressed the button at the door, a maid appeared and asked me whether I was the new hair-dresser. I thought this was owing to my shabby dress, my shabby gloves, and my shoes; so assuming an air of great dignity, I corrected her mistake. She led the way into the hall, and told me to wait. After a little time she came again and ordered me into another room. It had green curtains on the windows, and a green table-cover spread over the table. I expect it was the sight of the green table-cover that reminded me of my mother's former drawing-room. In order to make a good impression, I had held myself very straight and upright on entering the room, but with my thoughts reverting to a time far away, I forgot my purpose and my shoulders shrank a little, as is their wont.

"Are you the new governess?"

A little confused, I took my eyes from the table-cover, nodded "yes" to the question, and then looked directly at the gentleman in front of me.

"You said in your letter that you were twenty-one years of age?"

"Well, yes, I am twenty-one."

"You don't look it."

I told him it was not my fault, and then we smiled at each other.

He asked me a few other questions, and soon afterwards a tall handsome woman entered. She was my mistress, and took me into the nursery. It was early, and the children were not yet dressed; but they looked so sweet in their nightgowns that I liked them at once.

My life again became the same as it had been at my other situation. I occupied myself entirely with the children, played with them, took them out for walks, and later on to school. Our usual walk was along the wide and stately Danube, which represented a magnificent picture with the King's palace and other grand buildings upon its banks. If the weather was not fine, I used to send the children out on the balcony that ran all round the square courtyard at the same height as our apartments. On account of its smoothness it was a wonderful place for mechanical toys, such as engines, motor-cars, and so on.

One afternoon I had sent the children out there again, and promised to join them soon. When, however, I followed, the children had disappeared. I called their names aloud, whereupon they responded at once, but still I did not know where they were.

"Where are you?"

"Here," they repeated, and while I still stood and listened, a door that had not so far interested me opened, and my little girl put out her sweet dark head.

"Here we are!" she said once more; "do come in."

I did not know the people who lived there, but thinking that they were friends of the family I went in.

The room into which the little one had taken me was occupied by a gentleman about thirty years old, who was amusing the children with stamps and pictures. I thought he was alone at home. He saluted me in fluent German, and with more politeness than anyone had ever shown to me.

I controlled my embarrassment, and took the seat he offered me. The children had entered into an argument as to the possible value of foreign stamps, and the owner of the room turned to me in conversation. At first he only spoke commonplaces with a faint touch of irony in his voice, but he grew grave and interested after I had made a few remarks. Then we began a discussion, but how we started upon it I could never remember. Smoking a cigar and leaning back in his chair with easy elegance, he asked:

"Intoxication or regret—which is the greater of the two?... Is it worth the while?..."

I understood only half of what he meant, and answered that I did not know.

Then I told him about my poems, and he listened and smiled, an odd ironical smile that also I could not understand. At last when I departed with the children he asked me what books I was reading.

"None at all," I replied, whereupon he looked surprised.

"May I get you some from the library?"

I thought it was very kind of him, and said that I should be pleased.

A few days later the porter handed me a parcel containing books, and a slip of paper.

"I have chosen the books in a great hurry," he had written, "but trust that you will like them."

As soon as I could find time I opened one of the books. It was a volume of novels by Jacobsen, and one of them was called "Morgan."

I read it all through.... A man—a dreamer, who loves madly a girl to-day and has forgotten her by to-morrow; and round that man there moved pictures full of glowing colour and sparkling light. I liked it, but did not really understand it.

"Have you read some of the books?" my new friend asked me as soon as we met.

"Yes."

"That novel too about Morgan?"

"Yes."

"Did you like it?"

"I don't know."

"One of the most beautiful passages is that in which he walks through the waving corn-field with his young wife."

"Yes, but I believe he must have been a horrible man."

"Why that?"

"So wilful, so restless, so faithless."

He pulled his soft hat over his forehead, gave me a strange look and smiled.

We met almost every day, generally in the morning when I took the children to school and he went to his office. We rode a little way together in the tram-car, then I got out with the children and he went on. During these few minutes we carried on jumpy conversations, based upon an incident, an idea, or a poem of mine. We talked on dispassionately as it seemed, until we stopped abruptly as if afraid that we had said too much.

By-and-by I began to think of him whether I saw him or not; his face, his figure rose like a blazing question from the midst of the strange, wistful dreams that I had dreamt all my life, and something that had lain within me, dull and senseless like a trance, woke, wondered, and trembled into joy.

Once I did not see him for two whole days, and my heart grew so filled with longing that I wrote a letter to him. Not that I wished to see him or anything like it. No. What I put down on the paper were thoughts that had fallen into my soul, rich, like the raindrops that fall down into a field—visions of such rare, exquisite beauty, that I longed to share them with someone.

I was most anxious to see him next day, but did not meet him, nor the next day, nor the next; on the fourth day, at last.... My first impulse was to run and meet him, but it was arrested by a sweet bewilderment that took hold of me whenever I knew him to be near. It seemed as if he wished to hurry on without taking any notice of me, but then he hesitated, stopped, and lifted his hat. I was struck by the strange coolness of his behaviour, and my heart ached within me.

"How is it," I asked him, "that we see so little of each other?"

He drew a deep breath and looked away from me.

"Because it would be very unwise to see more of each other."

"Why?"

He did not answer at once.

"Because," he said at last, "there are wolves in sheep's clothing."

"I don't understand that."

"Don't you?"

"No."

"I want to caution you."

"What of?"

"Of a wolf that runs about in sheep's clothing and whom you trust."

"Whom do you mean?"

"Myself."

The meaning of his words dawned on me at last, but, filled with a happy, deep-felt trust, I shook my head.

"You are no wolf in sheep's clothing."

He drew a deep breath again, just as he had done before, and looked hard in front of him.

"You are mistaken. I am a wolf—a heartless, terrible wolf; one that would never hesitate a second to devour a sheep that comes his way without a shepherd and a hound."

I glanced at him, and it seemed to me that his face looked haggard and worn. I grew very quiet and very sad. The whole world looked dark all at once, and the joyous song that, like a glorious promise, had filled my brain and soul ceased with a dissonance.

But then a minute later it rose again, shy and soft, at first no more than a quiver, but gaining force and power until it grew into a thrill of notes so sweet and persuasive that I could and would not check them.

True that there was something crying within me, but the thing that had rejoiced before was rejoicing still.

"Did you get my letter?" I asked him after a while.

"Yes, and many thanks for it."

"May I write to you again?"

He hesitated.

"May I?" I repeated.

"Yes."

It seemed to be wrung from him.

"And you will write back?"

He hesitated again, much longer than before.

"I hardly think so; I mean to say sometimes, perhaps, but never very much."

"Only sometimes and never very much!"

"Yes; and that only on one condition."

"On what condition?"

"That nobody shall know of our correspondence."

"And why?"

"Because it is best for you."

"Why for me?"

And before he could reply a great anger rose within me.

"You are a coward!"

He shrugged his shoulders.

"If it gives you pleasure to think that, I will certainly not prevent you from doing so; an explanation, however, might be useful to you. It is not on my account that I do not wish to make our correspondence known, but solely for your sake. A single man is free to do as he chooses, he can go and turn a girl's head and nobody will blame him; but you must know that there are different ideas about the conduct of women."

"But I don't care."

"Quite so, but others do care."

"But I don't mind it."

"But I do."

"Then it is for your sake after all?"

"No, for your sake."

He stopped and looked at me with stern, decisive eyes. I felt so low and mean that I was ashamed of myself. What did all of this mean? There stood a man, and I pleaded and begged for permission to write to him. And he would let me, graciously let me, if I was content with his conditions. A wave of bitter anger swept over me. Would he dare to speak like that to another girl? To the daughter of his superior or of his friend? Or what else could it be but that he was ashamed of me—ashamed of the shabby dress I wore and the situation I was in? Quick as lightning a vision rose before me, a row of girls all dressed in costly gowns ... and for the first time I felt envious.... Was he not right after all? What was I? What were my people?... Poor, wretchedly poor!

"Leave me," I said, and the torture that I suffered leapt into my throat; "I will not write to you."

"You can't do that."

My sadness turned into wrath.

"Why can't I?"

"Because you want me."

His eyes had lost their stern expression, without, however, losing their firm, decisive look, and from that look streamed forth a power more irresistible than any I had ever felt. But I was very proud, very strong, very free of will, and would not submit, so I turned my back upon him.

"I hate you!" I said, and went away.

When it was late and dark and the children lay asleep, I sat at the window and looked down the street where hundreds of lamps shed their gloomy light, and countless people streamed gaily to and fro. They looked all so different in appearance and manner, and yet so alike because of the instinct of pleasure that governed them. Their eyes flashed, their cheeks glowed. They all hurried towards the theatre that was close by, and their haste and anticipation vibrated in the air like an electric current. I felt it all and shuddered, and then thought that I saw a monster of gigantic size with a malicious smile on its lips, and a malicious light in its eyes, kicking onward and onward the coil of carriage-horses and people, laughing madly all the while. To get rid of that horrid picture I closed my eyes and thought of home. There the children would be lying asleep. Two or three in each bed, so they would lie ... and mother would be sitting at the table in a cotton-dress that was mended and patched.... I could almost smell the oil of the little lamp and see the red flame trembling behind the crooked screen. And then I saw myself among the children, restless and discontented, full of a vague longing for somebody to whom I could confide all the wonderful thoughts and dreams that I constantly conceived, and to which mother would have responded with a little tortured smile, and father with a shake of his head, had they known, ... and suddenly I was once more bound in the spell of those eyes that had looked at me so calmly and firmly to-day.

"Because you want me," I heard him say again; and the words that had seemed so hard—almost brutal—a few hours ago, had now such a soft, quiet, reassuring touch that I stretched out my arms as if to cling to them.

I had written to him, enclosed my latest poems, and he had asked me in a short note to arrange for a few minutes' quiet talk. I had never yet met him without the children, and the thought of seeing him alone and undisturbed made me tremble with a strange delight. On a very clumsy pretext I asked for an hour off the next day, and arrived punctually. His salute was very polite, his face very grave. "I have only a quarter of an hour to spare," he said, "and must tell you at once what I intended to tell you." His remark that he had no more than fifteen minutes, whilst I had a whole hour at my disposal disappointed me, and I hardly answered his opening remark. He, however, took no notice of my anger and continued: "Many thanks for the letter as well as for the poems, and it is on account of the poems that I wanted to talk to you. You had the kindness to let me read some of your poems before, and I was struck by the talent they revealed to me, but your versification is as bad as your thoughts and feelings are exquisite. There"—he took my letter out of his pocket—"you may see for yourself what I mean."

I looked perplexed at the letter in his hands, but could see nothing, and asked him to make himself understood more clearly. At that request he smiled—not, however, the malicious smile of old—and said:

"The verses lack all shape."

"Shape?" I asked, astonished and a little hurt. "What shape are they to have?"

"Proper shape; the whole versification is wrong. Look here."

After that he began to read aloud and very slowly, making remarks in between the lines—such as: "There is a foot short in that line; and one foot too many in that one; in that other line the time goes too quick, and here again it goes too slow; the proper metre of the whole ought to be something like this." He read the poem over again, but put in the missing feet by syllables of his own invention, and left out what he thought too much. I had never in all my life heard anything like it, and listened to every word most attentively. After the quarter of an hour and a few minutes more had passed we parted, and I walked home filled with new ideas. As soon as I could find time I examined more of my verses and discovered the same unevenness in their construction.

When I met my friend out on the balcony (I am not sure whether accidentally or otherwise) a few days later, he handed me two books, a large one and a small one. "This one here is a grammar of the German language because—"and now he smiled a kind indulgent smile—"you can't spell your own language yet ... and this is a book on the construction of poems. It will tell you more clearly than I am able what you have to do, and what you must not do in writing your poems."

I thanked him very much for the books, but when I looked them through in the evening, I thought the German grammar most tedious, and the book on the "construction of verses" hopelessly unintelligible.

"It is impossible," I said to myself, "to write in accordance with these books; if I had to do it I simply could write no more." I put the books away, and wrote my poems in the same style as before. A whole week passed before I saw my friend again, and he asked me at once how I liked the books. I was rather ashamed to tell the truth about them and answered that they were all right.

"Did you write anything?"

I showed him my last poem. He read it very carefully and then returned it.

"The thoughts expressed in it are beautiful as they are always, and it is such a pity that you don't study the two books a little more."

"How do you know that?"

"Well, I can see it; if you had taken the slightest trouble with them you could not very well have made such great mistakes."

At first I felt ashamed, but then I grew sulky.

"The books are both very silly," I said, "and I do not think that I shall use them."

"Then you mean to remain a nursery-maid all your life?"

I dropped my eyes and was annoyed at the way he spoke to me, but in the evening I studied the books. The theory of poetry I treated with special attention, and after I had acquainted myself a little more closely with its many rules and ways, I found out soon enough what was the matter with my poems. I kept on studying it most diligently, and a few weeks afterwards I wrote a new poem, for which I got much credit from my friend.

"Let me congratulate you on your 'very first' poem," he said.

His praise had made me boundlessly happy and proud. With terrible certainty I had comprehended that I was socially far removed from him; that I could never hold the balance against him; that I was a girl so poor, so meaningless, whose dreams—nay, not even whose boldest dreams—were permitted to soar so high. But it was different now. A feeling of bewildering sweetness told me that this aristocratic man, to my ideas like a foreign bird with glittering wings, had deigned to rest himself in the quiet woodlands of my soul, ready to fly away again as soon as my flowers had faded and my larks had gone away to die. Realizing the last, I felt a bitter pang. No; that mystic stranger who by a sweet whim of fate had, as it were, come to stay with me for a while, must go away no more. No, never. All splendour would vanish, all brightness would fade, and the heart would forget how to sing. All and everything would go with him: that glorious expectation, never owned and all unconscious, telling me softly, softly, a wondrous, wondrous tale; that strange, delightful embarrassment, that at the sight of him had often, often set my feet and heart a-tremble; those waves of infinite tenderness, gushing up suddenly from depths unfathomable—all and everything would go. Something was roused within me, uplifting itself against that desolation, growing and growing until it towered above all anxiety and fear—a new self-consciousness together with a new strength. Thus I commenced to fight the battle that each woman is called upon to fight once at least, and which is more formidable than all the battles of war that have ever been fought by man.