My way of living became the same again. Now as before I scrubbed the floor, washed the linen, and looked after the kitchen. Many times during my work I thought of my friend in London and secretly wished to be near her. There was one reason, however, why I could not really leave Marlow. It was this: that I was determined to return the money which I owed to my friend in Buda-Pesth; that was, of course, not easy for me, since my wages were only thirty shillings a month, and out of them I used also to help my parents. It is true that I had sent home less of late, because the conditions at home had gradually become more satisfactory, and my brother had also gone away. My parents had not heard from him for a long time. All they knew was that he had given up entirely the hated profession of a waiter, and gone over seas to try his luck in another land. In one of his more recent letters my father had told me that he had received a newspaper from Brazil, containing the news of a most daring flight made by an aviator named "Aranga."

Underneath this account, however, the following words were written in pencil, "Much love to all of you. I shall be all right as long as my spine is not broken."

To the above-mentioned purpose I now put away every farthing that I could save out of the thirty shillings, and the mere thought of sending my friend the amount of my debt made me exceedingly happy. Now to leave my situation and find another one in London would have certainly cost me money, and to spend even a single penny would have been unbearable to me. About that, however, I made no mention to my friend, but told him only of my occupation and so forth. His letters became very rare indeed, and of late contained nothing but reproaches at my apparent "waste of time."

"Have you," he asked, "gone over to England in order to learn how to cook? There was indeed no need for you to go to London just for that. You know how much I want to help on your education, and to develop your talent. Pray do not insist on sacrificing all your time to others. Try at least to find an engagement for the mornings somewhere in London, and study in the afternoons. I would, of course, support you in whatever way you require."

Tempting though such an offer may have been, I could not make up my mind to accept it, and so I returned with a sigh to my pots and pans. But in my heart of hearts I felt like the little boy in the story, who was for ever wishing that something might come along that would take him somewhere else. However, nothing came. One month passed after the other, and sometimes my feet felt very tired. By-and-by my heart grew weary too, and finally refused to tremble whenever the bell was rung; no longer did I fear, hope, and believe that he had come at last. But I was still waiting, waiting at the threshold of his soul, waiting for the wonderful moment when it would open, and he would step out to me with kindness on his lips and fulfilment in his eyes. Sometimes again there were hours when I almost regretted—hours when my most secret thoughts seemed to come to life and confront me with malicious-looking faces. "Why did you go away from him?" they would ask scornfully. Yes, why had I gone away from him? To get to know different people and different places? Of course, did not he himself wish it thus? Did not I myself want it thus? Want it thus? And after every drop of blood within me had set its "No" against that question, the scornful voices rose again: "And if you did not want to go away why, then, did you go?" And all at once I knew it, and my cheeks flushed with an unaccustomed glow, and my heart was filled with an unaccustomed sorrow. Thus disputing with myself, time passed on.

It happened one night, when I could not go to sleep though I had worked hard all day long, that I lay awake in bed, and thought and thought until all good and evil spirits had gathered around me. Like so many hands they reached down into my thoughts, tugging, pulling, and tearing them about, and when they had gone, there were red letters floating about in the darkness of the room, forming themselves to a question at the end, and the question was:

"May I come back again?"

"Why not?" I said, shaking my fists towards the glowing signs; "is not our friendship so pure, so marvellously wonderful?" ... At that a wreath of flames encircled every letter, and when I read again I trembled.

"That is just why," it said; and behind the letters there rose up a beautiful, transparent light. But I would neither see the light nor the writing, and closed my eyes like an obstinate child. Other nights followed similar to that one, and by-and-by all things seemed to enter into conspiracy against me. My own self seemed to hate and persecute me—seemed to wrestle from me the last faint hope, which I would not surrender. But in moments of greatest anguish he himself would come to my help. As if conjured up by some magic world he stood amongst the slanderous monsters, towering above them all.

"Do you believe in me?" he asked, gazing at me with the apprehensive look and giving me his kindest smile.

"Yes, I believe," I answered, raising up these words as I had seen, when a child, the priest raise up the golden monstrance, and at that my host of tormentors grew quiet, as the congregation did at church.

Of all that my friend knew nothing.

Just as we had never in our personal intercourse said anything to disclose our innermost thought or feeling, our letters remained equally distant and cool, with perhaps only a line now and again, which failed to hide our longing or grief.

But on those lines we lived—or I at least. Those lines held out to me all and everything—imparted to my soul all the strength and sweetness that it needed to persuade the weary limbs to do their dull, daily work once more. And thus it happened that I was sometimes even happy, that, with a smile in my eyes, I cleaned the copper pots until they all shone, and scarcely felt the cold when, early on a winter morning, I knelt down to wash the steps outside the house. But the most beautiful moment was when in the evening I took my little savings-box and spread its contents on my bed. That money I regarded as my greatest treasure, always hiding it away most anxiously, and I should have been inconsolable if I had lost it by any mishap.

I was determined to leave Marlow as soon as I had saved all the money to cover my debt, and a little over to last me until I had found a suitable situation in London. Things, however, did not turn out in accordance with my expectations.

For some time back my mistress had intended to send her daughter to a school abroad, and all at once she made up her mind to do so. She did not care to live in the large house all by herself, and told me that she was going to shut it up and travel about. Since all the money I still wanted did not amount to more than fifty to sixty shillings, I felt much grieved when she told me of her intentions, because there was no possibility now of sending the money off in a few months as I had hoped to be able to do. But soon I grew more quiet about it, comforting myself with the hope of finding another situation very quickly, and of being able after all to return the money in the shortest time possible.

Thus it came to pass that I left the house, where for eighteen months I had been happy and unhappy in so peculiar a fashion; and when I looked round my room for the last time I felt the tears spring into my eyes, and I went downstairs sobbing bitterly. After having arrived in London, I went to the home to see my friend. She welcomed me most heartily, but could do nothing else for me. The next thing I wanted to do now was to find a situation in order to spend as little of my savings as possible.

I called again on the elderly lady who had given me my first post, and after the usual greetings and necessary explanations she said:

"Since you have been in England for some time, and also possess a reference given by an English lady, it will not be difficult to find something suitable for you. What kind of a situation do you prefer?"

I thought of the sixty shillings which I wanted to earn as quickly as possible, and said that I did not mind in the least, but should feel happy if I could get an opportunity to speak a little English.

"Should you like to take a post as an under-nurse?"

I had never heard of an under-nurse before, and did not quite know what she meant.

"What's an under-nurse?"

"Well, you would like it no doubt, because the head-nurse is an Englishwoman, so you would have plenty of opportunity to speak English."

After that I asked for the particulars, which she gave me in full.

"It is best for you," she said, "to go there and show yourself to the lady. If you like the post then well and good, but should you not care for it, then come back again."

She handed me the address and I went on my way. It seemed to be tremendously far, and when, after much looking and asking, I at last pulled the bell of a pretty house, I felt dead tired. A neat-looking parlour-maid inquired my wishes, invited me to step in, and told me to wait. I sat down on one of the upright oak chairs, and in my heart of hearts hoped that the lady might not come immediately. But she appeared very soon, and was most kind and gracious. After she had asked me a few questions she told me that she would like to engage me, but could not do so before the head-nurse had seen me. But the head-nurse was out with the children, so would I either wait or come again? I decided to wait, after which she left me to myself, and inwardly I prayed to God that He might make the head-nurse like me too. A little while afterwards I could hear much shouting and yelling, and the lady came in to tell me that the head-nurse had returned. She asked me to follow her upstairs, where we were met by four boys, aged about five, seven, nine, and eleven years, who had come to some disagreement which they seemed unable to put right. A very thin-looking woman, whom I guessed to be the head-nurse, tried to quiet them, a task that proved only successful after she had produced a long cane, the sight of which had an immediate effect upon the four brothers. The head-nurse put the cane very carefully into a corner and listened attentively to what her mistress told her about me. Now and again she looked at me, and with much comfort and relief I noticed that she seemed to like me.

The lady then explained to me what I would have to do, and I felt a growing alarm the longer she spoke. But when she asked me in the end whether I would like to take the post, I thought again of the sixty shillings and said I should like to come.

I started my new situation two days later. If I had no idea of the position of an under-nurse before, I was to get it now. I found out quickly that among the four servants of the house, I was considered to be the most insignificant one, and each of the three other servants made me feel this. Owing to the fact that I spoke English imperfectly, and neither the cook nor the parlour-maid were fond of foreigners, they teased and taunted me at every possible opportunity. Furthermore, they made me do all the work that they themselves did not care to do, such as bringing up coal from the cellar and so forth. In order to get on with them, I did everything. But the nights proved to be even more terrible than the days. I had to sleep in one room with the cook and the parlour-maid, and many times I set my teeth when I thought of my own little room at Marlow. The two girls used to chat together until midnight, relating all about their lovers, and mentioning, I am sure, every Christian name for boys which is to be found in the calendar. The one of whom I was the most afraid was the cook. She was terribly rude, and often raised her hands as if to beat me whenever I did not do a thing to her entire satisfaction.

However, every cup of sorrow contains its drop of mirth, and my happiness arose from the cook's outings and her love-letters. The fact is that when she received a letter from one of her many adorers she was kind even to me.

One day a soldier presented her with a silver brooch, and she was so nice that day to me that I almost liked her in the evening. But when it happened that a day or more passed without having brought her a token of some kind she became furious, and her spiteful rage was beyond all bounds. While I still lived at Marlow I had often stood and watched for the postman, hoping secretly that he might bring something for me, but now I stood and watched for him, filled only with the ardent longing that he might have something for the cook; and I think that now is the right moment, and here the right place, to express my thanks to all the policemen, soldiers, milkmen, butchers and others, who were happy enough to come within scope of the cook's interest and consideration, for the numbers of letters and cards which they despatched to her without knowing that they had made me happy too.

One day there was a great row in the kitchen, and the parlour-maid left the same day. The new parlour-maid was a very pale and ill-looking girl, but she worked very hard. She was never rude to me. I liked her for that and felt sorry for her because she looked so weak. One evening, when the cook had her outing, and we lay alone in our room, the parlour-maid began to sob most piteously.

"What's the matter?" I asked her, and after some hesitation she told me that her sweetheart was lying on the point of death in a hospital for consumption. Then she pulled a letter from behind her pillow and handed it over to me. I lit the candle and by its flickering light I read the lines. Brave yet desperate words of a dying man, together with a poem, which throbbed with the unspeakable longing for health and life, and disclosed the most sweet and most lovable thoughts.

"I am sure," I said, trying hard to conceal my emotion—"I am sure he will get well again."

"No; he is there where only the dying are."

Her eyes were dry when she said that, and only her lips trembled. I put out the light and shuddered. From that evening onward I helped her as much as I could with her work, although I had plenty to do myself.

One night she roused us from our sleep with a terrible scream, and looking round her wildly, she said she was sure that "he" had called for her. On the morning she asked for half a day off, but she returned no more.

After I had been at my post for about six months, I went one day to the post-office to have a letter registered. The letter was addressed to my friend in Buda-Pesth and contained the money which I owed to him. But it contained something else beside that—the outcry of a heart tortured to death. For the first time I told him of my unbearable position. He wrote back at once. His letter was full of kind reproaches for my silence about so many facts—what he termed my insincerity. He further urged me to leave my place at once, take no situation whatsoever, and give myself up entirely to the study of the English language in order to be able to go in for an examination afterwards. He also returned the money which I had sent, begging me to use it for board and so on. Further sums would follow.

It happened that it was my day out when I received the letter, and I went to see my friend in the home. I showed her the letter from Buda-Pesth, and she greatly urged me to accede to his wishes.

"I know what men are like," she said, "and I feel convinced that that man means to deal honestly with you."

In this way she spoke to me for a long while, and being afraid to take a new situation on account of the cooks, I at last consented. My friend then told me that she had thought of leaving the home, and suggested that we should take one room together.

"It would be cheapest," she argued.

I liked the idea because, as she said, "it was cheapest," and thus it happened that I packed up my things once more and moved into a boarding-house in London, my heart filled with joyous hopes.

It is true that it worried me again to owe money to my friend in Buda-Pesth. I consoled myself, however, with the intention to work very hard in order to pass an examination in the English language very soon, and then—Yes, and then! All at once I stopped to think. The old, well-known hobgoblins appeared once more, and sneered and grinned at me out of every corner. I pulled myself together with all the self-restraint possible, shook off every thought for the future and studied very hard.

The life in the boarding-house was full of interest and liveliness. The boarders belonged to different races and spoke different languages.

There were, for instance, Indians, wearing turbans of white or daintily shaded silk; Chinese, who had, however, sacrificed their pigtails to the fashion of Europe; a former prima donna who had grown too stout for the stage, and showed, with much fondness, photos of herself in stage costumes; a pale, worn-out-looking gentleman from Switzerland who could not put up with the fact that no English girl—unlike some French girls of his acquaintance—would undertake the management of his own household without the usual vows at the altar; a German who could not stand the English cooking; and a young striving musician who was unable to pay for his board and tried to commit suicide every Saturday.

Although the people were polite to me and I liked them very well, I did not really care to associate much with them. Such, however, was not the case with my friend, who used to amuse herself chiefly with the discontented Swiss, in a way that at first surprised, later alarmed, and finally disgusted me. It happened often that I left the dining-room without a word, and sat down on my bed in our little room until my friend came upstairs. She then used to look very gay and began to tell me stories such as I had never heard from her before, and which recalled to me the stories of the cook. I responded but little, whereupon she grew very bad-tempered, and declared I was a dull girl who could never see a joke. Sometimes I felt some sharp reply on the tip of my tongue, but swallowed it down again, thinking that I was perhaps really "dull" and she right after all. I tried to make amends for my behaviour by greater attention and tenderness towards her, showing also much interest for the stories she told me. In reality, however, I found everything most tedious, and would have much preferred to talk about poems. But my friend had declared once for all that she did not care for poems. Thus I tried hard to keep up our friendship, which was no more than a comedy, and should no doubt have kept it up even longer if she had not done something which put an end to my uncomfortable position.

I had gone upstairs rather early one evening and left my friend in the company of the other boarders. I was in bed when she came up at last. She looked frightfully hot and was shaking with laughter.

"What's the matter?" I asked her with affected interest.

Still laughing, she pulled out a crumpled sheet of newspaper and straightened it.

"No, I never!" she exclaimed. "You must read that."

I looked at the paper and saw that it was French.

"How can I read it? I don't know French."

"Oh well, I forgot; I will read it out to you."

"But I can't understand it."

"Never mind; I am going to translate it."

After that, she placed herself close to my bed and read out a story which made me furious.

"Stop, if you please," I said; "I will hear no more of it."

She laughed aloud.

"You are only acting now; the truth is that you are anxious to hear the end."

"No; I will hear no more," I said decidedly; and because she did not stop I got out of bed and ran, barefooted as I was, into the bathroom close by. I stayed there for rather a long while, and when I came back she was in bed and pretended to be asleep. I knew, however, that it was impossible for us to live together any longer. We did not speak to each other next morning. As soon as I had dressed, I went out and took a room for myself in quite a different part of London.

I lived now close to Westminster Abbey.

I had heard much about it already, but had not yet seen it, and determined to visit that place at the first possible moment.

With my heart beating fast, I stood a few days later in front of its grey, sacred walls, and a little later I slipped in and mixed with the swarm of visitors. I did not, however, walk about as they did, but pressed myself hard into the first corner. Never in all my life had I felt what I felt then. I was like one spellbound, as if I was in immediate personal touch with all those who had been there a long, long time ago, and who were nothing but dust now.

I roused myself at last and moved on. But I walked about like a sleep-walker, conceiving only the infinite greatness of all things, hardly realizing the reality of what I saw.

After some wandering to and fro I caught sight suddenly of a low, little wooden door, and thought of opening it. I looked round carefully because I did not know whether it was permitted (it is permitted), pushed it open quickly and went out. Yes, really and truly out! Then, lo and behold! behind that door there was no chapel filled with coffins or monuments of kings and queens, but a garden in the shape of a square, which, it is true, had no flowers, but a beautiful, well-kept lawn, and that piece of green garden looked wonderful amid those grey, massive walls, which, could they but speak, are able to tell the stories of many a century. A few benches were placed here and there and I sat down. I knew that the Abbey itself had once upon a time been a monastery, and guessed that this had been the convent garden. I imagined that I could see the tall figures of the monks leaving the dormitory, proceeding slowly over the sparkling lawn, and disappearing behind the little door to attend their early morning service.

Whenever I visited Westminster Abbey later on (I am glad to say I did that very often) I paid my homage first to the tombs, the old, old coronation chair, the famous stone beneath it, which is regarded as the stone on which Jacob had slept and dreamt his world-known dream, the Poets' Corner, and to countless other glorious things; after which I restrained no longer the sweet impatience of my heart, but slipped through the low wooden door into the convent garden. And seated there on one of the benches, with my eyes twinkling, because of the full, sudden glare of light, I used to weave some sweet sad tale of love around the sombre figure of a proud and handsome monk.

Apart from these hours of so sweet, restful, and contemplative a nature, every day was given up to work. I did all in my power to acquaint myself most thoroughly with a knowledge of the English language, and made such good progress that I began to compose my verses in English. It is true that these poems will most probably never secure me the gratitude of the English people, but nevertheless they pleased me much, and my friend too expressed his satisfaction with them. He also sometimes asked me now what I was going to do after I had passed my examination, whether I was intending to stay in England or to go somewhere else.

But to these questions I never wrote any answer, and when I had to do so at last, a similar cowardice got hold of me to that which possessed St. Peter when he denied his Master.

"Do you think that I may come back?" I asked him.

Later on I went to post the lines, and when I returned to my room I found all the old well-known witches again.

"Is not something that is good beyond questioning—not clear as the purest water?"

Thus they whispered into my ear high and low in every scale, and beside that whisper I could hear the church bell strike every hour of the night.

The days seemed to creep to the thrilling impatience within me, and sometimes I felt a sudden terror at an unknown dread.

"What will he write to me? And when will he write?" I asked myself over and over again.

His letter arrived at last; it was put in a blue envelope and felt like a weight of lead in my hand. I could not make up my mind to open it, and wished somehow that I had not yet received it.

Tearing open the envelope at last, I read the letter, read it again and again. When I dropped the neatly written sheets, there was a dead stillness in the room. Involuntarily I looked around me. All the evil spirits had gone. All fear, all cowardice, all doubt had gone. Something like a cloud lifted from my soul, and then a feeling rose up to which I could as yet give no name, a feeling which tumbled about within me like someone aroused from a dream, and finally pressed itself hard against my throat.

I put my arms on the table, my face on my arms, and sat still for a long while. When it had grown dark and late I hid the letter underneath my pillow, and went to sleep without a light in the room. Once during the night I sat up in bed and lit a candle, and then I took the letter and holding it close to the light looked for one passage:

"If you had remained here, I do not know what might have happened; if you come back, I know what will happen. But the question is, may it come thus? You are not a girl of the ordinary type; you belong to the race of Asra, the people who die when they love. And because I have known that from the first, I have done for you what I have never done for another woman yet—namely, got hold of the head of the beast within, turned it round sharply and laughed at it."

I hid the letter again and lay very still in my bed.... That then was the end of it.... Tired and reluctantly my thoughts pilgrimaged back. I saw myself again as I was—poor, lonesome, waiting until the moment when the fairest miracle which life has ever held came to me, and every thought within me stretched forth arms, as it were, in order to receive it. I felt once more how every word, every look of his, pressed itself into my soul like a red-hot seal, and I suffered anew all the tortures and all the happiness. And all at once I thought again of the story of "Morgan" and of his young wife.... How truly different an ending, and yet how similar a victory! For which was more glorious for a girl—that a man should make her his wife, or make her his most beautiful dream, and his lasting desire? And all that I vainly tried to comprehend before I comprehended now. "Yes," I said to myself—and I said it aloud into the darkness of the room—"discontented, restless, aimless, freed from one passion to-day, and chained to another passion to-morrow, thus will he stagger through his life. Ever full of desire, never at peace with himself, he will taste of every pleasure and get to know every disgust. But above all pleasure and above all disgust there will be the one longing of his soul, which had denied itself the drink, because of the dregs it knew to be at the goblet's bottom. Not while in ecstasy, not in the hustle and bustle of the day will he be aware of it—nay, but when he lies awake at night, filled with a sense of utter loneliness, listening to the pouring rain outside, then it will come to life again, will throb and tremble through his soul, soft and pleading like an old forgotten strain." And after I had said that, I smiled that strange wonderful smile, which only a woman knows who is willing to take upon herself the heaviest burden for the sweet sake of love.

Next morning I left the house very early and wandered through the streets of London. To-day I knew that I would wander through those streets many, many times yet, and for a long, long while.

Once I stopped and entered a grey, small building. It was a Roman Catholic church. I walked about it aimlessly, and my eyes caught the picture of Christ in life-size. For the first time in my life, perhaps, the sight of it stirred nothing within me. What use could He be to me? Could He comprehend such a thing at all? It is true that He had become human in order to feel with us, but He was a good man. He only knew the sins and passions of others, never did He know a sin, or a passion of His own. Of godly descent. He was endowed with godly strength, with godly wisdom, with godliness. What did He really know of the nature of a thief, of a murderer, of a perjurer? And though He had died for the sake of love, what did He know of the sufferings of lovers?

I turned away from the picture and went out of the church. I went out on tip-toe by force of habit, but on my soul dawned the religion of life, which is older than the doctrine of Jesus ... and all round me walked its disciples. Men and women who had done with dreaming and were ready for the unknown hereafter—men with strong fists and hard looks, by which one could tell that they had battled with life; women whose faces looked wrinkled and worn, telling their story of hardship and silent surrender; men and women who in their days of severity and bitterness had surpassed the miracles wrought by Him, the Galilean; men and women among whose numbers I was also enlisted.

And out of that new consciousness arose to me a new wisdom and a new love—a wisdom which reigned over all former wisdom, and a love which reigned over all former love. And when I returned with it into my solitude, the stones began to speak.