Pointed Roofs: Pilgrimage Part 25

1

Towards the end of June there were frequent excursions.

Into all the gatherings at Waldstra.s.se the outside world came like a presence. It removed the sense of pressure, of being confronted and challenged. Everything that was said seemed to be incidental to it, like remarks dropped in a low tone between individuals at a great conference.

Miriam wondered again and again whether her companions shared this sense with her. Sometimes when they were all sitting together she longed to ask, to find out, to get some public acknowledgment of the magic that lay over everything. At times it seemed as if could they all be still for a moment--it must take shape. It was everywhere, in the food, in the fragrance rising from the opened lid of the tea-urn, in all the needful unquestioned movements, the requests, the handings and thanks, the going from room to room, the partings and a.s.semblings. It hung about the fabrics and fittings of the house. Overwhelmingly it came in through oblongs of window giving on to stairways. Going upstairs in the light pouring in from some uncurtained window, she would cease for a moment to breathe.

Whenever she found herself alone she began to sing, softly. When she was with others a head drooped or lifted, the movement of a hand, the light falling along the detail of a profile could fill her with happiness.

It made companionship a perpetual question. At rare moments there would come a tingling from head to foot, a faint buzzing at her lips and at the tip of each finger. At these moments she could raise her eyes calmly to those about her and drink in the fact of their presence, see them all with perfect distinctness, but without distinguishing one from the other. She wanted to say, "Isn't it extraordinary? Do you realise?" She felt that if only she could make her meaning clear all difficulties must vanish. Outside in the open, going forward to some goal through sunny mornings, gathering at inns, wading through the scented undergrowth of the woods, she would dream of the secure return to Waldstra.s.se, their own beleaguered place. She saw it opening out warm and familiar back and back to the strange beginning in the winter. They would be there again to-night, singing.

2

One morning she knew that there was going to be a change. The term was coming to an end. There was to be a going away. The girls were talking about "Norderney."

"Going to Norderney, Hendy?" Jimmie said suddenly.

"Ah!" she responded mysteriously. For the rest of that day she sat contracted and fearful.

3

"You shall write and enquire of your good parents what they would have you do. You shall tell them that the German pupils return all to their homes; that the English pupils go for a happy holiday to the sea."

"Oh yes," said Miriam conversationally, with trembling breath.

"It is of course evident that since you will have no duties to perform, I cannot support the expense of your travelling and your maintenance."

"Oh no, of course not," said Miriam, her hands pressed against her knee.

She sat shivering in the warm dim saal shaded by the close sun-blinds.

It looked as she had seen it with her father for the first time and Fraulein sitting near seemed to be once more in the heavy panniered, blue velvet dress.

She waited stiff and ugly till Fraulein, secure and summer-clad, spoke softly again.

"You think, my child, you shall like the profession of a teacher?"

"Oh yes," said Miriam, from the midst of a tingling flush.

"I think you have many qualities that make the teacher.... You are earnest and serious-minded.... Grave.... Sometimes perhaps overgrave for your years.... But you have a serious fault--which must be corrected if you wish to succeed in your calling."

Miriam tried to pull her features into an easy enquiring seriousness. A darkness was threatening her. "You have a most unfortunate manner."

Without relaxing, Miriam quivered. She felt the blood mount to her head.

"You must adopt a quite, quite different manner. Your influence is, I think, good, a good English influence in its most general effect. But it is too slightly so and of too much indirection. You must exert it yourself, in a manner more alive, you must make it your aim that you shall have a responsible influence, a direct personal influence. You have too much of chill and formality. It makes a stiffness that I am willing to believe you do not intend."

Miriam felt a faint dizziness.

"If you should fail to become more genial, more simple and natural as to your bearing, you will neither make yourself understood nor will you be loved by your pupils."

"No--" responded Miriam, a.s.suming an air of puzzled and interested consideration of Fraulein's words. She was recovering. She must get to the end of the interview and get away and find the answer. Far away beneath her fear and indignation, Fraulein was answered. She must get away and say the answer to herself.

"To truly fulfil the most serious role of the teacher you must enter into the personality of each pupil and must sympathise with the struggles of each one upon the path on which our feet are set. Efforts to good kindliness and thought for others must be encouraged. The teacher shall he sunshine, human sunshine, encouraging all effort and all lovely things in the personality of the pupil."

Fraulein rose and stood, tall. Then her half-tottering decorous footsteps began. Miriam had hardly listened to her last words. She felt tears of anger rising and tried to smile.

"I shall say now no more. But when you shall hear from your good parents, we can further discuss our plans." Fraulein was at the door.

Fraulein left the saal by the small door and Miriam felt her way to the schoolroom. The girls were gathering there ready for a walk. Some were in the hall and Fraulein's voice was giving instructions: "Machen Sie schnell, Miss Henderson," she called.

Fraulein had never before called to her like that. It had always been as if she did not see her but a.s.sumed her ready to fall in with the general movements.

Now it was Fraulein calling to her as she might do to Gertrude or Solomon. There was no hurried whisper from Jimmie telling her to "fly for her life."

"Ja, Fraulein," she cried gaily and blundered towards the bas.e.m.e.nt stairs. Mademoiselle was standing averted at the head of them; Miriam glanced at her. Her face was red and swollen with crying.

The sight amazed Miriam. She considered the swollen suffusion under the large black hat as she ran downstairs. She hoped Mademoiselle did not see her glance.... Mademoiselle, standing there all disfigured and blotchy about something... it was nothing... it couldn't be anything....

If anyone were dead she would not be standing there... it was just some silly prim French quirk... her dignity... someone had been "grossiere"... and there she stood in her black hat and black cotton gloves.... Hurriedly putting on her hat and long lace scarf she decided that she would not change her shoes. Somewhere out in the sunshine a hurdy-gurdy piped out the air of "Da.s.s du mich liebst das wusst ich."

She glanced at the frosted barred window through which the dim light came into the dressing-room. The piping notes, out of tune, wrongly emphasised, slurring one into the other, followed her across the dark bas.e.m.e.nt hall and came faintly to her as she went slowly upstairs. There was no hurry. Everyone was talking busily in the hall, drowning the sound of her footsteps. She had forgotten her gloves. She went back into the cool grey musty rooms. A little crack in an upper pane shone like a gold thread. The barrel-organ piped. As she stooped to gather up her gloves from the floor she felt the cold stone firm and secure under her hand. And the house stood up all round her with its rooms and the light lying along stairways and pa.s.sages, and outside the bright hot sunshine and the roadways leading in all directions, out into Germany.

How could Fraulein possibly think she could afford to go to Norderney?

They would all go. Things would go on. She could not go there--nor back to England. It was cruel... just torture and worry again... with the bright house all round her--the high rooms, the dark old pianos, strange old garret, the unopened door beyond it. No help anywhere.

4

As they walked she laughed and talked with the girls, responding excitedly to all that was said. They walked along a broad and almost empty boulevard in two rows of four and five abreast, with Mademoiselle and Judy bringing up the rear. The talk was general and there was much laughter. It was the kind of interchange that arose when they were all together and there was anything "in the air," the kind that Miriam most disliked. She joined in it feverishly. It's perfectly natural that they should all be excited about the holidays she told herself, stifling her thoughts. But it must not go too far. They wanted to be jolly.... If I could be jolly too they would like me. I must not be a wet blanket....

Mademoiselle's voice was not heard. Miriam felt that the steering of the conversation might fall to anyone. Mademoiselle was extinguished. She must exert her influence. Presently she forgot Mademoiselle's presence altogether. They were all walking along very quickly.... If she were going to Norderney with the English girls she must be on easy terms with them.

"Ah, ha!" somebody was saying.

"Oh-ho!" said Miriam in response.

"Ih-hi!" came another voice.

"Tre-la-la," trilled Bertha Martin gently.

"You mean Turrah-lahee-tee," said Miriam.