At six o’clock came the inquiry of the soldiers: Had anything been seen
of Bachmann? Fräulein Hesse answered, pleased to be playing a rôle:
“No, I’ve not seen him since Sunday—have you, Emilie?”
“No, I haven’t seen him,” said Emilie, and her awkwardness
was construed as bashfulness. Ida Hesse, stimulated, asked questions, and
played her part.
“But it hasn’t killed Sergeant Huber?” she cried in
consternation.
“No. He fell into the water. But it gave him a bad shock, and smashed his
foot on the side of the moat. He’s in hospital. It’s a bad look-out
for Bachmann.”
Emilie, implicated and captive, stood looking on. She was no longer free,
working with all this regulated system which she could not understand and which
was almost god-like to her. She was put out of her place. Bachmann was in her
room, she was no longer the faithful in service serving with religious surety.
Her situation was intolerable to her. All evening long the burden was upon her,
she could not live. The children must be fed and put to sleep. The Baron and
Baroness were going out, she must give them light refreshment. The man-servant
was coming in to supper after returning with the carriage. And all the while
she had the insupportable feeling of being out of the order, self-responsible,
bewildered. The control of her life should come from those above her, and she
should move within that control. But now she was out of it, uncontrolled and
troubled. More than that, the man, the lover, Bachmann, who was he, what was
he? He alone of all men contained for her the unknown quantity which terrified
her beyond her service. Oh, she had wanted him as a distant sweetheart, not
close, like this, casting her out of her world.
When the Baron and Baroness had departed, and the young man-servant had gone
out to enjoy himself, she went upstairs to Bachmann. He had wakened up, and sat
dimly in the room. Out in the open he heard the soldiers, his comrades, singing
the sentimental songs of the nightfall, the drone of the concertina rising in
accompaniment.
“Wenn ich zu mei...nem Kinde geh’...
In seinem Au...g die Mutter seh’...”
In seinem Au...g die Mutter seh’...”
But he himself was removed from it now. Only the sentimental cry of young,
unsatisfied desire in the soldiers’ singing penetrated his blood and
stirred him subtly. He let his head hang; he had become gradually roused: and
he waited in concentration, in another world.
The moment she entered the room where the man sat alone, waiting intensely, the
thrill passed through her, she died in terror, and after the death, a great
flame gushed up, obliterating her. He sat in trousers and shirt on the side of
the bed. He looked up as she came in, and she shrank from his face. She could
not bear it. Yet she entered near to him.
“Do you want anything to eat?” she said.
“Yes,” he answered, and as she stood in the twilight of the room
with him, he could only hear his heart beat heavily. He saw her apron just
level with his face. She stood silent, a little distance off, as if she would
be there for ever. He suffered.
As if in a spell she waited, standing motionless and looming there, he sat
rather crouching on the side of the bed. A second will in him was powerful and
dominating. She drew gradually nearer to him, coming up slowly, as if
unconscious. His heart beat up swiftly. He was going to move.
As she came quite close, almost invisibly he lifted his arms and put them round
her waist, drawing her with his will and desire. He buried his face into her
apron, into the terrible softness of her belly. And he was a flame of passion
intense about her. He had forgotten. Shame and memory were gone in a whole,
furious flame of passion.
She was quite helpless. Her hands leapt, fluttered, and closed over his head,
pressing it deeper into her belly, vibrating as she did so. And his arms
tightened on her, his hands spread over her loins, warm as flame on her
loveliness. It was intense anguish of bliss for her, and she lost
consciousness.
When she recovered, she lay translated in the peace of satisfaction.
It was what she had had no inkling of, never known could be. She was strong
with eternal gratitude. And he was there with her. Instinctively with an
instinct of reverence and gratitude, her arms tightened in a little embrace
upon him who held her thoroughly embraced.
And he was restored and completed, close to her. That little, twitching,
momentary clasp of acknowledgment that she gave him in her satisfaction, roused
his pride unconquerable. They loved each other, and all was whole. She loved
him, he had taken her, she was given to him. It was right. He was given to her,
and they were one, complete.
Warm, with a glow in their hearts and faces, they rose again, modest, but
transfigured with happiness.
“I will get you something to eat,” she said, and in joy and
security of service again, she left him, making a curious little homage of
departure. He sat on the side of the bed, escaped, liberated, wondering, and
happy.
