Minna/Book 2, Chapter 2
The next morning I ran down at once to the grocer, and brought back a bottle of the only sort of ink that he had in stock, as likely to be the presumed corpus delicti. My investigation gave the wished-for result: both the letter and the transcription in the poetry book had been written with this instrumento, and I quickly began to look at things in a more cheerful light.
I began to consider "the things which were to come." She would by now have received what I had forwarded, and I did not doubt that an explanation on her part would follow. It seemed to me that most likely she would choose to answer in writing. Would she send me a letter by hand? But that might easily give rise to gossip. Perhaps, however, she might not have time to write early enough in the day to make this mode of despatch of any avail, and the post might bring the letter as quickly. This day would have to be dedicated to the exercise of patience.
How was I to wile away the dreadful time? First I thought of taking a long trip, but I shivered at the idea of letting my own thoughts have sway, and being doomed to turn and twist the same question over and over again in my mind. I preferred, therefore, to give myself up to the perusal of a German novel of the domestic type, with the purest aims, and with contents which mercifully time has blotted from my memory. I then ordered my dinner to be sent for.
By and by it grew dreadfully hot and no air came through the open window. I threw off one garment after another until I lay on the bed in my shirt, which was hardly considerate to the figures depicted in the novel, who were the essence of propriety. I did not think there was any risk of other visitors, the old Hertzes could not possibly venture so far up. Suddenly an idea dawned upon me: Suppose she herself came to see me! It seemed impossible, but in such cases one must be prepared for any emergency.
At once I began to dress with the greatest care. Yes, I would even have shaved had not the sun been so blinding. As my eye caught sight of the little birch avenue, I was possessed by a new idea the grotto "Sophien-Ruhe"! She had said that at this time the people of the house never came there; what if, trusting to my memory and shrewdness, she expected to see me there! Surely she would do so. It was like a revelation! And off I darted.
A few yards from the place I paused in order to gain control over my feelings, and at the same moment a tall gentleman, with moustache and beard à la Kaiser Wilhelm, came out of the grotto with an aggrieved air.
"I beg your pardon," I stuttered; "I am afraid … perhaps this is private ground"
"Strictly private, sir," answered the Kaiser-bearded gentleman in a most majestic tone, and I disappeared from his lordly and offended gaze.
Not in the best of humours, I returned to the house and plunged into the second volume of the novel. Just at the most critical point, another idea occurred to me. Might she be with the Hertzes, why had I not thought of that before? No—she had said yesterday that she would be unable to be there. Again the wave from the waters of Lethe was borne upon my bewildered brain by the sentimentality of the novel, until the candle had burnt down in the socket and sleep wafted me away from noble Counts and still more noble clergymen's daughters.
The hour of the post next morning came and passed by.
"The post for thee no letter brings,
My heart, my heart."[1]
I attacked the third volume of the novel, which, like the others, contained five hundred pages. When that was finished and I noticed that the sun had already passed the one window frame, I hurried my preparations for shaving, taking into consideration that it is advisable to be well-shaved when a scene of a delicate description is imminent. The time for the second and last postal delivery approached rapidly; I did not care to contemplate what I should do in case of disappointment, and still I was almost sure that it awaited me. I had cleared the stubbly field of the right cheek, when my hand shook so much that I had to put down the razor, the reason being that I saw, coming up the zigzag path of the hill, the long, thin postman, who, in his uniform jacket and military cap, resembled badly-drawn pictures of Moltke. I remained at the window in breathless expectation and, as I saw him disappear round the corner of the house, I listened for the steps on the staircase, and was still listening in vain when his figure became visible marching down the steep slope.
A dreadful disappointment overcame me and, exasperated beyond endurance, I threw myself upon the bed. Clattering steps of bare feet were then heard on the landing, and there was a knock at my door, that was locked on account of the négligé attire which I had assumed during the reading of the novel. As soon as I had opened the door a big, wet hand thrust a thick letter into the room.
- ↑ Schubert, Die Post.