That visit did not remain the only one. Many and many a time I sat with her in the cosily black-furnished drawing-room, and when she gazed at me with that singular, ambiguous look of hers, I often felt like burying my head in the dark silk robe on her lap and confiding to her all my sorrow and grief.
One day I received a letter from home, telling me that they were unable to find the money for the rent which fell due on January 1 (that was in a few days), and that all their things would be put out in the street. The letter worried me terribly; I had sent home small and large sums of money during the two years I had been at my post, but just then I did not possess any money worth mentioning. In my imagination I beheld my parents, sisters, and brothers, shelterless, in a dirty, stormy street, and so great was my despair that I cried all night.
In the morning an idea occurred to me that at first I found horrible and shameful. But it came again and again, grew stronger and stronger, and when it was time to take the children to school I hoped most devoutly to see my friend. Nor did I hope in vain.
"I must speak to you," I said, as soon as I caught sight of him.
"Not now," I answered, glancing at the children; "I must speak to you alone. Can you spare time on Sunday?"
"If there is anything the matter. Why not earlier?"
After that we appointed the time and place, and parted. But scarcely had he gone than I began to regret what I was about to do. The whole thing seemed to me almost madness.
What right had I to ask him for money? I felt so tortured, so miserable, and when the time of our appointment drew near, I decided not to go. Nor did I. Instead, I read that fatal letter over and over again. It was written by my father, and there was one passage that ran: "Mother is worn out with crying and fretting, and is not feeling well of late. What we are to do if we really have to move out into the street, I do not know. They would never take us into the alms-house, because we do not belong to Langenau at all."
I put my face on the table and wept bitterly. All at once I decided to do what I had meant to do, and looked at the clock. It was a whole hour late for the meeting we had arranged, and I could not expect to find him still waiting. Controlling my sorrows as well as I could, I went about my duty. That evening I was alone, my mistress having gone to the theatre, and after I had put the children to bed I grew so terribly anxious again--chiefly about my mother--that I decided to wait no longer. But what could I do? Surely he was not at home; and even if he happened to be in, could I go and ask for him? Though almost certain that it was perfectly useless to look for him, I went out on the balcony and noticed, half-mad with delight, a light burning in a little room situated one floor higher, where he used to develop photographs, to mend watches, and so forth. I walked upstairs, hardly conscious of what I was doing, and knocked at his door as softly as if I did not wish to be heard. He had heard me, however, and called "Come in," whereupon I pushed the door open and entered hesitatingly. Inside the room I pressed myself hard against the wall, and could not speak. He had laid aside his work at once, and looked at me with questioning eyes.