Effi Briest (34 page)

Until Christmas things went splendidly; but Christmas Eve was a sad affair, and as the new year approached, Effi began to be subject to severe melancholy. It was not cold, just grey and rainy, and if the days were short the evenings were that much longer. What to do? She read, she embroidered, she played patience, she played Chopin, but those nocturnes were not calculated to bring much light into her life, and when Roswitha came with the tea-tray, and on it, besides the tea things, were two small plates with an egg and a wiener schnitzel cut into little slices, which she put on the table, Effi closed the pianino and said, ‘Draw up a chair Roswitha. Keep me company.’

And Roswitha did so. ‘You’ve been playin’ that piano too much again, my lady, I can see; it always makes you look like this, you come out in red patches. The Geheimrat said you weren’t to do it.’

‘Oh, Roswitha, it’s easy enough for the Geheimrat to tell me what not to do, and it’s easy for you to keep repeating it. But what am I supposed to do? I can’t sit at the window all day looking out at the Christuskirche. On Sundays during the evening service, when the windows are lit up, I always look across at it; but it’s no help, my heart just feels all the heavier.’

‘Well then, my lady, you should go in one of these times. You did go over once.’

‘Oh, more than once. But little good it did me. He’s a good preacher and he’s a very clever man, and I’d be happy to know a hundredth of what he knows. But it’s all just like reading a book; then when he starts shouting and waving his arms and shaking those black curls, it puts an end to my devotions.’

‘An end?’

Effi laughed. ‘You mean I never began? There’s probably something in that. But whose fault is that? Not mine. He’s always talking about the Old Testament. And good as it may be, it’s not edifying. I mean all this listening – it’s not what I need. What I need is to have so much to do that I don’t know which way to turn. That would be the thing for me. There are those societies where young girls learn to be housekeepers or sewing teachers or kindergarten nurses. Have you never heard of them?’

‘Yes, I’ve ’eard of ’em. There was talk of Annie goin’ to kindergarten.’

‘There you are, you know more about it than I do. That’s what I want. To join one of those societies where I could make myself useful. But there’s
no point in thinking about it. The ladies wouldn’t take me on, and they couldn’t anyway. And that’s the most dreadful thing of all, that the world is so closed to me that I’m not even allowed to join in doing any kind of good. I can’t even give coaching to poor children…’

‘That wouldn’t do for you neither my lady. Those children always ’ave such dirty boots, and in wet weather they steam and reek somethin’ terrible, my lady couldn’t stand it.’

Effi smiled, ‘You’re probably right Roswitha. But it’s too bad that you’re right. I can see there’s still too much of the old me there, and I’m still having it too easy.’

Roswitha would have none of this. ‘When somebody is as good as you are my lady, she can’t ’ave it too easy. But you shouldn’t keep playin’ all them sad tunes. Anyway I’ve this feelin’ sometimes that everythin’s goin’ to be all right again, somethin’ll turn up.’

And something did turn up. Effi wanted to be a painter, in spite of the schoolmaster’s daughter from Polzin and that artistic conceit of hers which still haunted her mind as something particularly dreadful. She laughed about it herself, for she knew she could never be any more than the most modest of amateurs, yet she plunged in with enthusiasm because she now had something to occupy her, and it was just right for her because she could do it in silence and noiselessly. She applied to a painting teacher who was quite elderly and well-versed in Brandenburg’s aristocracy, and at the same time so religious that he seemed to take Effi to his heart from the beginning. Here, he probably thought to himself, was a soul to be saved, so he was very warmly disposed to her and treated her like a daughter. Effi was very happy at this, and the day of her first painting lesson betokened a change for the better for her. Her poor life wasn’t so poor any more, and Roswitha was triumphant, that she had been right and that now something had turned up.

The months went by in this fashion. But contact with humanity again, though it brought her happiness, equally gave rise to a wish to renew and extend such contacts. Longing for Hohen-Cremmen sometimes gripped her with real passion, and she longed even more passionately to see Annie again. She was her child after all, and when her thoughts dwelt on her, she also remembered Miss Trippelli saying once, ‘It’s a small world, even in Central Africa you can be sure that you’ll bump into an old acquaintance’, and was justifiably astonished never to have met Annie. But that too was to change one day. She came out of her painting lesson close to the Zoological Garden, and near the terminus got into a horse-tram that was going all the way down Kurfürstenstrasse. It was very hot and the drawn curtains flapping in and out in the strong breeze refreshed her. She was leaning back in the corner facing the front platform and examining several blue sofas decorated with braid and
tassels that were engraved in a pane of glass, when – the tram had slowed right down – she saw three schoolchildren with satchels on their backs and little pointed hats jump aboard, two of them blond and carefree, the third dark and serious. It was Annie. Effi shuddered violently, and the thought of the meeting with her child which had been her ardent wish for so long filled her now with truly mortal terror. What should she do? Taking a quick decision, she opened the door to the front platform where nobody stood but the driver, and asked him to let her off at the front at the next stop. ‘Against regulations Miss,’ said the driver, but she handed him a coin and gave him such an imploring look that the good-natured soul changed his mind and muttered, ‘By rights I shouldn’t; but it can’t do no ’arm this once.’ And when the tram stopped, he lifted the gate and Effi jumped down.

When she reached home Effi was still in a state of great agitation.

‘Just imagine Roswitha, I saw Annie.’ And she recounted the meeting on the horse-tram. Roswitha was not pleased that there had been no scene of reunion between mother and daughter, and it was hard to convince her that it would not have done in the presence of so many people. Then Effi had to tell her how Annie had looked, and when with maternal pride she had done that, Roswitha said, ‘Yes, she’s sort of ’alf and ’alf. She gets ’er prettiness, and, if I may say so, ’er strangeness from ’er mamma; but ’er seriousness, that’s ’er papa all over. And when I come to think of it, there’s more of the Master in ’er.’

‘Thank goodness!’ said Effi.

‘Well now my lady, that’s the question, isn’t it? There’ll be those who’ll be more for ’er mamma.’

‘Do you think so Roswitha? I don’t.’

‘Now, now, I’m not goin’ to fall for any of that, and I think your ladyship knows quite well how things really are, and what men like best.’

‘Oh, we mustn’t talk about that.’

With that the conversation was broken off, and was never taken up again. But though Effi made a point of avoiding any mention of Annie to Roswitha, she could not in her heart get over the meeting and the thought that she had run away from her own child preyed on her mind. It plagued her and reduced her to shame, and the desire to meet Annie assumed pathological proportions. To write to Innstetten and ask for a meeting was not possible. She was amply aware of her guilt, indeed she nursed the feeling with something resembling passionate dedication; but for all this awareness she also felt a certain resentment towards Innstetten. She told herself over and over again that he was in the right, but when it really came down to it, he was wrong. Everything that had happened was so long ago, a new life had begun – he could have let it bleed away quietly, instead of which it was poor Crampas who had bled.

No, writing to Innstetten was out of the question; but she did want to see Annie and talk to her and press her to her heart, and after she had reflected on this for some days she knew how it might best be done.

The very next morning she dressed with care in discreet black and walked towards Unter den Linden to call on the Minister’s wife. She sent in her card which bore only the words: ‘Effi von Innstetten, née von Briest’. Everything else had been left off, including ‘Baroness’. ‘Her Excellency will see you’ – Effi followed the servant into an anteroom where she sat down and, in spite of her agitation, examined the pictures decorating the walls, first Guido Reni’s
Aurora
, then opposite a few English etchings, engravings after Benjamin West in the familiar style of aquatints, full of light and shade. One of them was of King Lear on the blasted heath.

Effi had barely finished her examination when the door of the adjoining room opened and a tall, slender lady with an expression that instantly won her petitioner over came towards her and held out her hand. ‘My dearest lady,’ she said, ‘What a pleasure to see you again…’

And as she said this she walked towards the sofa, where she drew Effi down beside her.

Effi was moved by the kindness of heart that all this betokened. No trace of superciliousness nor of reproach, just the milk of human kindness. ‘Now what can I do for you?’ said the Minister’s wife, once again taking the initiative.

There was a quiver at the corner of Effi’s mouth. Finally she said, ‘What brings me here is a request, one which might perhaps be fulfilled with your Excellency’s help. I have a ten-year-old daughter whom I have not seen for three years, and I would like to see her again.’

The Minister’s wife took Effi’s hand and looked at her kindly.

‘When I say I haven’t seen her for three years, that’s not strictly true. Three days ago I did see her again.’ And then Effi gave a vivid account of her meeting with Annie. ‘Running away from my own child. I know once one has made one’s bed one must lie on it, and I’m not asking for my life to change. It is how it is and I can’t expect it to be otherwise. But as for the child, that is too hard, and so I do wish to be allowed to see her now and then, not secretly and furtively, but with the knowledge and consent of all concerned.’

‘With the knowledge and consent of all concerned,’ the Minister’s wife repeated Effi’s words. ‘So what you mean is with the consent of your husband. I can see that he has chosen to bring up the child out of reach of her mother, a procedure I don’t propose to comment on. He may be right, if you’ll pardon my saying so, my dear lady.’

Effi nodded.

‘You accept your husband’s attitude and all you ask is that a natural feeling, the finest of our feelings indeed (we women at least are agreed on that), should be given its due. Have I got that right?’

‘Exactly.’

‘So I am to seek agreement for occasional meetings at your house where you can try to win back your child’s affection.’

Effi once again expressed her assent while the Minister’s wife went on, ‘I shall do what I can then, my dear lady. But it won’t be easy. Your husband, you’ll excuse me if I continue to call him that, is not a man of moods and whims, he’s a man of principle, and to give up his principles, or even just relax them momentarily, will be hard for him. If that were not so, his behaviour and the way he is bringing up his daughter would have changed long ago. What is hard for your heart is what he considers to be right.’

‘So perhaps your Excellency, you think it would be better to withdraw my request?’

‘Not at all. I was merely seeking to explain your husband’s actions, not to justify them. At the same time I was trying to indicate the problems which we are likely to encounter. But I think we’ll manage it just the same. For we women, if we go about it cleverly, and don’t overdo it, can achieve all sorts of things. In addition to which your husband is a particular admirer of mine, and is unlikely to refuse any request that comes to him through me. We’re having a
cercle intime
tomorrow at which I shall see him, and the day after tomorrow you’ll have a note from me in the morning to tell you whether I’ve gone about it cleverly, by which I mean successfully, or not. I think we shall win our cause and you will have the pleasure of seeing your child again. She’s said to be a very pretty girl. Which is not surprising.’

It was the second post that brought Effi this note, so presumably Annie would be arriving in less than two hours. A short time, but still too long, and Effi paced restlessly through the two rooms and then back into the kitchen, where she talked to Roswitha about anything and everything: the ivy across the road on the Christuskirche, and how by next year the windows would be completely overgrown, the concierge who once again had not turned off the gas tap properly (they would all be blown sky-high one of these days), how next time she should go back to the big lamp supplier on Unter den Linden for their paraffin instead of to Anhaltstrasse – she talked about everything and anything, but not about Annie, so as to suppress the fears that lurked in her heart in spite of the Minister’s wife’s note, or perhaps because of it.

Now it was midday. At last the doorbell rang timidly and Roswitha went to look through the spy-hole. Yes, it was Annie. Roswitha gave the child a kiss but said not a word, and very quietly, as if there were an invalid in the house, led her from the lobby into the back room and from there to the door into the front room.

‘In you go Annie.’ And with these words, not wishing to intrude, she left the child alone and went back to the kitchen.

Effi was standing at the other end of the room, her back to the pier-glass, when the child entered. ‘Annie!’ But Annie stopped at the door which was half-open, partly out of embarrassment, but partly intentionally too and so it was Effi who ran to the child and lifted her in the air and kissed her.

‘Annie, my darling child, how happy I am. Come here and talk to me,’ and she took Annie’s hand and went over to the sofa to sit down. Annie, still looking timidly at her mother, just stood there and with her left hand reached for the corner of the tablecloth which was hanging down. ‘Did you know, Annie, I saw you once?’

‘Yes, I thought you did too.’

‘Now you must have lots to tell me. My, how you’ve grown. And there’s your scar; Roswitha told me about it. You always were so wild and heedless when you were playing. You get that from your mamma, she was like that too. And what’s happening at school? I expect you’re always top of the class, you look to me as if you are a model pupil and only ever bring home top marks. I’ve also heard that Fraulein von Wedelstadt has praised you. That’s as it should be; I was ambitious too, but I didn’t go to such a good school. Mythology was always my best subject. What are you best at?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Oh, you must know. Everyone knows that. What did you get the best marks in?’

‘Religion.’

‘There, you see, now I know. Yes, well, that’s very good; I wasn’t so good at that, but that was probably because of the teaching. We only had an ordinand.’

‘We had an ordinand too.’

‘And has he gone now?’

Annie nodded.

‘Why did he go?’

‘I don’t know. Now we have the Minister again.’

‘Whom you all like very much.’

‘Yes. Two girls in the top class are going to convert.’

‘Ah, I see. That’s good. And what’s Johanna doing?’

‘Johanna brought me as far as the house…’

‘And why didn’t you bring her up with you?’

‘She said she would rather stay downstairs and wait opposite, by the church.’

‘And you are to meet her there.’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, I hope she won’t get impatient. There’s a little garden at the front, and the windows are half-overgrown with ivy, as if it was an old church.’

‘I shouldn’t like to keep her waiting though.’

‘Oh, I see you’re very considerate. I have to be pleased about that. So long as you have the right priorities… And now tell me, how’s Rollo?’

‘Rollo is very good. But Papa says he’s getting so lazy. He lies in the sun all the time.’

‘I can believe that. He was like that when you were quite little… And now Annie, tell me – for today we’ve just met for a short while – are you going to visit me often?’

‘Yes, if I’m allowed.’

‘We could go for a walk in Prince Albrecht’s Gardens.’

‘Yes, if I’m allowed.’

‘Or we’ll go to Schilling’s and have an icecream, pineapple or vanilla – that was what I always used to like best.’

‘Yes, if I’m allowed.’

And this third ‘if I’m allowed’ was the last straw; Effi jumped to her feet and a look burning with something approaching indignation fell upon the child. ‘I think it’s high time you were going Annie. Otherwise Johanna will be getting impatient.’ And she pulled the bell. Roswitha, who was already waiting in the next room, came in at once. ‘Roswitha, take Annie across to the church. Johanna is waiting there. I hope she hasn’t caught cold. I’d be very sorry. My regards to Johanna.’

At that both left.

Scarcely had Roswitha closed the door when Effi, who was on the point of suffocation, tore open her dress and subsided into convulsive laughter. ‘So that’s what a reunion’s like’, and she dashed forward, opened the windows wide and looked for some source of comfort. And in her heart’s hour of need she found something. For there beside the window was a bookshelf, a few volumes of Schiller and Körner, and on top of the volumes of poetry which were all the same size lay a Bible and hymnbook. She picked them up because she had to have something she could kneel and pray to, laid the Bible and hymnbook on the edge of the table, just where Annie had stood, and threw herself down in front of them with a violent jerk and said half out loud, ‘God in heaven, forgive me for what I have done. I was a child… No, no I wasn’t a child, I was old enough to know what I was doing. I
did
know, and I don’t want to take away from my guilt… but
this
is too much. For what’s happening here with the child, that’s not
you
, God, punishing me, it’s
him
, and him alone! I thought he had a noble heart and I always felt small beside him; but now I know
he’s
the one who’s small. And because he’s small, he’s cruel. All things small are cruel.
He’s
taught it to the child, he was always a schoolmaster. Crampas called him that, making fun of him at the time, but he was right. “Oh yes, if I’m allowed.” You don’t
have
to be allowed. I don’t want any of you any more, I hate you, even my own child. Too much is too much. A careerist, that’s all he was, nothing else. – Honour, honour, honour… and then he went and shot the poor fellow whom I didn’t even love and whom I’d forgotten because I didn’t love him. It was just stupidity, and now it’s blood and murder. And me to blame. And now he sends me the child because he can’t say no to a Minister’s wife, and before he sends the child, he trains her like a parrot, and the phrase he teaches her is “if I’m allowed”. I’m disgusted at the thought of what I did; but I’m even more disgusted when I think of how virtuous you both are. Away with you. I have to live, but it won’t be for ever.’

When Roswitha came back Effi was lying on the floor, her face turned away, as if lifeless.