Part Fourth
Frau Altgelt waited in the chilly street,Hustled by lackeys who ran up and downShouting their coachmen’s names; forced to retreatA pace or two by lurching chairmen; thrownRudely aside by linkboys; boldly shownThe ogling rapture in two bleary eyesThrust close to hers in most unpleasant wise.
Escaping these, she hit a liveried arm,Was sworn at by this glittering gentlemanAnd ordered off. However, no great harmCame to her. But she looked a trifle wanWhen Theodore, her belated guardian,Emerged. She snuggled up against him, trembling,Half out of fear, half out of the assembling
Of all the thoughts and needs his playing had given.Had she enjoyed herself, he wished to know.“Oh! Theodore, can’t you feel that it was Heaven!”“Heaven! My Lottachen, and was it so?Gebnitz was in good voice, but all the flowOf her last aria was spoiled by Klops,A wretched flutist, she was mad as hops.”
He was so simple, so matter-of-fact,Charlotta Altgelt knew not what to sayTo bring him to her dream. His lack of tactKept him explaining all the homeward wayHow this thing had gone well, that badly. “Stay,Theodore!” she cried at last. “You know to meNothing was real, it was an ecstasy.”
And he was heartily glad she had enjoyedHerself so much, and said so. “But it’s goodTo be got home again.” He was employedIn looking at his violin, the woodWas old, and evening air did it no good.But when he drew up to the table for teaSomething about his wife’s vivacity
Struck him as hectic, worried him in short.He talked of this and that but watched her close.Tea over, he endeavoured to extortThe cause of her excitement. She aroseAnd stood beside him, trying to composeHerself, all whipt to quivering, curdled life,And he, poor fool, misunderstood his wife.
Suddenly, broken through her anxious grasp,Her music-kindled love crashed on him there.Amazed, he felt her fling against him, claspHer arms about him, weighing down his chair,Sobbing out all her hours of despair.“Theodore, a woman needs to hear things proved.Unless you tell me, I feel I’m not loved.”
Theodore went under in this tearing wave,He yielded to it, and its headlong flowFilled him with all the energy she gave.He was a youth again, and this bright glow,This living, vivid joy he had to showHer what she was to him. Laughing and crying,She asked assurances there’s no denying.
Over and over again her questions, tillHe quite convinced her, every now and thenShe kissed him, shivering as though doubting still.But later when they were composed and whenShe dared relax her probings, “Lottachen,”He asked, “how is it your love has withstoodMy inadvertence? I was made of wood.”
She told him, and no doubt she meant it truly,That he was sun, and grass, and wind, and skyTo her. And even if conscience were unrulyShe salved it by neat sophistries, but whySuppose her insincere, it was no lieShe said, for Heinrich was as much forgotAs though he’d never been within earshot.
But Theodore’s hands in straying and caressingFumbled against the locket where it layUpon her neck. “What is this thing I’m pressing?”He asked. “Let’s bring it to the light of day.”He lifted up the locket. “It should stayOutside, my Dear. Your mother has good taste.To keep it hidden surely is a waste.”
Pity again Charlotta, straight arousedOut of her happiness. The locket broughtA chilly jet of truth upon her, sousedUnder its icy spurting she was caught,And choked, and frozen. Suddenly she soughtThe clasp, but with such art was this contrivedHer fumbling fingers never once arrived
Upon it. Feeling, twisting, round and round,She pulled the chain quite through the locket’s ringAnd still it held. Her neck, encompassed, bound,Chafed at the sliding meshes. Such a thingTo hurl her out of joy! A gilded stringBinding her folly to her, and those curlsWhich lay entwined beneath the clustered pearls!
Again she tried to break the cord. It stood.“Unclasp it, Theodore,” she begged. But heRefused, and being in a happy mood,Twitted her with her inefficiency,Then looking at her very seriously:“I think, Charlotta, it is well to haveAlways about one what a mother gave.
As she has taken the great pains to sendThis jewel to you from Dresden, it will beIngratitude if you do not intendTo carry it about you constantly.With her fine taste you cannot disagree,The locket is most beautifully designed.”He opened it and there the curls were, twined.
Charlotta’s heart dropped beats like knitting-stitches.She burned a moment, flaming; then she froze.Her face was jerked by little, nervous twitches,She heard her husband asking: “What are those?”Put out her hand quickly to interpose,But stopped, the gesture half-complete, astoundedAt the calm way the question was propounded.
“A pretty fancy, Dear, I do declare.Indeed I will not let you put it off.A lovely thought: yours and your mother’s hair!”Charlotta hid a gasp under a cough.“Never with my connivance shall you doffThis charming gift.” He kissed her on the cheek,And Lotta suffered him, quite crushed and meek.
When later in their room she lay awake,Watching the moonlight slip along the floor,She felt the chain and wept for Theodore’s sake.She had loved Heinrich also, and the coreOf truth, unlovely, startled her. WhereforeShe vowed from now to break this double lifeAnd see herself only as Theodore’s wife.