The scorpion

Frankly, I desired to make Myra’s acquaintance because of her evil reputation.

It was from Aunt Antonia that I first heard of her. Aunt Antonia was a very pious and respectable lady, and lies and slander were alien to her. She saw things with a sharp eye, but saw them from a set viewpoint.

According to her tale, Myra had even as a child exhibited a peculiar propensity to lying and stealing. In school she was considered stupid and lazy. As a young girl, she had run around with a remarkable woman, a fashionably dressed sharper, with a decidedly masculine manner. Misled, perhaps, by this friend, she had stolen her father’s silver service and pawned it. After a fit of downright insanity during which she tried to strangle her aunt, who had been the motherless child’s faithful guardian, she was dispatched to her Uncle George in a small town. There she stole everything not nailed down, very skillfully forced her uncle’s desk and, appropriating a large sum of money, fled.

Her father, a mental man of a most sensitive nature, did not long survive this news: he died of a stroke.

Myra’s mother had died in giving her life. “Luckily,” as Uncle George was wont to say bitterly.

But Myra did not share his opinion. She had a fantastic notion of what a mother is, and believed that her own mother’s premature death was the cause of all the misfortunes in her life.

For my part, I cannot say which view is correct. Certain it is, that Myra’s childhood would not have been as dismal and joyless as under Aunt Emily’s bony fingers; at the same time, even the gentlest of mothers’ hands could not have saved her from the bitterest struggles of her life. And when I recall the latter, I understand Uncle George’s “luckily” quite well. Doubtless he had a clearer picture of his sister than Myra could possibly have had.

Little Myra was not to go to school; her father, Franz Rudloff himself ordered it so. He had an almost morbid fear of anything that suggested “the common people.” It seemed to him as if his cool, high-ceilinged home would be contaminated with the exhalations of poorly ventilated class-rooms, as if his quiet walls would re-echo to hundreds of shrill voices, to hundreds of trampling feet, were he to send his daughter to school.

So a governess came to the house.

Aunt Emily was in secret opposition from the first. She had gone to school, and school had not harmed her in any way. Quite the contrary.

She was absolutely opposed to the idea that anybody in this world should have anything better than she had or had had. One of the few pleasures she permitted herself in life was that of “impartial justice,” as she called it. That is to say, if anyone is getting along undeservedly well, he must be made to suffer for his unmerited good fortune by some heavy blow of fate.

Other people have another name for this type of pleasure.

Aunt Emily was “against” the teacher. But Aunt Emily was much too much of a model to object when the master of the house expressed a desire. She knew that in such cases she must submit in silence. Not that poor Franz would ever have demanded it of her. Oh dear no! But it was the proper thing to do. So she pinched the corners of her mouth a little tighter and submitted in silence.

The teacher had such wavy, wayward hair that the brown curls refused to be laid flat and were always fluttering about her face. Moreover, she had the disposition which, according to the proverb, goes with such hair. All the men who had played a brief or a lengthy rôle in her life declared she would have made a ravishing lover. She was somewhat less qualified to educate a little girl.

Aunt Emily had not chosen her. That had been quite definitely Franz Rudloff’s and Myra’s concern. One thing father and daughter had in common—all their senses thirsted for beauty and harmony. They put a premium on externals, as Aunt Emily expressed it.

The governess, the “young lady,” had such a charming, girlish face, such gentle gestures and such a beautiful, vibrant voice.

But it was no sense of personal interest that attracted Franz Rudloff to the “young lady.” It was simply that if he must take a stranger into his house, he preferred that she be an agreeable creature. Perhaps he was, to a degree unsuspected by himself, heartily sick of a disagreeable one.

Myra’s case was different. She had never in all her life seen any human soul that so appealed to her. All her eager child’s heart, which neither love nor tenderness had ever filled, went out toward this stranger, this stranger who took her into her arms, who brushed the hair from her forehead with her gentle hands while her voice caressingly called her “darling” and “pet.” The prospect of having this person always near her was an inconceivable, a delirious joy.

She did not beg her father. Myra Rudloff never could beg, not even if it were a question of her life.

But when her father asked her if the “young lady” should come, she said, “Yes.” And the “young lady” came. But Aunt Emily pinched the corners of her mouth tighter and submitted in silence.

In the next three or four years, while the “young lady” remained in the house, Myra experienced all the tortures of unhappy love.

For the first few months everything went splendidly. That is the most unhappy part of an unhappy love—it always begins with an extravagant happiness.

The “young lady” was very fond indeed of Myra, and Myra was very fond indeed of the “young lady,” and they studied together and played together and went for walks together. It was a glorious time. But like all glorious times, of brief duration.

Surely some fiend suddenly cast the former lieutenant of hussars, von Hanston, in their path, that very lieutenant of hussars whom the “young lady” had loved ardently from the time when she was not a young lady at all, but was called Frieda Ellert and went to the seminary and danced at her first balls in the city where she was born.

This former lieutenant of hussars had no very clean record behind him. He had had to leave the service on account of debts, and had since tried his hand at a little of everything. He referred to his present occupation only in very ambiguous, albeit in very high-sounding, terms.

But that in no sense prevented the flame from kindling again in the “young lady’s” bosom, or Myra, “sweet little Myra, who was as good as gold,” from being a nuisance who was continually in the way.

At first, Myra was simply cross when her “brother” paid the “young lady” a visit and the child was sent to her bedroom, because the “young lady” could not receive a gentleman in a room where there was a bed. Later they changed all that.

It was enough to make anybody cross. And if the visits had continued and Myra had continued to be shut out, and if that cold, unfriendly tone which was habitual with the “young lady” these days, had continued, too, Myra’s burning love might have changed very quickly to hate—and all would have been well.

But the devil alone knows, that same devil who had washed up von Hanston on Victoria Louisa Square one morning, what von Hanston had up his sleeve. Some private worries, no doubt, or debts or another little love affair—at any rate, the “young lady” presently began to feel aggrieved, and to mope and to weep all night.

That was too much for Myra.

Myra Rudloff did not cry easily. She did not believe that a human being could cry unless he were suffering the extremes of agonized despair. Therefore, she would have torn her heart out of her breast to comfort anyone who was crying.

So when Frieda wept for her lieutenant of hussars, Myra suffered all the torments of Hell.

At first, since the “young lady” did not want to wake the child, she wept softly; in fact, wept herself to sleep in a quarter of an hour. But when she observed that Myra woke up, or perhaps did not dare go to sleep, and made an effort to remain awake, listening to every breath, then she felt quite free to give vent to her grief and let herself be comforted.

At the sound of the first sobs, Myra would jump out of her little bed and run in her bare feet across the bare floor. Then she would crouch at the “young lady’s” bedside and weep and shiver, and comfort her with her sweet, delicate child’s voice, and her gentle and good child’s hands.

And the “young lady” permitted herself to be caressed and comforted while she braced her feet against the foot of the bed, bent back her head, tore the pillows with her nails and cried, “The dog! The scoundrel! I can’t stand it any longer! I’ll die! He’s killing me!”

By the time that these scenes took place, Myra had already known for some while that these outbursts referred to the “brother,” and that this “brother” was no brother at all.

She felt such a furious torment of hatred against the man that she often pondered with fierce intensity how she could manage to do away with him.

These “nights of memories and of sighs” were bad. But they were by no means the worst. The worst was that the gentleman would appear again the next day and be received between laughter and tears, with open reproaches and hardly dissembled tenderness, and Myra would be sent to her room.

Then Myra would grind her teeth and dig her nails into her palms, and give way to the most torturing rage.

Myra was capable of much rudeness on these occasions. It was not her way to show sorrow when she was suffering. She preferred to be rude. Hence it is quite understandable that there were times when the “young lady” was furiously angry at her.

Had Myra been able to tell how she felt inside, she would have wept and said, “I love you and I am jealous. Doubly jealous because your love is bestowed on a man who torments you and whom you pretend to despise. I suffer because I have to love a creature who has so little pride and character.”

Myra went into the room, her room that she was not permitted to enter while that hated “scoundrel” was sitting there. She entered without knocking, she carried her head very high and set her tiny foot down very firmly.

She laid her books and notebooks on the table, opened the ink-well with a bang and pretended to be looking at the clock. She really was, but she was still so small that she had some difficulty in telling the time.

“I have a lesson,” she said.

“That scoundrel” sneered contemptuously and excused himself.

“How dare she do such a thing?” the “young lady” hissed at her.

Myra strove to think of some hateful reply, and she succeeded.

“My father doesn’t pay you simply to keep that ‘scoundrel’ sitting here all the time!” she said.

The “young lady” would have liked to strike her. But she shrank from the menacing gravity of the child’s pale face.

Never had anybody dared strike Myra Rudloff, although many may have felt the temptation.

The “young lady” caught her by the arm and shook her. She gripped the child so tightly that the pressure of her fingers was visible several days afterward as five blue marks on the tender skin.

If Myra had blue marks on her arm once, she had them a hundred times, or welts on her shoulders, or scratches on her hands. Had she wanted to complain, help was assured. If she had just once showed Aunt Emily the traces of one such scene, instead of anxiously hiding them, “that person” would have gone for good. Myra knew this but did not want to do it. Hence she had to fight her battle through single-handed.

When Frieda perceived that the child was superior to her, she changed her tactics. Myra must no longer be treated as an enemy, she must be made a confidante. Everything must be poured forth to Myra’s silent, little heart, all the joys and sorrows of this affair, and a whole mass of rubbish, besides.

Myra had to stand watch, Myra had to convey letters and carry on telephone conversations, and Myra was showered with kisses and caresses. Another child might have been quite happy in this state of affairs. Myra continued to suffer.

The difficulty probably lay in the fact that she detested the man so much. If it had been someone she liked, she might have accommodated herself more readily to the situation.

Sometimes, when the “young lady” was in a mood to belabor her heart’s dearest, she would take the child on her knee and swear to leave that terrible man. Then amidst tears and oaths everything would be promised.

“Yes, my darling, yes, my angel, he shall never cross that threshold again, the dirty dog! I have you, my pet, my comfort, I will live for you alone!”

For Myra these were moments of an agonized bliss.

But they were only moments, for all that, for when the telephone rang, or when a letter came, or when they met the gentleman “accidentally” in the public gardens, everything was forgotten again.

Myra comprehended that here was something against which she could do nothing. She comprehended darkly that she had no right to demand a human being entirely for herself, because she was a child. And she burned with a desire to grow up quickly, quickly, in order to possess what she loved, wholly and solely.

Then came that strange business with the silverware.

One night the “young lady” gave Myra the keys to the silver closet and a shallow leather-covered case. Myra was to return the case to the closet. The “young lady” had borrowed it secretly because her bridegroom wanted to see the pretty silver.

Myra wanted to see, too. She teased so long that the “young lady” opened the case. There were the thick, shiny spoons, row on row, each in its groove in the dark blue velvet. Not one was missing.

Myra felt an irresistible pleasure in stealing down the long hall, as silently as a cat, groping her way in the dining-room without turning on the lights, cautiously unlocking the closet without the key’s grinding or the door’s creaking, laying the case in its place and looking up again. Then she had to suppress her joy with an effort as she flew into the “young lady’s” arms and let herself be praised.

This first attempt was only an introduction. With astonishment and admiration Myra discovered the workings of the pawn system. It was quite miraculous—all one needed to do was lend silver or jewelry in order to receive a whole heap of money. And in a short time you received your things back again unharmed. Indeed, they were not even used during that time, as the “young lady” replied assuringly to Myra’s questions, with a laugh. It was a wonderful arrangement.

It was so lovely to lie in bed at night and chatter and nibble candy. But candy was so terribly dear. Therefore, from time to time, the silver was “lent.” It did the silver no harm, and the secrecy with which it had to be taken and returned was a real lark.

But once the big case was sent away and did not come back again. It was gone so everlastingly long that nobody gave a thought to it any longer.

Then it occurred to Aunt Emily during house-cleaning one day to have all the silver counted over and cleaned. Aunt Emily knew to a fork-tine just how much silver was in the household. But Aunt Emily was much too much of a model to depend upon her memory in matters so tremendous. On the inside of each door in the sideboard was tacked a little slip of rice-paper on which was written in Aunt Emily’s eminently distinct and legible hand:

With the help of these lists she established beyond a doubt that one case was missing.

Myra was not even frightened when she heard Aunt Emily’s shrill, excited voice and the weeping of the affronted maid. She was simply happy to be able to straighten out the situation. Thank heaven! Else poor Bertha would very likely have been suspected of stealing! Myra entered the room and said quite coolly and somewhat proudly, “You don’t need to be upset, Aunt. The silver is safe. I pawned it!”

As a result of the next few days’ events, it gradually dawned on Myra that she had done something which, in the opinion of the others, she was not justified in doing.

The house-maid told everybody who would listen to her that honest people were accused of stealing in her house because the “little brat” had “snitched” the silver and taken it to the pawnbroker.

The fat old cook wept and wrung her hands in lamentation.

Aunt Emily went about as if horror had turned her to stone. Tears came to the eyes of Myra’s father whenever he looked at his unhappy child. A children’s specialist even appeared on the scene, bearing the fearful and uncanny title of “psychiatrist,” and subjected Myra to a long examination.

And the “young lady” stormed and wept and screamed at her, calling her an “idiot” and an “imbecile,” and kicked and scratched her, then fell on her knees before her, declaring she was a “little saint,” and imploring her “to keep quiet.”

Myra “kept quiet.” But as she did not know what it was she should keep quiet about, she kept quiet about everything. She let them question her gently or angrily, during inquisitions that lasted for hours. She let them shake her, beseech her, let them lock her in her room—she would not talk. Her silence became a wall about her. She could no longer have broken it, had she wished.

But the “young lady” had to leave anyway. Whether she was an accessory or innocent, it was clear that no child could be so abandoned if its education were in good hands.

The “young lady” left. And Myra suffered all the mortal pangs of separation and loneliness.