Rue and Roses

by Angela Langer

"I cannot understand how you can put up with it—to stay here for good."

"Why?" she asked.

"Well, on account of the sleeping."

"I am used to it."

"I could never get used to that."

"In this world," she replied, "one has to put up with lots of things." And while she said that, her face grew very sad. When the bell rang for prayers we stood together, and when the hymn was sung I listened to the soft melancholy note that trembled in the girl's voice. The next morning I decided to go to the British Museum, since they all told me "everyone ought to see that."

It was only a few minutes' walk from the home, so I did not have to make many inquiries about the way. When I arrived at the entrance I was charmed with the countless pigeons, which seemed to be quite tame and fearless, even taking food out of the people's hands. I should have loved to remain there and watch the sweet, graceful birds, but there was something within that reproached me for my indifference towards the treasures of the British Museum itself. In order to quiet that something, I at last mounted the steps leading to the different rooms. I am sorry to say that my knowledge is far too small to appreciate the treasures accumulated in these rooms. I remember innumerable things, black from age, lying behind glass cases; their meaning and value, however, I did not understand. When I entered the room with the Egyptian mummies I felt the same reverence that I felt as a child on entering a church, and I only dared to walk about on tip-toe. That respect passed, however, the longer I gazed at the dark, lean faces, and finally they seemed to me to be no more than large babies put in swaddling clothes. There in front of me, a glass case held the last remains of a King—a hand adorned with yellow rings. Once upon a time that same hand had moved imperiously, and a thousand slaves had trembled at the sign. "Where is thy country to-day—where thy army, and where art thou thyself, oh mighty King? And what, oh tell me, became of all thy agonies, and what became of all thy joys?" Thus I questioned the dark hand with its yellow rings, and the reply I found was a conviction new to me. That there does not exist a real self—that God has not finished His creation yet—that we are the means towards an object, but not the object itself.

After much wandering to and fro, I arrived at a room that also contained glass cases, to which large and small pieces of brown paper were carefully pinned. At first I looked at them with wondering curiosity, but next minute I was overcome with awe. The brown pieces of paper were papyrus, which I had often heard of, but never seen. There were several of them, but I returned again and again to the one above which stood the following inscription: "Papyrus with five verses of an ode by Sappho to her brother Charaxus."

I could not turn my eyes away from it, and thus it happened that I went to the British Museum every day for the three weeks, in order to see the pigeons and the papyrus. I had an idea in my head of stealing the papyrus, but failed to accomplish that noble purpose owing to two policemen who were stationed close by, and who began to watch me suspiciously. Although the papyrus has, as I can see, not yet lost its old attraction, I must not forget to mention my visit to the famous "Tower." There, however, I did not care very much for the splendid armour which decorated the walls, nor for the large diamond in the jewel-room, round which the public crowded. I left rather quickly the narrow corridors, together with the gloomy rooms, and sat down on a bench in the court-yard, contemplating with melancholy feelings the bright brass plate in front of me, which stated that two young beautiful queens had been beheaded on that spot. The sunburnt leaves of autumn danced over it to-day.

I returned to the home rather late from such excursions, expected most impatiently by the girl who had attached herself to me more and more closely. By-and-by a friendship sprang up between us, the cause of which I could never explain. I think it was her eyes, which at times looked so strangely sad, that had attracted me, and although she had never confided in me, I felt sure that she was troubled by some secret sorrow. One day when we sat together and chatted, a letter from my friend was handed to me. I had been expecting it for a long while, and was very pleased with it. He wrote that he worked until midnight every day, and begged me to forgive his silence. He would write more fully as soon as he could spare time. My friend noticed how happy the few lines had made me, and smilingly she asked me whether that letter was from someone for whom I cared very much, and was that someone perhaps a man? I hesitated a little, and then told her about him. While I did so, she grew more and more sad, and at last she cried.