“Oh, Tom,” she answered. “What should I be doing? My life is over.”
“Nonsense, Tony—you and your life! But it is pretty tiresome, is it?”
“Yes, Tom, it is very tiresome. Sometimes I just have to shriek, out of sheer boredom. It has been nice to be busy with this house, and you don’t know how happy I am at your return. But I am not happy here—God forgive me, if that is a sin. I am in the thirties now, but I’m still not quite old enough to make intimate friends with the last of the Himmelsburgers, or the Miss Gerhardts, or any of mother’s black friends that come and consume widows’ homes. I don’t believe in them, Tom; they are wolves in sheep’s clothing—a generation of vipers. We are all weak creatures with sinful hearts, and when they begin to look down on me for a poor worldling I laugh in their faces. I’ve always thought that all men are the same, and that we don’t need any intercessors between us and God. You know my political beliefs. I think the citizens—”
“Then you feel lonely?” Tom asked, to bring her back to her starting-point. “But you have Erica.”
“Yes, Tom, and I love the child with my whole heart—although a certain person did use to declare that I am not fond of children. But you see—I am perfectly frank; I am an honest woman and speak as I think, without making words—”
“Which is splendid of you, Tony.”
“Well, in short—it is sad, but the child reminds me too much of Grünlich. The Buddenbrooks in Broad Street think she is very like him too. And then, when I see her before me I always think: ‘You are an old woman with a big daughter, and your life is over. Once for a few years you were alive; but now you can grow to be seventy or eighty years old, sitting here and listening to Lea Gerhardt read aloud.’ That is such an awful thought, Tom, that a lump comes in my throat. Because I still feel so young, and still long to see life again. And besides, I don’t feel comfortable—not only in the house; but in the town. You know I haven’t been struck blind. I have my eyes in my head and see how things are; I am not a stupid goose any more, I am a divorced woman—and I am made to feel it, that’s certain. Believe me, Tom, it lies like a weight on my heart, to know that I have besmirched our name, even if it was not any fault of mine. You can do whatever you will, you can earn money and be the first man in the town—but people will still say: ‘Yes, but his sister is a divorced woman.’ Julchen Möllendorpf, the Hagenström girl—she doesn’t speak to me! Oh, well, she is a goose. It is the same with all families. And yet I can’t get rid of the hope that I could make it all good again. I am still young—don’t you think I am still rather pretty? Mamma cannot give me very much again, but even what she can give is an acceptable sum of money. Suppose I were to marry again? To confess the truth, Tom, it is my most fervent wish. Then everything would be put right and the stain wiped out. Oh, if I could only make a match worthy of our name, and set myself up again—do you think it is entirely out of the question?”
“Not in the least, Tony. Heaven forbid! I have always thought of it. But it seems to me that in the first place you must get out a little, have a little change, and brighten up a bit.”
“Yes, that’s it,” she cried eagerly. “Now I must tell you a little story.”
Thomas was well pleased. He leaned back in his chair and smoked his second cigarette. The twilight was coming on.