Portrait of a Girl (25 page)

Male Visitors

“Your friend did a good job of representing you,” Mathilde said, when James stepped out onto the balcony and greeted her. She put aside the book she was reading.

“He represented me so well that you even consented to receive me again.” James smiled. “I am glad that you asked me to come. But after you sent me away the first time, I didn’t want to go against your wishes,” he said.

“I wish you had come anyway,” she said. “Then I would have known that you really cared for me. When you didn’t come anymore, I was left wondering what to think—either you didn’t care for me, or you were respecting my wishes.” She opened her hand in which she was holding the blue butterfly and breathed on it, as if she were trying to bring it to life.

“But it’s not enough for me to be wondering about all sorts of possibilities,” she continued. “It gives me no peace of mind. So, please tell me—that’s why I asked you to come here—how you feel about me.”

She was sitting upright in her chair, a charming figure. She had become more mature and self-assured. James suddenly liked her very much. And she was giving him another chance. He thought of Segantini, who had chosen an entirely different path to escape the feeling of loneliness than the one he was following. He, James, had not created an ideal for himself that he was approaching full of hope and high expectations. He ran away from loneliness by not staying anywhere long enough for it to catch up with him. He hesitated about answering. How did he feel about Mathilde?

“I like you more than you think. And more than Edward or your aunt can imagine. Yes indeed, I flirted with you the way people flirt. I like to flirt. I’m easygoing, I prefer to avoid serious feelings. It was Kate who called my attention to you, she spurred me on. To be frank, without Kate, I probably never would have noticed you. But the more we saw each other, the more I liked you.”

He had hesitantly taken her hand, but then she had a coughing fit that shook her so hard that it scared him, and he let go of her hand.

“A glass of water!” she gasped, struggling to breathe. Helplessly, James held out the glass to her, waiting for the coughing to subside.

“I don’t like hospitals,” he murmured. “They make me feel helpless, incompetent.” He got up and walked over to the window. “You’re engaged. And you’re asking me whether I love you. That is to say, you’re actually asking yourself whether it’s possible that I am the right man for you. Better than your fiancé. And I cannot answer that question for you.” He had avoided answering her question and was ashamed of his cowardice. But he couldn’t help himself.

“When you went with me to the Pension Veraguth, I wasn’t thinking at all about whether I was right for you or not. I wanted you, and for that reason, I urged you to let me photograph you. It wasn’t the first time I saw a nude female body and not the first time I took a nude photo. I didn’t think it was anything so terribly shocking.”

Mathilde looked at him.

“But I’m not a model,” she said calmly. “I went there with yo
u . . .
” she couldn’t finish the sentence.

“I should have kept in mind that you’re not a model and still very young and that you come from a good family. And I should have resisted Kate’s whispered suggestions. In shor
t . . .
”

“It doesn’t change matters,” Mathilde said. “You didn’t force me to go with you. And you didn’t force me to let you photograph me. Now everything has changed anyway. I’m sick. And I’ll probably be sick quite a while longer, although Dr. Bernhard thinks that I’ll recover. But who really knows at this point? Usually people die of the disease I have.”

James had to admire her. He also felt more ashamed of himself by the minute. She was so much younger than he, and yet so much more mature. The illness had changed her. And he, who avoided sick people whenever possible, felt that he desired her more now than before and that he was less than ever the right man for her.

“I’m only a young fellow,” he said, “always searchin
g . . .
or running away. Fleeing or flirting. It’s all the same. Will you be seeing your fiancé tomorrow?”

“Yes,” Mathilde said.

“Mathilde, you’re crying!”

Edward didn’t have the nerve to sit down, and Mathilde forgot to ask him to.

“Please sit down,” said the old nurse who had ushered him in. “I know that she always looks forward to your visit.”

He sat down on a chair next to Mathilde’s bed but said nothing.

His presence seemed to make her cry even harder. The tears seemed to flow endlessly. Edward wondered where so many tears could come from so quickly. It was probably best to wait until the crying spell subsided. But as her sobbing got more and more violent, sounding as if it could be tearing her throat, he pulled his chair very close to the bed and took her hand.

She held on to his hand, but turned her face to the wall. Gradually the crying stopped and the room became very quiet. And it remained that way until the nurse came into the room and said, “Miss Schobinger. Mathilde, I’m sorry to interrupt, but the doctor will soon be here to see you.”

Betsy picked up her sister Emma Schobinger and her niece’s fiancé from the post coach stop and took them to the Hotel Victoria, where she’d reserved rooms for them. Emma was still wearing black.

Emma’s plan was to freshen up and then hurry off at once to see her daughter. Adrian was supposed to follow a little later.

In the meantime, Betsy didn’t mind going for a walk with Adrian in the park of the Kurhaus. That way she could form an impression of the young man, whose star seemed to be on the wane. At first glance, Betsy didn’t find much of anything to object to. He actually seemed well suited to Mathilde. It would be best for everyone if his star ascended again and James speedily vanished from Mathilde’s life. Betsy imagined that Mathilde might find Adrian to be a loyal, caring husband. Even better, her family would be satisfied, and no one would ever have to know anything about the affair with James. As to what would happen with herself and Edward, that was yet to be seen. The only uncertain factor was James, because men—in Betsy’s opinion—had no talent for dealing with women who’d been led astray.

Adrian had prepared himself to find a sick, emaciated girl, and was surprised when Mathilde’s appearance didn’t correspond to his expectations at all. She had gained weight and looked in the pink. Indeed, she was as tan as a peasant girl who’s never used a parasol. But it wasn’t just her appearance that defied his expectations, for Mathilde accepted his affectionate embrace like a dried codfish. Not that she was unfriendly, but she seemed to have become distant, a stranger, and his embrace seemed to have no effect on her at all, absolutely none.

“Tilda,” he said, “you look well, much better than I thought you would. What does the doctor say? He must be very pleased with you. What does he think, how much longer do you have to stay up here? I’m sure I’ll be able to take you back to Zurich soon.”

He embraced her again, and because he was disconcerted by her reserve, he tried to fill the rift between them with words. “Please don’t worry. I already spoke with your mother. We’re not going to rush forward with the wedding preparations. First you have to get completely well again. But after you come back, it might be a distraction and fun for you to choose the last few things for your trousseau at your leisure. And we’ll take all the time we want to find an apartmen
t . . .
”

But what was wrong? She wasn’t even really listening.

“Would you like something to drink?” Mathilde asked, and pulled out of his embrace to pour him a cup of tea. But she stopped in the middle. “Or would you prefer water?”

“Thanks, thanks,” he mumbled. “It doesn’t matter, I really don’t car
e . . .
”

He sat down and looked out into the distance. From the balcony, you could see a corner of Lake St. Moritz. Its glittering surface was just turning darker because the sun was beginning to set.

“I like to look out at the lake,” Mathilde said. “It’s so full of life. Can you see, over there, the little steamboat? Just think, they glide all over the lake. The tourists love going for boat rides!”

She noticed that Adrian was looking at her uncertainly, not knowing what he should say in answer.

“You know, I live here now,” she said, by way of apology. “After so much time here, you forget the city and the people who live there, the life you once thought was so important. Here the sun rises, shines down on us, warms the air, descends, casts shadows, sets. I eat six times a day, lie down to rest, take walks, sleep. Fall will soon be here, then winter. Dr. Bernhard thinks that winter will be especially good for me.”

“But Tilda!” Adrian cried. “Who’s talking about winter? That’s still far off, and by then you’ll already be back with your parents and with me.”

Mathilde shook her head.

Adrian didn’t want to believe that she could be so resigned to her fate, so unperturbed. “You’re alone up here, my dearest,” he said, “terribly alone! It will cause you to turn sad, melancholic. And the boredom. You must be terribly bored. There’s nothing stimulating to do, no theater, no concerts, no teas, not even a fair. Nobody except your Aunt Betsy. She’s kept us from coming to see you for much too long. I should never have allowed it! She kept saying that you needed time to recover from the diagnosis. But instead you’ve been isolated and lonely, terribly lonely.”

Mathilde shook her head.

“No,” she said, “I’m not lonely. Not at all. Every day I have visitors. I’m not bored either. It’s just different here. Everything is different now.”

Adrian was worried. Mathilde was sick, but in a way different from what he had expected.

“It’s nice that your aunt takes such good care of yo
u . . .
”

“Oh no,” Mathilde contradicted him. “It’s not just Betsy who comes to see me. We’ve met two young Englishmen, and we’ve done some outings with them. Betsy goes out with them often; they go for mountain hikes and have even gone to see the famous painter Segantini. One of the young men comes to see me. I can set my clock by his visits.”

Adrian frowned.

“What did you say?” he said. “You can set your clock by him? He comes that regularly to see you? That’s rather compromising for an engaged girl, Tilda.”