Title: The World's Illusion, Volume 1 (of 2) - Eva
Author: Wassermann, Jakob
Language: English
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THE EUROPEAN LIBRARY EDITED BY J. E. SPINGARN


[Illustration: THE EUROPEAN LIBRARY]



THE WORLD’S ILLUSION

BY JACOB WASSERMANN

AUTHORIZED TRANSLATION BY LUDWIG LEWISOHN

THE FIRST VOLUME: EVA

[Illustration]

NEW YORK HARCOURT, BRACE AND HOWE 1920



COPYRIGHT, 1920, BY HARCOURT, BRACE AND HOWE, INC.

THE QUINN & BODEN COMPANY RAHWAY, N. J.



CONTENTS OF THE FIRST VOLUME


                                           PAGE
    Crammon, the Stainless Knight             1
    Christian’s Rest                         15
    The Globe on the Fingertips of an Elf    46
    An Owl on Every Post                     87
    Or Ever the Silver Cord Be Loosed       143
    The Naked Feet                          209
    Karen Engelschall                       296



THE WORLD’S ILLUSION



CRAMMON, THE STAINLESS KNIGHT

I


From the days of his earliest manhood, Crammon, a pilgrim upon the
paths of pleasantness and delight, had been a constant wayfarer from
capital to capital and from country-seat to country-seat. He came of an
Austrian family whose landed estates lay in Moravia, and his full name
was Bernard Gervasius Crammon von Weissenfels.

In Vienna he owned a small but beautifully furnished house. Two old,
unmarried ladies were its guardians--the Misses Aglaia and Constantine.
They were his distant kinswomen, but he was devoted to them as to
sisters of his blood, and they returned his affection with an equal
tenderness.

On an afternoon in May the two sat by an open window and gazed
longingly down into the street. He had announced the date of his
arrival by letter, but four days had passed and they were still waiting
in vain. Whenever a carriage turned the corner, both ladies started and
looked in the same direction.

When twilight came they closed the window and sighed. Constantine took
Aglaia’s arm, and together they went through the charming rooms, made
gleamingly ready for their master. All the beautiful things in the
house reminded them of him, just as every one of them was endeared to
him because it united him to some experience or memory.

Here was the chiselled fifteenth century goblet which the Marquis
d’Autichamps had given him, yonder the agate bowl bequeathed him by
the Countess Ortenburg. There were the coloured etchings, part of the
legacy of a Duchess of Gainsborough, the precious desk-set which he
had received from the old Baron Regamey, the Tanagra figurines which
Felix Imhof had brought him from Greece. There, above all, was his own
portrait, which the English artist Lavery had painted on an order from
Sir Charles MacNamara.

They knew these things and esteemed them at their true worth. They
stopped before his picture, as they so often delighted to do. The
well rounded face wore a stern, an almost sombre expression. But that
expression seemed deceptive, for a tell-tale gleam of worldly delight,
of irony and roguishness, played about the clean-shaven lips.

When night fell the two ladies received a telegram informing them that
Crammon had been forced to put off his return home for a month. They
lit no lights after that, and went sadly to bed.


II

Once it had happened that Crammon was dining with a few friends at
Baden-Baden. He had just returned from Scotland where he had visited
the famous trout streams of MacPherson, and had left the train at the
end of a long journey. He felt very tired, and after the meal lay down
on a sofa and fell asleep.

His friends chatted for a while, until his deep breathing drew their
attention to him, and they decided to perpetrate a jest at his expense.
One of them shook him by the shoulder, and when he opened his eyes
asked: “Listen, Bernard, can’t you tell us what is the matter with Lord
Darlington? Where is he? Why is he never heard of any more?”

Crammon without a moment’s hesitation answered in a clear voice and
with an almost solemn seriousness: “Darlington is on his yacht in
the Bay of Liguria between Leghorn and Nice. What time is it? Three
o’clock? Then he is just about to take the sedative which his Italian
physician, Magliano, prepares and gives him.”

He turned on his other side and slept on.

One of the men, who knew Crammon only slightly, said: “That’s a pure
invention!” The others assured the doubter that Crammon’s word was
above suspicion, and they spoke softly so as not to disturb his sleep.


III

On another occasion Crammon was a guest on an estate in Hungary, and
planned with a group of young men, who were visiting a neighbouring
country-house, to attend a festivity in the next town. The dawn was
breaking when the friends separated. Crammon, with senses slightly
dulled, went on alone and longed for the bed from which half an hour’s
walk still separated him. By chance he came upon a cattle market
crowded with peasants, who had brought in their cows and calves from
the villages around.

The crowd brought him to a halt, and he stopped to listen while a bull
was being offered for sale. The auctioneer cried: “I am offered fifty
crowns!” There was no answer; the peasants were slowly turning the
matter over in their minds.

Fifty crowns for a bull? To Crammon’s mind, from which the wine fumes
had not quite faded, it seemed remarkable, and without hesitation he
offered five crowns more. The peasants drew aside respectfully. One of
them offered fifty-six; Crammon bid fifty-eight. The auctioneer raised
his three-fold cry; the hammer fell. Crammon owned the bull.

A magnificent beast, he said to himself, and felt quite satisfied with
his bargain. But when the time came for him to pay, he discovered that
the bidding had been so much per hundred weight, and since the bull
weighed twelve hundred and fifty pounds, he was required to pay seven
hundred and twenty-five crowns.

He refused angrily. A loud squabble followed; but his arguments were
useless. The bull was his property. But he had no such sum of money on
his person, and had to hire a man to accompany him with the animal to
his friend’s house.

He strode on wretchedly vexed. The man followed, dragging the unwilling
bull by a rope.

His host helped Crammon out of his embarrassment by purchasing the
bull, but the incident furnished endless amusement to the whole
countryside.


IV

Crammon loved the theatre and everything connected with it. When the
great Marian Wolter died, he locked himself in his house for a week,
and mourned as if for a personal bereavement.

During a stay in Berlin he heard of the early fame of Edgar Lorm. He
saw him as Hamlet, and when he left the theatre he embraced an utter
stranger and cried out: “I am happy!” A little crowd gathered.

He had meant to stay in Berlin three days but remained three months.
His connections made it easy for him to meet Lorm. He overwhelmed the
actor with gifts--costly bric-à-brac, rare books, exquisite delicacies.

Every morning, when Edgar Lorm arose, Crammon was there, and with
a deep absorption watched the actor at his morning tasks and his
gymnastic exercises. He admired his slender stature, his noble
gestures, his eloquent mimicry, and the perfection of his voice.

He took care of Lorm’s correspondence for him, interviewed agents,
got rid of unwelcome admirers of either sex. He called the dramatic
reviewers to account, and in the theatre looked his rage whenever he
thought the applause too tepid. “The beasts should roar,” he said.
During the scene in Richard II in which the king addresses the lords
from the castle wall, his enthusiasm was so great that his friend, the
Princess Uchnina, who shared his box, covered her face with her fan to
escape the glances of the public.

To him Lorm was in very truth the royal Richard, the melancholy Hamlet,
Romeo the lover, and Fiesko the rebel. His faith in the actor’s art
was boundless; his imagination was wholly convinced. He attributed to
him the wit of Beaumarchais, the eloquence of Antony, the sarcasm of
Mephistopheles, the dæmonic energy of Franz Moor. When it was necessary
for him to part, he did not conceal his grief, and from afar wrote him
at intervals a letter of adoration.

The actor accepted this worship as a tribute that differed
fundamentally from the average praise and love with which he was
beginning to be satiated.


V

Lola Hesekiel, the celebrated beauty, owed her good fortune wholly to
Crammon. Crammon had educated her and given her her place in the world
and its appreciation.

When she was but an undistinguished young girl Crammon took a trip
with her to Sylt. There they met Crammon’s friend, Franz Lothar von
Westernach. Lola fell in love with the handsome young aristocrat, and
one evening, after a tender hour, she confessed her love for the other
to Crammon. Then Crammon arose from his couch, dressed himself, went
to Franz Lothar’s room and brought the shy lad in. “My children,” he
said in the kindliest way, “I give you to each other. Be happy and
enjoy your youth.” With these words he left the two alone. And for long
neither of them quite knew how to take so unwonted a situation.


VI

A curious occurrence was that connected with the Countess Ortenburg and
the agate bowl.

The countess was an old lady of seventy, who lived in retirement at
her château near Bregenz. Crammon, who had a great liking for ancient
ladies of dignity and worldly wisdom, visited her almost annually to
cheer her and to chat with her about the past.

The countess was grateful to him for his devotion, and determined to
reward it. One day she showed him an agate bowl mounted on gold, an
heirloom of her house, and told him that this bowl would be his after
her death, as she had provided in her will.

Crammon flushed with pleasure, and tenderly kissed her hand. At every
visit he took occasion to see the precious bowl, revelled in the sight
of it, and enjoyed the foretaste of complete possession.

The countess died, and Crammon was soon notified concerning her legacy.
The bowl was sent him carefully packed in a box. When it was freed
of its wrappings he saw with amazement and disgust that he had been
cheated. What he held was an imitation--skilfully and exactly made. But
the material was base; only the setting had been copied in real gold.

Bitterly he considered what to do. Whom dared he accuse? How could he
prove the very existence of the genuine bowl?

The heirs of the countess were three nephews of her name. The eldest,
Count Leopold, was in ill repute as a miser who grudged himself and
others their very bread. If he had played the trick, the bowl had been
sold long ago.

It was easy to find a pretext for visiting Count Leopold at Salzburg.
He sought distinction in piety and stood in favour at the bishop’s
court. Crammon thought that there was a gleam of embarrassment in the
man’s eyes. He himself peered about like a lynx. In vain.

He happened, however, to know all the prominent dealers in antiquities
on the Continent, and so he set out on a quest. For two months and a
half he travelled from city to city, from one dealer to another, and
asked questions, investigated, and kept a sharp look-out. He carried
the imitation bowl with him and showed it to all. The dealers were
quite familiar with the sight of a connoisseur with his heart set on
some object of art; they answered his questions willingly and sent him
hither and thither.

He was on the point of despairing, when in Aix he was told of a dealer
in Brussels who was said to have acquired the bowl. It was true. He
found the object of his search in Brussels. Crammon inquired after
the name of the seller and discovered it to be that of one who had
business relations with Count Leopold. The Belgian dealer demanded
twenty thousand francs for the bowl. Crammon at once deposited one
thousand, with the assurance that he would pay the rest within a week
and then take the bowl. He made no attempt at bargaining, much to the
astonishment of the dealer. But in his rage he thought: I have snared
the thief. Why should his rascality come cheaply?

Two days later he entered the count’s room. He was accompanied by a
hotel porter, who placed a box containing the imitation bowl on a table
and disappeared. The count was breakfasting alone. He arose and frowned.

Crammon silently opened the little box, lifted the bowl out, polished
it carefully with a handkerchief, kept it in his hand, and assumed a
care-worn look.

“What is it?” asked the count, turning pale.

Crammon told him how, by the merest chance, he had discovered in a
Brussels shop this bowl which, as he knew, had been for centuries in
the possession of the Ortenburgs. It had, therefore, scarcely required
the mournful memory of his dear and honoured old friend to persuade him
to restore the precious object to the family treasury whence it came.
He esteemed it a great good fortune that it was he who had discovered
this impious trade in precious things. Had it been any one else the
danger of loose tongues causing an actual scandal was obvious enough.
He had, he continued, paid twenty thousand francs for the bowl, which
he had brought in order to restore it to the house of Ortenburg. The
receipt was at the count’s disposal. All he requested of the count was
a cheque for the amount involved.

He breathed no word concerning a will or a legacy, and betrayed no
suspicion of how he had been tricked. The count understood. He looked
at the imitation bowl on the table and recognized it for what it was.
But he lacked courage to object. He swallowed his rage, sat down and
made out the cheque. His chin quivered with fury. Crammon was radiant.
He left the imitation bowl where it stood, and at once set out for
Brussels to fetch the other.


VII

There were three things that Crammon hated from the bottom of his
heart: newspapers, universal education, and taxes. It was especially
impossible for him to realize that he, like others, was subject to
taxation.

He had been summoned on a certain occasion to give an accounting of his
income. He declared that during the greater part of the year he lived
as a guest in the châteaux and on the estates of his friends.

The examining official replied that since he was known to live a rather
luxurious life, it was clear that he must have a fixed income from some
source.

“Undoubtedly,” Crammon lied with the utmost cynicism. “This income
consists wholly of meagre winnings at the various international
gambling resorts. Earnings of that sort are not subject to taxation.”

The official was astonished and shook his head. He left the room in
order to consult his superiors in regard to the case. Crammon was left
alone. Trembling with rage he gazed about him, took a stack of legal
documents from a shelf, and shoved them far behind a bookcase against
the wall. There, so far as one could tell, they would moulder in the
course of the years, and in their illegal hiding place save the owners
of the names they recorded from taxation.

For years he would chuckle whenever he thought of this deviltry.


VIII

The Princess Uchnina had made Crammon’s acquaintance in one of the
castles of the Esterhazys in Hungary. Even at that time the free manner
of her life had set tongues wagging; later on her family disowned her.

He met her again in a hotel at Cairo. Since she was wealthy there
was no danger of his being exploited. He had little liking for the
professional vampire, nor had he ever lost the mastery over his senses.
There was no passion that could prevent him from going to bed at ten
and sleeping soundly through a long night. The princess was fond of
laughing and Crammon helped her to laugh, since it pleased him to see
her amused. He did not care to be loved beyond measure; he valued
considerate treatment and a comradely freedom of contact. He had no
desire for love with its usual spices of romance and disquietude,
jealousy and enslavement. He wanted the delight of love in as tangible
and sensible a form as possible; he cared less for the flame than for
the dainty on the spit.

On the ship that took him and the princess to Brindisi there appeared a
Danish lady with hair the hue of wheat and eyes like cornflowers. She
was lonely, and he sought her out and succeeded in charming her. The
three travelled together to Naples, where the Danish lady and Crammon
seemed to have become friendlier than ever; but the princess only
laughed.

They arrived in Florence. In front of the Baptistery Crammon met a
melancholy young woman, whom he recognized as an acquaintance made
at Ostende. She was the daughter of a manufacturer of Mainz. She had
married recently, but her husband had lost her dowry at Monte Carlo and
had fled to America. Crammon introduced her to the other ladies, but,
for the sake of the Dane, who was suspicious and exacting, passed her
off as his cousin. It was not long, however, before a quarrel broke
out between the two, and Crammon was very busy preaching the spirit of
reconciliation and peace.

The princess laughed.

Crammon said: “I should like to see how many women one can gather
together like this without their thirsting for one another’s blood.”
He made a wager with the princess for a hundred marks that he could
increase the number to five, herself of course excepted.

In the station at Milan a charming creature ran into him, and gave
signs of unalloyed delight. She was an actress who had been intimate
with a friend of his years before. She had just been engaged by a
theatre in Petrograd and was now on her way there. Crammon found her
so amusing that he neglected the others for her sake; and although he
was not lacking in subtlety, the signs of a coming revolution in his
palace increased. The revolution broke out in Munich. There were hard
words and tears; trunks were packed; and the ladies scattered to all
the points of the compass,--North to Denmark, West to Mainz, East to
Petrograd.

Crammon was mournful; he had lost his bet. The little princess laughed.
She remained with him until another lure grew stronger. Then they
celebrated a cheerful farewell.


IX

When Crammon was but a youth of twenty-three he had once been a member
of a large hunting party at Count Sinsheim’s. Among the guests there
was a gentleman named von Febronius who attracted his attention, first
by his silence, and next by frequently seeking his society while
carefully avoiding the others.

One day Febronius, with unusual urgency, begged Crammon to visit him.

Febronius possessed an extensive entailed estate on the boundary
between Silesia and Poland. He was the last of his race and name, and,
as every one knew, deeply unhappy on this account. Nine years earlier
he had married the daughter of a middle-class family of Breslau, and in
spite of the difference in age the two were genuinely devoted to each
other. The wife was thirty, the husband near fifty. The marriage had
proved childless, and there seemed now no further hope.

Crammon promised to come, and some weeks later, on an evening in May,
he arrived at the estate. Febronius was delighted to see him, but
the lady, who was pretty and cultivated, was noticeably chill in her
demeanour. Whenever she was forced to look at Crammon a perceptible
change of colour overspread her face.

Next morning Febronius showed him the whole estate--the park, the
fields and forests, the stables and dairies. It was a little kingdom,
and Crammon expressed his admiration; but his host sighed. He said that
his blessings had all been embittered, every beast of the field seemed
to regard him with reproachful eyes, and the land and its fertility
meant nothing to him who had brought death to his race, and whom the
fertility of nature but put in mind of the sterile curse which had come
upon his blood.

Then he became silent, and silently accompanied Crammon, whose head
whirled with very bold and equivocal thoughts.

After dinner they were sitting on the terrace with Frau von Febronius.
Suddenly the lord of the manor was called away and returned shortly
with a telegram in his hand. He said that an urgent matter of business
required him to set out on a journey at once. Crammon arose with a
gesture, to show his consciousness of the propriety of his leaving too.
But his host, almost frightened, begged him to stay and keep his wife
company. It was, he said, only a matter of two days, and she would be
grateful.

He stammered these words and grew pale. His wife kept her face bent
closely over her embroidery frame, and Crammon saw her fingers tremble.
He knew enough. He shook hands with Febronius, and knew that they
would not and dared not meet again in life.

He found the lady, when they were alone together, shier than he had
anticipated. Her gestures expressed reluctance, her glances fear. When
his speech grew bolder, shame and indignation flamed in her eyes. She
fled from him, sought him again, and when in the evening they strolled
through the park she implored him to leave next day, and went to the
stables to order the carriage for the morning. When he consented, her
behaviour altered, her torment and her harshness seemed to melt. After
midnight she suddenly appeared in his room, struggling with herself
and on the defensive, defiant and deeply humiliated, bitter in her
yielding, and in her very tenderness estranged.

Early next morning the carriage was ready and drove him to the station.

That marvellous night faded from his memory as a thousand others, less
marvellous, had done. The spectral experience blended with a host of
others that were without its aroma of spiritual pain.


X

Sixteen years later chance brought him into the same part of the
country.

He inquired after Febronius, and learned that that gentleman had been
dead for ten years. He was told, furthermore, that during his last
years the character of Febronius had changed radically. He had become a
spendthrift; frightful mismanagement had ruined his estate and shaken
his fortune; swindlers and false friends had ruled him exclusively,
so that his widow, who was still living on the estate with her only
daughter, could scarcely maintain herself there. She was beset by
usurious creditors and a growing burden of debt; she did not know an
easy hour, and complete ruin was but a matter of time.

Crammon drove over to the estate, and had himself announced under an
assumed name. When Frau von Febronius entered he saw that she was still
charming. Her hair was still brown, her features curiously young. But
there was something frightened and suspicious about her.

She asked where she had had the pleasure of his acquaintance. Crammon
simply regarded her for a while, and she too looked at him attentively.
Suddenly she uttered a cry and hid her face in her hands. When she had
mastered her emotion, she gave him her hand. Then she left the room,
and returned in a few minutes leading a young girl of great sweetness.

“Here she is.”

The girl smiled. Her lips curved as though she were about to pout, and
her teeth showed the glittering moisture of shells to which the water
of the sea still clings.

She spoke of the beautiful day and of her having lain in the sun. The
broken alto voice surprised one in so young a creature. In her wide,
brown eyes there was a radiance of unbounded desires. Crammon was
flattered, and thought: If God had made me a woman, perhaps I should
have been such an one. He asked after her name. It was Letitia.

Frau von Febronius clung to the girl with every glance.

Letitia brought in a basket full of golden pears. She looked at the
fruit with greed and with an ironic consciousness of her greed. She
cut a pear in half and found a worm in it. That disgusted her and she
complained bitterly.

Crammon asked her what she cared for most, and she answered: “Jewels.”

Her mother reproached her with being careless of what she had. “Only
the other day,” said Frau von Febronius, “she lost a costly ring.”

“Just give me something to love,” Letitia replied and stroked a white
kitten that purred and jumped on her lap, “and I’ll hold on to it
fast.”

When he said farewell Crammon promised to write, and Letitia promised
to send him her picture.

A few weeks later Frau von Febronius informed him that she had taken
Letitia to Weimar, and placed her in the care of her sister, the
Countess Brainitz.


XI

On Crammon’s fortieth birthday he received from seven of his friends,
whose names were signed to it, a document written in the elaborate
script and manner of an official diploma. And the content of the
document was this:

“O Crammon, friend of friends, admirer of women and contemner of their
sex, enemy of marriage, glass of fashion, defender of descent, shield
of high rank, guest of all noble spirits, finder of the genuine, tester
of the exquisite, friend of the people and hater of mankind, long
sleeper and rebel, Bernard Gervasius, hail to thee!”

Gleaming with pride and satisfaction Crammon hung up the beautifully
framed parchment on the wall beside his bed. Then with the two ladies
of his household he took a turn in the park.

Miss Aglaia walked at his right, Miss Constantine at his left. Both
were festively arrayed, though in a somewhat antique fashion, and their
faces were the happiest to be seen.



CHRISTIAN’S REST


I

Crammon found the forties to be a critical period in a man’s life. It
is then that in his mind he sits in judgment upon himself; he seeks the
sum of his existence, and finds blunder after blunder in the reckoning.

But these moral difficulties did not very much influence either his
attitude or the character of his activities. He found his appetite for
life growing, but he found loneliness a heavier burden than before.
When he was alone he was overcome by a feeling which he called the
melancholy of the half-way house.

In Paris he was overtaken by this distemper of the soul. Felix Imhof
and Franz Lothar von Westernach had agreed to meet him, and both had
left him in the lurch. Imhof had been kept in Frankfort by his business
on the exchange and his real estate interests, and had telegraphed a
later date of arrival. Franz Lothar had remained in Switzerland with
his brother and Count Prosper Madruzzi.

In his vexation Crammon spent his days largely in bed. He either read
foolish novels or murmured his annoyances over to himself. Out of
sheer boredom he ordered fourteen pairs of boots of those three or
four masters of the craft who work only for the elect and accept a new
customer only when recommended by a distinguished client.

He was to have spent the month of September with the Wahnschaffe family
on their estate in the Odenwald. He had made the acquaintance of young
Wolfgang Wahnschaffe the summer before at a tennis tournament in
Hamburg, and had accepted his invitation. In his exasperation over his
truant friends he now wrote and excused himself.

One evening in Montmartre he met the painter Weikhardt, whom he had
known in Munich. They walked together for a while, and Weikhardt
encouraged Crammon to visit a neighbouring music hall. A very young
dancer had been appearing there for the past week, the painter told
him, and many French colleagues had advised seeing her.

Crammon agreed.

Weikhardt led him through a maze of suspicious looking alleys to a no
less suspicious looking house. This was the Théâtre Sapajou. A boy
in fantastic costume opened the door that led to a moderately large,
half-darkened hall with scarlet walls and a wooden gallery. About fifty
people, mostly painters and writers with their wives, sat facing a tiny
stage. The performance had begun.

Two fiddles and a clarionet furnished the music.

And Crammon saw Eva Sorel dance.


II

His anger against his friends was extinguished. He was glad that they
were not here.

He was afraid of meeting any of his many Parisian acquaintances and
passed through the streets with lowered eyes. The thought was repulsive
to him that he would be forced to speak to them of Eva Sorel, and then
to see their indifferent or curious faces, beneath which there could be
no feeling akin to his own.

He avoided the painter Weikhardt, for the latter would rob him of the
illusion that he, Crammon, had discovered Eva Sorel, and that for the
present she lived only in his consciousness as the miracle that he felt
her to be.

He went about like an unrecognized rich man, or else as troubled as
a miser who knows that thieves lie in wait for his treasure. All who
carried their chatter of delight from the Théâtre Sapajou out into the
world he regarded as thieves. They threatened to attract to the little
playhouse the crowd of the stupid and the banal who drag great things
into the dust by making them fashionable.

He nursed the dream of kidnapping the dancer and of fleeing with her to
a deserted island of the sea. He would have been satisfied to adore her
there and would have asked nothing of her.

For Lorm he had demanded applause. But he hated the favour which the
dancer gained. Not because she was a woman. It was not the jealousy
of the male. He did not think of her under the aspect of sex. Her
being was to him the fulfilment of dark presentiments and visions; she
represented the spirit of lightness as opposed to the heaviness of
life which weighed him and others down; she was flight that mocked the
creeping of the earth-bound, the mystery that is beyond knowledge, form
that is the denial of chaos.

He said: “This boasted twentieth century, young as it is, wearies my
nerves. Humanity drags itself across the earth like an ugly clumsy
worm. She desires freedom from this condition, and in her yearning to
escape the chrysalis she finds the dance. It is a barbaric spirit of
comedy at its highest point.”

He knew well that the life he led was a challenge and a disturbance to
his fellow men who earned their bread by the sweat of their toil. He
was an enthusiastic admirer of those ages in which the ruling classes
had really ruled, when a prince of the Church had had a capon stuffer
amid the officials of his court, and an insignificant count of the
Holy Roman Empire had paid an army that consisted of one general, six
colonels, four drummers, and two privates. And he was grateful to the
dancer because she lifted him out of his own age even more thoroughly
than the actor had done.

He made an idol of her, for the years were coming in which he needed
one--he who, satiated, still knew hunger with senses avid for the
flight of birds.


III

Eva Sorel had a companion and guardian, Susan Rappard, a thorough
scarecrow, clad in black, and absent-minded. She had emerged with Eva
out of the unknown past, and she was still rubbing its darkness out of
her eyes when Eva, at eighteen, saw the paths of light open to her. But
she played the piano admirably, and thus accompanied Eva’s practice.

Crammon had paid her some attentions, and the tone in which he spoke
of her mistress gained her sympathy. She persuaded Eva to receive him.
“Take her flowers,” she whispered. “She’s fond of them.”

Eva and Susan Rappard lived in two rooms in a small hotel. Crammon
brought such masses of roses that the close corridors held the
fragrance for many hours.

As he entered he saw Eva in an armchair in front of a mirror. Susan was
combing her hair, which was of the colour of honey.

On the carpet was kneeling a lad of seventeen who was very pale and
whose face bore traces of tears. He had declared his love to Eva. Even
when the stranger entered he had no impulse to get up; his luckless
passion made him blind.

Crammon remained standing by the door.

“Susan, you’re hurting me!” Eva cried. Susan was startled and dropped
the comb.

Eva held out her hand to Crammon. He approached and bent over to kiss
it.

“Poor chap,” she said, smiling, and indicating the lad, “he torments
himself cruelly. It’s so foolish.”

The boy pressed his forehead against the back of her chair. “I’ll kill
myself,” he whimpered. Eva clapped her hands and brought her face with
its arch mockery of sadness near to the boy’s.

“What a gesture!” Crammon thought. “How perfect in its light
completeness, how delicate, how new! And how she raised her lids
and showed the strong light of her starry eyes, and dropped her chin
a little in that inclination of the head, and wore a smile that was
unexpected in its blending of desire and sweetness and cunning and
childlikeness!”

“Where is my golden snood?” Eva asked and arose.

Susan said that she had left it on the table. She looked there in vain.
She fluttered hither and thither like a huge black butterfly: she
opened and closed drawers, shook her head, thoughtfully pressed her
hand against her forehead, and finally found the snood under the piano
lid next to a roll of bank notes.

“It’s always that way with us,” Eva sighed. “We always find things. But
we have to hunt a long time.” She fastened the snood about her hair.

“I can’t place your French accent,” Crammon remarked. His own
pronunciation was Parisian.

“I don’t know,” she answered. “Perhaps it’s Spanish. I was in Spain a
long time. Perhaps it’s German. I was born in Germany and lived there
till I was twelve.” Her eyes grew a little sombre.


IV

The lovelorn boy had left. Eva seemed to have forgotten him, and there
was no shadow upon the brunette pallor of her face. She sat down again,
and after a brief exchange of questions she told him of an experience
that she had had.

The reason for her telling the story seemed to inhere in thoughts which
she did not express. Her glance rested calmly in the illimitable. Her
eyes knew no walls in their vision; no one could assert that she looked
at him. She merely gazed.

Susan Rappard sat by the tile-oven, resting her chin upon her arm,
while her fingers, gliding past the furrowed cheeks, clung amid her
greyish hair.

At Arles in Provence a young monk named Brother Leotade had often
visited Eva. He was not over twenty-five, vigorous, a typical Frenchman
of the South, though rather taciturn.

He loved the land and knew the old castles. Once he spoke to her of a
tower that stood on a cliff, a mile from the city; he described the
view from the top of the tower in words that made Eva long to enjoy it.
He offered to be her guide, and they agreed on the hour and the day.

The tower had an iron gate which was kept locked, and the key was in
the keeping of a certain vintner. It was late afternoon when they set
out, but on the unshaded road it was still hot. They meant to be back
before night fall, and so they walked quickly; but when they reached
the tower the sun had already disappeared behind the hills.

Brother Leotade opened the iron gate and they saw a narrow spiral
staircase of stone. They climbed a few stairs. Then the monk turned
suddenly, locked the door from within, and slipped the key into the
pocket of his cowl. Eva asked his reason. He replied that it was safer
so.

It was dim in the vaulted tower, and Eva saw a menacing gleam in the
monk’s eyes. She let him precede her, but on a landing he turned and
grasped her. She was silent, although she felt the pressure of his
fingers. Still silent, she glided from his grasp, and ran up as swiftly
as she could. She heard no steps behind her in the darkness, and the
stairs seemed endless. Still she climbed until her breath gave out, and
she panted for the light. Suddenly the greenish bell of the sky gleamed
into the shaft; and as she mounted, the circle of her vision widened to
the scarlet of the West, and when she stood on the last step and on the
platform, having emerged from the mustiness of the old walls into the
balsamic coolness and the multiform and tinted beauty of earth and air,
the danger seemed wholly past.

She waited and watched the dark hole from which she had come. The monk
did not appear. His treacherous concealment strained her nerves to the
uttermost. The brief twilight faded; evening turned into night; there
was no sound, no tread. Not until late did it occur to her that she
could call for help. She cried out into the land, but she saw that it
was a desolate region in which no one dwelled. And when her feeble cry
had died away, the shape of Brother Leotade appeared at the head of the
stairs.

The expression on his face filled her now with an even greater horror.
He murmured something and stretched out his arms after her. She bounded
backward, groping behind her with her hands. He followed her, and she
leaped upon the parapet, crouched near the pinnacle, hard by the outer
rim of the wall, her head and shoulders over the abyss. The wind caught
the veil that had been wound about her head and it streamed forth like
a flag. The monk stood still, bound to the spot by her eyes. His own
were fixed relentlessly upon her, but he dared not move, for he saw the
determination in her face: if he moved toward her, she would leap to
her death.

And yet a rage of desire kept flaring in his eyes.

The hours passed. The monk stood there as though cast of bronze, while
she crouched on the parapet, motionless but for her fluttering veil,
and held him with her eye as one holds a wolf. Stars gathered in the
sky; from time to time she glanced for a second at the firmament. Never
had she been so near to the eternal flame. She seemed to hear the
melody of a million worlds singing in their orbits; her unmoving limbs
seemed to vibrate; the hands with which she clung to the harsh wall
seemed to upbear the adamantine roof of the cosmos, while below her was
the created thing, blind and wracked by passion and sworn to a God whom
it belied.

Gradually the rim of heaven grew bright and the birds began to flutter
upward. Then Brother Leotade threw himself upon his face and began to
pray aloud. And as the East grew brighter he lifted up more resonantly
the voice of his prayer. He crept toward the stairs. Then he arose and
disappeared.

She saw him issue from the gate below and disappear in the dawn among
the vineyards. Eva lay long in the grass below, worn and dull, before
she could walk back to the city.

“It may be,” she said at the end of her story, “that some one looked on
from Sirius, some one who will come soon and perhaps be my friend.” She
smiled.

“From Sirius?” The voice of Susan was heard. “Where will he get pearls
and diadems? What crowns will he offer you, and what provinces? Let us
have no dealings with beggars, even though they come from the sky.”

“Keep quiet, you Sancho Panza!” Eva said. “All that I ask is that
he can laugh, laugh marvellously--laugh like that young muleteer at
Cordova! Do you remember him? I want him to laugh so that I can forget
my ambitions.”

Hers is a virtue that hardly begs for pennies, thought Crammon, and
determined to be on his guard and seek security while there was time.
For in his breast he felt a new, unknown, and melancholy burning, and
he knew well that he could not laugh like that young Cordovan muleteer
and make an ambitious woman forget her striving.


V

Felix Imhof arrived, and with him Wolfgang Wahnschaffe, a very tall
young man of twenty-two. There was an elegance about the latter that
suggested unlimited means. His father was one of the German steel kings.

Crammon’s refusal of his invitation had annoyed Wahnschaffe, and he was
anxious to secure the older man’s friendship. It was characteristic of
the Wahnschaffes to desire most strongly whatever seemed to withhold
itself from their grasp.

They went to the Théâtre Sapajou, and Felix Imhof agreed that the
dancer was incomparable. Plans at once flew from his mind like sparks
from beaten iron in a smithy. He talked of founding an Academy of the
Dance, of hiring an impresario for a tour through Europe, of inventing
a pantomime. All this was to be done, so to speak, over night.

They sat together and drank a good deal--first wine, then champagne,
then ale, then whiskey, then coffee, then wine once more. The excess
had no effect on Imhof at all; in his soberest moments he was like
others in the ecstasy of drunkenness.

He celebrated the praises of Gauguin, of Schiller, and of Balzac, and
developed the plan for a great experiment in human eugenics. Faultless
men and women were to be chosen and united and to beget an Arcadian
race.

In the midst of it all he quoted passages of Keats and Rabelais, mixed
drinks of ten kinds, and related a dozen succulent anecdotes from his
wide experience with women. His mouth with its sensual lips poured
forth superlatives, his protruding negroid eyes sparkled with whim and
wit, and his spare, sinewy body seemed to suffer if it was forced to
but a minute’s immobility.

The other two nearly fell asleep through sheer weariness. He grew
steadily more awake and noisy, waved his hands, beat on the table,
inhaled the smoky air luxuriously, and laughed with his gigantic bass
voice.

Five successive nights were spent in this way. That was enough for
Crammon and he determined to leave. Wolfgang Wahnschaffe had invited
him to a hunting party at Waldleiningen.

It was at eleven in the forenoon when Felix Imhof burst in on Crammon.
In the middle of the room stood a huge open trunk. Linen, clothes,
books, shoes, cravattes were scattered about like things hastily saved
in a fire. Outside of the window swayed in flaming yellow the tree-tops
of the Park Monceau.

Crammon sat in an armchair. He was naked but for a pair of long hose.
He had breakfasted thus, and his expression was sombre. His square
Gothic head and his broad, muscular torso seemed made of bronze.

The day before Felix Imhof had made the acquaintance of Cardillac,
ruler of the Paris Bourse, and was on his way to him now. He was
going to embark on some enterprise of Cardillac to the extent of two
millions, and asked Crammon in passing whether the latter did not wish
to risk something too. A trifle, say fifty thousand francs, would
suffice. Cardillac was a magician who trebled one’s money in three
days. Then you had had the pleasure of the game and the suspense.

“This Cardillac,” he said, “is a wonder. He began life as an errand boy
in an hotel. Now he is chief shareholder in thirty-seven corporations,
founder of the Franco-Hispanic Bank, owner of the zinc mines of Le
Nère, ruler of a horde of newspapers, and master of a fortune running
into the hundreds of millions.”

Crammon arose, and from the heaps on the floor drew forth a violet
dressing gown which he put over his shivering body. He looked in it
like a cardinal.

“Do you happen to know,” he asked, thoughtfully and sleepily, “or did
you by chance ever observe how the young muleteers in Cordova laugh?”

Imhof’s helpless astonishment made him look stupid. He was silent.

Crammon took a large peach from a plate and began to eat it. You could
see drops of the amber juice.

“There’s no way out,” he said, and sighed sadly, “I shall have to go to
Cordova myself.”


VI

On their journey Wahnschaffe told Crammon about his family: his sister
Judith, his older brother Christian, his mother, who had the most
beautiful pearls in Europe. “When she wears them,” he said, “she looks
like an Indian goddess.” His father he described as an amiable man
with unseen backgrounds of the soul.

Crammon was anxious to get as much light as possible on the life and
history of one of those great and rich bourgeois families which had won
in the race against the old aristocracy. Here, it seemed to him, was a
new world, an undiscovered country which was still in the blossoming
stage and which was to be feared.

His cleverly put questions got him no farther. What he did learn was a
story of silent, bitter rivalry between this brother and Christian, who
seemed to Wolfgang to be preferred to himself to an incomprehensible
degree. He heard a story of doubt and complaint and scorn, and of words
that the mother of the two had uttered to a stranger: “You don’t know
my son Christian? He is the most precious thing God ever made.”

It was cheap enough, Wolfgang asserted, to praise a horse in the
stable, one that had never been sent to the Derby because it was
thought to be too noble and precious. Crammon was amused by the
sporting simile. Why was that cheap, he asked, and what was its exact
meaning?

Wolfgang said that it applied to Christian, who had as yet proved
himself in no way, nor accomplished anything despite his twenty-three
years. He had passed his final examinations at college with difficulty;
he was no luminary in any respect. No one could deny that he had an
admirable figure, an elegant air, a complexion like milk and blood. He
had also, it was not to be denied, a charm so exquisite that no man or
woman could withstand him. But he was cold as a hound’s nose and smooth
as an eel, and as immeasurably spoiled and arrogant as though the whole
world had been made for his sole benefit.

“You will succumb to him as every one does,” Wolfgang said finally, and
there was something almost like hatred in his voice.

They arrived in Waldleiningen on a rainy evening of October. The house
was full of guests.


VII

Wolfgang’s prediction came true sooner than he himself would perhaps
have thought. As early as the third day Crammon and Christian
Wahnschaffe were inseparable and utterly united. They conversed with
an air of intimacy as though they had known each other for years.
The difference of almost two decades in their ages seemed simply
non-existent.

With a laugh Crammon reminded Wolfgang of his prophecy, and added,
“I hope that nothing worse will ever be predicted to me, and that
delightful things will always become realities so promptly.” And he
knocked wood, for he was as superstitious as an old wife.

Wolfgang’s expression seemed to say: I was quite prepared for it. What
else is one to expect?

Crammon had expected to find Christian spoiled and effeminate. Instead
he saw a thoroughly healthy blond young athlete, a head and more taller
than himself, conscious of his vigour and beauty, without a trace of
vanity, and radiant in every mood. It was true, as he had heard, that
all were at his beck and call, from his mother to the youngest of the
grooms, and that he accepted everything as he did fair weather--simply,
lightly, and graciously, but without binding himself to any reciprocal
obligation.

Crammon loved young men who were as elastic as panthers and whose
serenity transformed the moods of others as a precious aroma does the
air of a sick room. Such youths seemed to him to be gifted with an
especial grace. One should, he held, clear their path of anything that
might hinder their beneficent mission. He did not strive to impress
them but rather to learn of them.

It was in England and among the English that he had found this respect
for youth and ripening manhood, which had long become a principle
with him and a rule of life. The climate of a perfectly nurtured
understanding he thought the fittest atmosphere for such a being, and
made his plans in secret. He thought of the grand tour in the sense of
the eighteenth century, with himself in the rôle of mentor and guide.

In the meantime he and Christian talked about hunting, trout-fishing,
the various ways of preparing venison, the advantages of each season
over the others, the numerous charms of the female sex, the amusing
characteristics of common acquaintances. And of all these light things
he spoke in a thoughtful manner and with exhausting thoroughness.

He could not see Christian without reflecting: What eyes and teeth and
head and limbs! Nature has here used her choicest substance, meant for
permanence as well as delight, and a master has fitted the parts into
harmony. If one were a mean-spirited fellow one could burst with envy.

One incident charmed him so much that he felt impelled to communicate
his delight to the others who had also witnessed it. It took place in
the yard where early in the morning the hunting parties assembled.
The dogs were to be leashed. Christian stood alone among twenty-three
mastiffs who leaped around and at him with deafening barks and yells.
He swung a short-handled whip which whirred above their heads. The
beasts grew wilder; he had to ward off the fiercer ones with his elbow.
The forester wanted to come to his help and called to the raging pack.
Christian beckoned him to stay back. The man’s assumed anger and all
his gestures irritated the dogs. One of them, whose mouth was flecked
with foam, snapped at Christian, and the sharp teeth clung to his
shoulder. Then all cried out, especially Judith. But Christian gave
a short sharp whistle from between his teeth, his arms dropped, his
glance held the dogs nearest to him, and suddenly the noise stopped,
and only those in front gave a humble whine.

Frau Wahnschaffe had grown pale. She approached her son and asked him
whether he was hurt. He was not, although his jacket showed a long rent.

“He leads a charmed life,” she said that night after dinner to Crammon,
with whom she had withdrawn to a quiet corner. “And that is my one
consolation. His utter recklessness often frightens me. I have noticed
with pleasure that you take an interest in him. Do try to guide him a
little along reasonable ways.”

Her voice was hollow and her face immobile. Her eyes stared past one.
She knew no cares and had never known any, nor had she, apparently,
ever reflected concerning those of others. Yet no one had ever seen
this woman smile. The utter absence of friction in her life seemed to
have reduced the motions of her soul to a point of deadness. Only the
thought of Christian gave her whole being a shade of warmth; only when
she could speak of him did she grow eloquent.

Crammon answered: “My dear lady, it is better to leave a fellow like
Christian to his own fate. That is his best protection.”

She nodded, although she disliked the colloquial carelessness of his
speech. She told him how in his boyhood Christian had once gone to
visit the lumbermen in the forest. The trunk of a mighty pine had been
almost cut through, and the men ran to the end of the rope attached
to the tree’s top. The great tree wavered when they first noticed the
boy. They cried out in horror, and tried to let the tree crash down in
another direction. It was too late. And while some tugged desperately
at the rope and were beside themselves with fright, a few headed by
the foreman ran with lifted and warning arms into the very sphere of
danger. The boy stood there quietly, and gazed unsuspectingly upward.
The tree fell and crushed the foreman to death. But the branches
slipped gently over Christian as if to caress him; and when the pine
lay upon the earth, he stood in the midst of its topmost twigs as
though he had been placed there, untouched and unastonished. And those
who were there said he had been saved literally but by the breadth of
a hair.

Crammon could not get rid of the vision which he himself had seen: the
proud young wielder of the whip amid the unleashed pack. He reflected
deeply. “It is clear,” he said to himself, “that I need no longer go to
Cordova to find out how the young muleteers laugh.”


VIII

At the castle of Waldleiningen there was a wine room in which one
could drink comfortably. In it Crammon and Christian drank one evening
to their deeper friendship. And when the bottle was emptied of its
precious vintage Crammon proposed that, since it was a beautiful night,
they should take a turn in the park. Christian agreed.

In the moonlight they walked over the pebbles of the paths. Trees and
bushes swam in a silvery haze.

“Gossamers and the mist of autumn,” said Crammon. “Quite as the poets
describe it.”

“What poet?” Christian asked innocently.

“Almost any,” Crammon answered.

“Do you read poetry?” Christian was curious.

“Now and then,” Crammon answered, “when prose gets stale. Thus I pay my
debts to the world-spirit.”

They sat down on a bench under a great plantain. Christian watched the
scene silently for a while. Then he asked suddenly, “Tell me, Bernard,
what is this seriousness of life that most people make such a fuss
about?”

Crammon laughed softly to himself. “Patience, my dear boy, patience!
You’ll find out for yourself.”

He laughed again and folded his hands comfortably over his abdomen. But
over the lovely landscape and the lovely night there fell a veil of
melancholy.


IX

Christian wanted Crammon to accompany him and Alfred Meerholz, the
general’s son, to St. Moritz for the winter sports; but Crammon had to
attend Konrad von Westernach’s wedding in Vienna. So they agreed to
meet in Wiesbaden, where Frau Wahnschaffe and Judith would join them in
the spring.

Frau Wahnschaffe usually spent January and February in the family’s
ancestral home at Würzburg. She had many guests there and so did
not feel the boredom of the provincial city. Wolfgang had been
studying political science at the university there; but at the end
of the semester he was to go to Berlin, pass his examination for the
doctorate, and enter the ministry of foreign affairs. Judith said to
him sarcastically: “You are a born diplomatist of the new school. The
moment you enter a room no one dares to jest any more. It’s high time
that you enlarge your sphere of activity.” He answered: “You are right.
I know that I shall yield my place to a worthier one who knows better
how to amuse you.” “You are bitter,” Judith replied, “but what you say
is true.”

When Christian arrived in Wiesbaden in April his mother introduced him
to the Countess Brainitz and to her niece, Letitia von Febronius. The
countess was ostensibly here to drink the waters; but her purpose was
commonly thought to be the finding of a suitable match for her niece
among the young men of the country. She had succeeded, at all events,
in gaining the confidence of Frau Wahnschaffe, who was distrustful and
inaccessible. Judith was charmed by Letitia’s loveliness.

Christian accompanied the young ladies on their walks and rides, and
the countess said to Letitia: “If I were you I’d fall in love with that
young man.” Letitia answered with her most soulful expression: “If I
were you, aunt, I’d be afraid of doing so myself.”

Crammon arrived in an evil mood. Whenever one of his friends so far
forgot himself as to marry, there came over him an insidious hatred of
mankind which darkened his soul for weeks.

He was surprised when Christian told him of these new friends, and
wondered at the trick by which fate brought him into the circle of
Letitia’s life. He had a feeling that was uncanny.

He was anything but delighted over the Countess Brainitz. He was
familiar with the genealogy and history of the dead and living members
of all the noble families of Europe, and so was thoroughly informed
concerning her. “In her youth,” he reported, “she was an actress,
one of those favourite ingénues who attune souls of a certain sort
poetically by a strident blondness and by pulling at their aprons with
touching bashfulness. With these tricks she seduced in his time Count
Brainitz, a gentleman who had weak brains and a vigorous case of gout.
She thought he was rich. Later it turned out that he was hopelessly in
debt and lived on a pension allowed him by the head of the house. On
his death this pension passed to her.”

She was blond no longer. Her hair was white and had a metallic shimmer
like spun glass. Its hue was premature, no doubt, for she was scarcely
over fifty. She was corpulent; her body had a curious sort of carved
rotundity; her face was like an apple in its smooth roundness; it
gleamed with a healthy reddish tinge; and each feature--nose, mouth,
chin, forehead--was characterized by a certain harmless daintiness.

From the first moment she and Crammon found themselves hopelessly at
odds. She clasped her hands in despair over everything he said, and all
his doings enraged her. With her feminine instinct she scented in him
the adversary of all her cunning plans; he saw in her another of those
arch enemies that, from time to time, spun for one of his friends the
net of marriage.

She asked him to dine merely because of Letitia’s insistence. The
girl explained: “Even if you don’t like him in other ways, aunt,
you’ll approve of him as a guest. He’s very like you in one way.” But
Crammon’s dislike of the countess robbed him of his usual appetite, so
that the reconciliation even on that plane did not occur. She herself
ate three eggs with mayonnaise, half of a duck, a large portion of
roast beef, four pieces of pastry, a plate full of cherries, and
additional trifles to pass the time. Crammon was overwhelmed.

After each course she washed her hands with meticulous care, and when
the meal was over drew her snow-white gloves over her little, round
fingers.

“All people are pigs,” she declared. “Nothing they come in contact with
remains clean. I guard myself as well as I can.”

Letitia sat through it all smiling in her own arch and tender way,
and her mere presence lent to the common things about her a breath of
romance.


X

Her estate having finally been sold at auction, and she herself being
quite without means, Frau von Febronius had gone to live with her
younger sister at Stargard in Pomerania. In order to spare her daughter
the spectacle of that final débâcle she had sent the girl to the
countess in Weimar.

The three sisters were all widowed. The one in Stargard had been
married to a circuit judge named Stojenthin. She lived on her
government pension and the income of a small fortune that had been her
dowry. She had two sons who strolled through the world like gipsies,
wrapped their sloth in a loud philosophy, and turned to their aunt the
countess whenever they were quite at the end of all their resources.

The countess yielded every time. Both young men knew the style of
letter-writing that really appealed to her. “They will get over sowing
their wild oats,” said the countess. She had been awaiting that happy
consummation for years, and in the meantime sent them food and money.

It was not so simple to help Letitia. When the girl arrived she
possessed just three frocks which she had outgrown and a little linen.
The countess ordered robes from Vienna, and fitted out her niece like
an heiress.

Letitia permitted herself calmly to be adorned. The eyes of men told
her that she was charming. The countess said: “You are destined for
great things, my darling.” She took the girl’s head between her two
gloved hands and kissed her audibly on the porcelain clearness of her
forehead.

Nor was she satisfied with what she had done. She desired to create a
solid foundation and help her niece in a permanent way. That desire
brought to her mind the forest of Heiligenkreuz.

On the northern slope of the Röhn mountains there was a piece of forest
land having an area of from ten to twelve square kilometres. For more
than two decades it had been the subject of litigation between her late
husband and the head of his house. The litigation was still going on.
It had swallowed huge sums and the countess’ prospects of winning were
slight. Nevertheless she felt herself to be the future owner of the
forest, and was so certain of her title that she determined to present
the forest to Letitia as a dowry and to record this gift in proper
legal form.

One evening she entered Letitia’s bedroom with a written document in
her hand. Over her filmy night dress she wore a heavy coat of Russian
sable and on her head she had a rubber cap which was to protect her
from the bacilli which, in her opinion, whirred about in the darkness
like bats.

“Take this and read it, my child,” she said with emotion, and handed
Letitia the document according to which, at the end of the pending
lawsuit, the forest of Heiligenkreuz was to become the sole property of
Letitia von Febronius.

Letitia knew the circumstances and the probable value of the piece of
paper. But she also knew that the countess had no desire to deceive
any one, but was honestly convinced of the importance of the gift. So
she exerted her mind and her tact to exhibit a genuine delight. She
leaned her cheek against the mighty bosom of the countess and whispered
entrancingly: “You are inexpressibly kind, auntie. You really force a
confession from me.”

“What is it, darling?”

“I find life so wonderful and so lovely.”

“Ah, my dear, that’s what I want you to do,” said the countess. “When
one is young each day should be like a bunch of freshly picked violets.
It was so in my case.”

“I believe,” Letitia answered, “that my life will always be like that.”


XI

In the vicinity of Königstein in the Taunus mountains the Wahnschaffes
owned a little château which Frau Wahnschaffe called Christian’s Rest
and which was really the property of her son. At first--he was still a
boy--Christian had protested against the name. “I don’t need any rest,”
he had said. And the mother had answered: “Some day the need of it will
come to you.”

Frau Wahnschaffe invited the countess to pass the month of May at
Christian’s Rest. It was a charming bit of country, and the delight of
the countess was uttered noisily.

Crammon, of course, came too. He observed the countess with Argus
eyes, and it annoyed him to watch the frequent conversations between
Christian and Letitia.

He sat by the fishpond holding his short, English pipe between his
lips. “We must get to Paris. That was our agreement. You know that I
promised you Eva Sorel. If you don’t hurry more than fame is doing,
you’ll be left out in the cold.”

“Time enough,” Christian answered laughing and pulling a reed from the
water.

“Only sluggards say that,” Crammon grunted, “and it’s the act of a
sluggard to turn the head of a little goose of eighteen and finally
to be taken in by her. These young girls of good family are fit for
nothing in the world except for some poor devil whose debts they can
pay after the obligatory walk to church. Their manipulations aren’t
nearly as harmless as they seem, especially when the girls have
chaperones who are so damnably like procuresses that the difference is
less than between my waistcoat buttons and my breeches buttons.”

“Don’t worry,” Christian soothed his angry friend. “There’s nothing to
fear.”

He threw himself in the grass and thought of Adda Castillo, the
beautiful lion-tamer whom he had met in Frankfort. She had told him she
would be in Paris in June, and he meant to stay here until then. He
liked her. She was so wild and so cold.

But he liked Letitia too. She was so dewy and so tender. Dewy is what
he called the liquidness of her eyes, the evasiveness of her being.
Daily in the morning he heard her in her tower-room trilling like a
lark.

He said: “To-morrow, Bernard, we’ll take the car and drive over to see
Adda Castillo and her lions.”

“Splendid!” Crammon answered. “Lions, that’s something for me!” And he
gave Christian a comradely thwack on the shoulder.


XII

Judith took Letitia with her to Homburg, and they visited the
fashionable shops. The rich girl bought whatever stirred her fancy,
and from time to time she turned to her friend and said: “Would you
like that? Do try it on! It suits you charmingly.” Suddenly Letitia saw
herself overwhelmed with presents; and if she made even a gesture of
hesitation, Judith was hurt.

They crossed the market-place. Letitia loved cherries. But when they
came to the booth of the huckstress, Judith pushed forward and began
to chaffer with the woman because she thought the cherries too dear.
The woman insisted on her price, and Judith drew Letitia commandingly
away.

She asked her: “What do you think of my brother Christian? Is he very
nice to you?” She encouraged Letitia, who was frank, gave her advice
and told her stories of the adventures that Christian had had with
women. His friends had often entertained her with these romances.

But when Letitia, rocked into security by such sincere sympathy,
blushed, and first in silence and with lowered eyes, later in sweet,
low words, confessed something of her feeling for Christian, Judith’s
mouth showed an edge of scorn; she threw back her head and showed the
arrogance of a family that deemed itself a race of kings.

Letitia felt that she had permitted herself to slip into a net. She
guarded herself more closely, and Crammon’s warnings would have been
needed no longer.

He offered her many. He sought to inspire in her a wholesome fear of
the bravery of youth, to attune her mood to the older vintages among
men who alone could offer a woman protection and reliance. He was
neither so clever nor so subtle as he thought.

With all his jesuitical cultivation, in the end he felt that something
about this girl knocked at his heart. No posing to himself helped. His
thought spun an annoying web. Was he to prove the truth of the foolish
old legend concerning the voice of the blood? Then he must escape from
this haunted place!

Letitia laughed at him. She said: “I’m only laughing because I feel
that way, Crammon, and because the sky to-day is so blue. Do you
understand?”

“O nymph,” sighed Crammon. “I am a poor sinner.” And he slunk away.


XIII

Frau Wahnschaffe had decided to arrange a spring festival. It was to
illustrate all the splendour which was, on such occasions, traditional
in the house of Wahnschaffe. Councils were held in which the
major-domo, the housekeeper, the mistress’ companion and the countess
took part. Frau Wahnschaffe presided at the sessions with the severity
of a judge. The countess was interested principally in the question of
food and drink.

“My own darling,” she said to Letitia, “seventy-five lobsters have
been ordered, and two hundred bottles of champagne brought up from the
cellar. I am completely overwhelmed. I haven’t been so overwhelmed
since my wedding.”

Letitia stood there in her slenderness and smiled. The words of the
countess were music to her. She wanted to lend wings to the days that
still separated her from the festival. She trembled whenever a cloud
floated across the sky.

Often she scarcely knew how to muffle the jubilation in her own heart.
How wonderful, she thought, that one feels what one feels and that
things really are as they are. No poet’s verse, no painter’s vision
could vie with the power of her imagination, which made all happenings
pure gold and was impenetrable to the shadow of disappointment. Her
life was rich--a pure gift of fate.

She merged into one the boundaries of dream and reality. She made up
her mind to dream as other people determine to take a walk, and the dim
and lawless character of her dream world seemed utterly natural.

One day she spoke of a book that she had read. “It is beautiful beyond
belief.” She described the people, the scene, and the moving fortunes
of the book with such intensity and enthusiasm that all who heard her
were anxious to find the book. But she knew neither its title nor the
name of the author. They asked her: “Where is the book? Where did you
get it? When did you read it?” “Yesterday,” she replied. “It must be
somewhere about.” She hesitated. She was begged to find it. And while
she seemed to be reflecting helplessly, Judith said to her: “Perhaps
you only dreamed it all.” She cast down her eyes and crossed her arms
over her bosom with an inimitable gesture and answered with a sense of
guilt: “Yes, it seems to me that I did merely dream it all.”

Christian asked Crammon: “Do you think that’s mere affectation?”

“Not that,” answered Crammon, “and yet a bit of feminine trickery. God
has provided this sex with many dazzling weapons wherewith to overthrow
us.”

On the day of the festival Letitia wore a gown of white silk. It was a
little dancing frock with many delicate pleats in the skirt and a dark
blue sash about her hips. It looked like the foam of fresh milk. When
she looked into the mirror she smiled excitedly as though she could not
believe her eyes. The countess ran about behind her and said: “Darling,
be careful of yourself!” But Letitia did not know what she meant.

There was a sense of intoxication in her when she spoke to the men and
women and girls. She had always been fond of people; to-day they seemed
irresistible to her. When she met Judith in front of the pavillion,
which was bathed in light, she pressed her hands and whispered: “Could
life be more beautiful? I am frightened to think this night must end.”


XIV

On the meadow in front of the artificial water-fall Christian and some
young girls were playing hide and seek after the manner of children.
They all laughed as they played; young men formed a circle about them,
and watched them half mockingly and half amused.

In the dark trees hung electric bulbs of green glass which were so well
concealed that the sward seemed to glow with a light of its own.

Christian played the game with a carelessness that annoyed his
partners. The girls wanted it to be taken more seriously, and it vexed
them that, in spite of his inattention, he caught them with such ease.
The young sister of Meerholz was among them, and Sidonie von Gröben,
and the beautiful Fräulein von Einsiedel.

Letitia joined them. She went to the middle of the open space. She let
Christian come quite near her. Then she eluded him more swiftly than
he had thought possible. He turned to the others, but always Letitia
fluttered in front of him. He sought to grasp her, but she was just
beyond him. Once he drove her against the box-tree hedge, but she
slipped into the foliage and was gone. Her movements, her running and
turning, her merry passion had something fascinating; she called from
the greenery with the little, laughing cries of a bird. Now he lay in
wait for her, and the onlookers became curious.

When she reappeared he feigned not to see her, but suddenly he sped
with incredible swiftness to the edge of the fountain’s basin where she
stood. But she was a shade swifter still and leapt upon the rock, since
all the other ways were blocked, and jumped across the water lightly
from stone to stone. Her frock with its delicate pleats and loose
sleeves fluttered behind her, and when Christian started in pursuit
those below applauded.

Above it was dark. Letitia’s shoes became wet and her foot slipped. But
before Christian could grasp her she swung herself upon a huge boulder
between two tall pines as though to defend herself there or else climb
still farther. But her footing failed her on the damp moss and she
uttered a little cry, for she knew that he had caught her now.

He had caught her, caught her as she fell, and now held her in his
arms. She was very quiet and tried to calm her fluttering breath.
Christian was breathing heavily too, and he wondered why the girl was
so still and silent. He felt her lovely form and drew her a little
closer with that suppressed laughter of his that sounded so cold and
arrogant. The moonlight poured through the branches and made his face
seem of an extraordinary beauty. Letitia saw his strong, white teeth
gleam. She slipped from his arms, and put her own right arm about the
trunk of one of the trees.

Here was all that she had dreamed of. Here was the breath of danger
and the breath of desire, a wilderness and a moonlit night, distant
music and a secret meeting. But her blood was quiet, for she was still
a child.

Christian looked at the girl pliant against the tree; he saw her
dishevelled hair, her dewy eyes and lips; his eyes followed the lines
of her body and it seemed to him that he could taste the coolness of
her skin and the sweetness of her innocent breath. He did not hesitate
to take possession of his booty.

Swiftly he sought her hand, when suddenly he became aware of a toad
that with loathsome sloth crept along Letitia’s white frock, first
across its hem, then upward toward her hip. He grew pale and turned
away. “The others are waiting. We had better turn back,” he said and
began to climb downward.

Letitia followed his movements with staring eyes. The fiery emotion
which had transformed her to her own vision into a fairy being, a
Diana or Melusina, turned to pain and she began to weep. She did not
know how to interpret what had happened, and her sorrow lasted until,
by a fanciful but charming explanation, she had made it not more
intelligible but more consoling in its character. Then she dried her
tears and smiled again.

When Letitia arose the toad jumped into the moss. There was no sound.


XV

On the afternoon before the departure of Crammon and Christian there
was a violent thunder storm. The two men paced up and down in the upper
corridor of the château and discussed their plans. In a pause between
two peals of thunder Crammon listened and said: “What a queer noise.
Did you hear it?”

“Yes,” Christian answered and they followed the direction of the sound.

At the end of the gallery was a mirrored hall, the doors of which were
ajar. Crammon opened the door a little wider, peered in and laughed
softly in his throat. Christian peered in too, above Crammon’s head,
and joined in the laughter.

On the brilliantly polished floor of the room, which contained no
furniture except a few couches and armchairs ranged along the walls,
Letitia stood in little blue slippers and a pale blue gown and
played at ball. Her face had an expression of ecstasy. The all but
uninterrupted lightning that turned the mirrors into yellow flame gave
her play a ghostliness of aspect.

Now she would toss the ball straight up, now she would throw it against
the wall between the mirrors and catch it as it rebounded. At times
she let it fall on the floor and clapped her hands or spread out her
arms until it leaped up to be caught again. She turned and bent over
and threw back her head, or advanced a step or whispered, always
smiling and utterly absorbed. After the two had watched her for a
while, Crammon drew Christian away, for the lightning made him nervous.
He hated an electrical storm and had chosen to walk in the gallery
to escape it. He now lit his short pipe and asked peevishly: “Do you
understand the girl?”

Christian made no answer. Something lured him back to the threshold
of the hall in which Letitia was playing her solitary game. But he
remembered the toad on her white dress, and a strange aversion arose in
his heart.


XVI

He did not love the memory of unpleasant events.

He did not like to speak of the past, whether it was pleasant or not.
Nor did it please him to turn back upon a path. If ever it became
necessary he soon grew weary.

He did not care for people whose faces showed the strain of
intellectual labour, nor such as discoursed of books or of the
sciences. Nor did he love the pale or the hectic or the over-eager or
those who argued or insisted on the rightness of their opinions. If any
one defended an opinion opposed to his own he smiled as courteously as
though no difference existed. And it was painful to him to be asked
concerning his opinion directly, and rather than bear the burden of a
speech of explanation he did not hesitate to feign ignorance.

If in large cities he was forced to walk or ride through the quarters
inhabited by the proletarian poor, he hastened as much as possible,
compressed his lips, breathed sparingly, and his vexation would give
his eyes a greenish glitter.

Once on the street a crippled beggar had caught hold of his great coat.
He returned home and presented the coat to his valet. Even in his
childhood he had refused to pass places where ragged people were to be
seen, and if any one told of misery or need among men he had left the
room, full of aversion for the speaker.

He hated to speak or to hear others speak of the functions or needs
of the body--of sleep or hunger or thirst. The sight of a human being
asleep was repulsive to him. He did not like emphatic leavetakings
or the ceremonious greetings of those who had been absent long. He
disliked church bells and people who prayed and all things that have to
do with the exercise of piety. He was quite without understanding for
even the very moderate Protestantism of his father.

He made no demand in words, but instinctively he chose to bear no
company but that of well-clad, care-free, and clear-seeing people.
Wherever he suspected secrets, hidden sorrows, a darkened soul, a
brooding tendency, inner or outer conflicts, he became frosty and
unapproachable and elusive. Therefore his mother said: “Christian is a
child of the sun and can thrive only in the sunlight.” She had made an
early cult of keeping far from him all that is turbid, distorted, or
touched with pain.

On her desk lay the marble copy of a plaster-cast of Christian’s
hand--a hand that was not small, but sinewy and delicately formed,
capable of a strong grasp, but unused and quiet.


XVII

On the trip from Hanau to Frankfort the automobile accident occurred in
which young Alfred Meerholz lost his life. Christian was driving, but,
as in the old days when the great tree fell, he remained unharmed.

Crammon had accompanied Christian and Alfred as far as Hanau. There
he wanted to visit Clementine von Westernach and then proceed to
Frankfort by an evening train. Christian had sent the chauffeur ahead
to Frankfort the day before in order to make certain purchases.

Christian at once drove at high speed, and toward evening, as the road
stretched out before him empty and free of obstacles, he made the car
fly. Alfred Meerholz urged him on, glowing in the intoxication of
speed. Christian smiled and let the machine do its utmost.

The trees on both sides looked like leaping animals in a photograph;
the white riband of the road rolled shimmering toward them and was
devoured by the roaring car; the reddening sky and the hills on the
horizon seemed to swing in circles; the air seethed in their ears;
their bodies vibrated and yearned to be whirled still more swiftly
over an earth that revealed all the allurement of its smoothness and
rotundity.

Suddenly a black dot arose in the white glare of the road. Christian
gave a signal with his horn. The dot quickly assumed human form. Again
the signal shrieked. The figure did not yield. Christian grasped
the steering wheel more firmly. Alfred Meerholz rose in his seat
and shouted. It was too late for the brake. Christian reversed the
wheel energetically; it went a trifle too far. There was a jolt, a
concussion, a crash, the groan of a splintering tree, a hissing and
crackling of flame, a clash and rattle of steel. It was over in a
moment.

Christian lay stunned. Then he got up and felt his limbs and body. He
could think and he could walk. “All’s right,” he said to himself.

Then he caught sight of the body of his friend. The young man lay
under the twisted and misshapen chassis with a crushed skull. A little
trickle of scarlet blood ran across the white dust of the road. A few
paces to one side stood in surprised stupor the drunken man who had not
made way.

People at once began gathering hurriedly from all directions. There
was a hotel near by. Christian answered many questions briefly. The
drunken man was taken in custody. A physician came and examined young
Meerholz’s body. It was placed on a stretcher and carried into the
hotel. Christian telegraphed first to General Meerholz, then to Crammon.

His travelling bag had not been injured. While he was changing his
clothes, police officers arrived, and took down his depositions
concerning the accident. Then he went to the dining-room and ordered a
meal and a bottle of wine.

He barely touched the food. The wine he gradually drank.

He saw himself standing in the dim hot-house awaiting Letitia. She
had come animated by her excitement. Languishing and jesting she had
whispered: “Well, my lord and master?” And he had said to her: “Have
the image of a small toad made of gold, and wear the charm about your
throat in order to avert the evil magic.”

Her kiss seemed still to be burning on his lips.

At eleven o’clock that night came Crammon, the faithful. “I beg of you,
my dear fellow, attend to all necessary arrangements for me,” Christian
said. “I don’t want to pass the night here. Adda Castillo will be
getting impatient.” He handed Crammon his wallet.

Christian was thinking again of the romantic girl who, like all of her
temper, gave without knowing what she gave or to whom, nor knew how
long life is. But her kiss burned on his lips. He could not forget it.

Crammon returned. “Everything is settled,” he said in a business like
way. “The car will be ready in fifteen minutes. Now let us go and say
farewell to our poor friend.”

Christian followed him. A porter led them to a dim storeroom in which
the body had been placed until the morrow. A white cloth had been
wrapped about the head. At the feet crouched a cat with spotted fur.

Silently Crammon folded his hands. Christian felt a cold breath on his
cheeks, but there was no stirring in his breast. When they came out
into the open he said: “We must buy a new car in Frankfort. We need not
be back here before noon to-morrow. The general cannot possibly arrive
until then.”

Crammon nodded. But a surprised look sought the younger man, a look
that seemed to ask: Of what stuff are you made?

About him, delicate, noble, proud, there was an icy air--the infinitely
glassy clarity that rests on mountains before the dawn.



THE GLOBE ON THE FINGERTIPS OF AN ELF


I

Crammon had been a true prophet. Ten months had sufficed to fix the
eyes of the world upon the dancer, Eva Sorel. The great newspapers
coupled her name with the celebrated ones of the earth; her art was
regarded everywhere as the fine flower of its age.

All those to whose restless spiritual desires she had given form and
body were at her feet. The leaders of sorely driven humanity drew a
breath and looked up to her. The adorers of form and the proclaimers of
new rhythms vied for a smile from her lips.

She remained calm and austere with herself. Sometimes the noise of
plaudits wearied her. Hard beset by the vast promises of greedy
managers, she felt not rarely a breath of horror. Her inner vision,
fixed upon a far and ideal goal, grew dim at the stammered thanks of
the easily contented. These, it seemed to her, would cheat her. Then
she fled to Susan Rappard and was scolded for her pains.

“We wandered out to conquer the world,” said Susan, “and the world has
submitted almost without a struggle. Why don’t you enjoy your triumph?”

“What my hands hold and my eyes grasp gives me no cause to feel very
triumphant yet,” Eva answered.

Susan lamented loudly. “You little fool, you’ve literally gone hungry.
Take your fill now!”

“Be quiet,” Eva replied, “what do you know of my hunger?”

People besieged her threshold, but she received only a few and chose
them carefully. She lived in a world of flowers. Jean Cardillac had
furnished her an exquisite house, the garden terrace of which was like
a tropical paradise. When she reclined or sat there in the evening
under the softened light of the lamps, surrounded by her gently
chatting friends, whose most casual glance was an act of homage, she
seemed removed from the world of will and of the senses and to be
present in this realm of space only as a beautiful form.

Yet even those who thought her capable of any metamorphosis were
astonished when a sudden one came upon her and when its cause seemed
to be an unknown and inconsiderable person. Prince Alexis Wiguniewski
had introduced the man, and his name was Ivan Michailovitch Becker. He
was short and homely, with deep-set Sarmatian eyes, lips that looked
swollen, and a straggling beard about his chin and cheeks. Susan was
afraid of him.

It was on a December night when the snow was banked up at the windows
that Ivan Michailovitch Becker had talked with Eva Sorel for eight
hours in the little room spread with Italian rugs. In the adjoining
room Susan walked shivering up and down, wondering when her mistress
would call for help. She had an old shawl about her shoulders. From
time to time she took an almond from her pocket, cracked it with her
teeth, and threw the shells into the fireplace.

But on this night Eva did not go to bed, not even when the Russian had
left her. She entered her sleeping chamber and let her hair roll down
unrestrained so that it hid her head and body, and she sat on a low
stool holding her fevered cheeks in her hollow hands. Susan, who had
come to help her undress, crouched near her on the floor and waited for
a word.

At last her young mistress spoke. “Read me the thirty-third canto of
the _Inferno_,” she begged.

Susan brought two candles and the book. She placed the candles on the
floor and the volume on Eva’s lap. Then she read with a monotonous
sound of lamentation. But toward the end, especially where the poet
speaks of petrified and frozen tears, her clear voice grew firmer and
more eloquent.

    “Lo pianto stesso lì pianger non lascia;
    E il duol, che trova in sugli occhi rintoppo,
    Si volve in entro a far crescer l’ambascia:
    Chè le lagrime prime fanno groppo,
    E, sì come visiere di cristallo,
    Riempion sotto il ciglio tutto il coppo.”[1]

[1] “The very weeping there allows them not to weep; and the grief,
which finds impediment upon their eyes, turns inward to increase the
agony: for their first tears form a knot, and, like crystal vizors,
fill up all the cavity beneath their eye-brows.”

When she had finished she was frightened by the gleaming moisture in
Eva’s eyes.

Eva arose and bent her head far backward and closed her eyes and said:
“I shall dance all that--damnation in hell and then redemption!”

Then Susan embraced Eva’s knees and pressed her cheek against the
bronze coloured silk of the girl’s garment and murmured: “You can do
anything you wish.”

From that night on Eva was filled with a more urgent passion, and her
dancing had lines in which beauty hovered on the edge of pain. Ecstatic
prophets asserted that she was dancing the new century, the sunset of
old ideas, the revolution that is to come.


II

When Crammon saw her again she showed the exquisitely cultivated
firmness of a great lady and forced his silent admiration. And again
there began that restless burning in his heart.

He talked to her about Christian Wahnschaffe and one evening he brought
him to her. In Christian’s face there was something radiant. Adda
Castillo had drenched it with her passion. Eva felt about him the
breath of another woman and her face showed a mocking curiosity. For
several seconds the young man and the dancer faced each other like two
statues on their pedestals.

Crammon wondered whether Christian would ever thank him for this
service. He gave his arm to Susan, and the two walked to and fro in the
picture gallery.

“I hope your blond German friend is a prince,” said Susan with her air
of worry.

“He’s a prince travelling incognito in this vale of tears,” Crammon
answered. “You’ve made some stunning changes here,” he added, gazing
about him. “I’m satisfied with you both. You are wise and know the ways
of the world.”

Susan stopped and told him of what weighed upon her mind. Ivan
Michailovitch Becker came from time to time, and he and Eva would talk
together for many hours. Always after that Eva would pass a sleepless
night and answer no questions and have a fevered gleaming in her eyes.
And how was one to forbid the marvellous child her indulgence in this
mood? Yet it might hold a danger for her. No stray pessimist with
awkward hands should be permitted to drag down as with weights the
delicate vibrations of her soul. “What do you advise us to do?” she
asked.

Crammon rubbed his smooth chin. “I must think it over,” he said, “I
must think it over.” He sat down in a corner and rested his head on his
hands and pondered.

Eva chatted with Christian. Sometimes she laughed at his remarks,
sometimes they seemed strange and astonishing to her. Yet even where
she thought her own judgment the better, she was willing to hear and
learn. She regarded his figure with pleasure and asked him to get her,
from a table in the room, an onyx box filled with semi-precious stones.
She wanted to see how he would walk and move, how he would stretch
out his arm and hand after the box and give it to her. She poured the
stones into her lap and played with them. She let them glide through
her fingers, and said to Christian with a smile that he should have
become a dancer.

He answered naïvely that he was not fond of dancing in general, but
that he would think it charming to dance with her. His speech amused
her, but she promised to dance with him. The stones glittered in her
hands; a quiver of her mouth betrayed vexation and pride but also
compassion.

When she laughed it embarrassed Christian, and when she was silent he
was afraid of her thoughts. He had promised to meet Adda Castillo at
almost this hour. Yet he stayed although he knew that she would be
jealous and make a scene. Eva seemed like an undiscovered country to
him that lured him on. Her tone, her gestures, her expression, her
words, all seemed utterly new. He could not tear himself away, and his
dark blue eyes clung to her with a kind of balked penetration. Even
when her friends came--Cardillac, Wiguniewski, d’Autichamps--he stayed
on.

But Eva had found a name for him. She called him Eidolon. She uttered
that name and played with its sound even as she played with the
mani-coloured jewels in her lap.


III

One night Crammon entered a tavern in the outer boulevards. It was
called “Le pauvre Job.” He looked about him for a while and then sat
down near a table at which several young men of foreign appearance were
conversing softly in a strange tongue.

It was a group of Russian political refugees whose meeting place he
had discovered. Their chief was Ivan Michailovitch Becker. Crammon
pretended to be reading a paper while he observed his man, whom he
recognized from a photograph which Prince Wiguniewski had shown him. He
had never seen so fanatical a face. He compared it with a smouldering
fire that filled the air with heat and fumes.

He had been told that Ivan Becker had suffered seven years of
imprisonment and five of Siberian exile and that many thousands of the
young men of his people were wholly devoted to him and would risk any
danger or sacrifice at his bidding.

“Here they live in the most brilliant spot of the habitable earth,”
Crammon thought angrily, “and plan horrors.”

Crammon was an enemy of violent overthrow. If it did not interfere
with his own comfort, he was rather glad to see the poor get the
better of the over-fed bourgeois. He was a friend of the poor. He took
a condescending and friendly interest in the common people. But he
respected high descent, opposed any breach of venerable law, and held
his monarch in honour. Every innovation in the life of the state filled
him with presentiments of evil, and he deprecated the weakness of the
governments that had permitted the wretched parliaments to usurp their
powers.

He knew that there was something threatening at the periphery of his
world. A stormwind from beyond blew out lamps. What if they should all
be blown out? Was not their light and radiance the condition of a calm
life?

He sat there in his seriousness and dignity, conscious of his
superiority and of his good deeds. As a representative of order he had
determined to appeal to the conscience of these rebels if a suitable
opportunity were to come. Yet what tormented him was less an anxiety
over the throne of the Tsar than one over Eva Sorel. It was necessary
to free the dancer from the snares of this man.

An accident favoured his enterprise. One man after another left the
neighbouring table and at last Ivan Becker was left alone. Crammon took
his glass of absinthe and went over. He introduced himself, referring
to his friendship with Prince Wiguniewski.

Silently Becker pointed to a chair.

True to his kind and condescending impulses Crammon assumed the part of
an amiable man who can comprehend every form of human aberration. He
approached his aim with innocent turns of speech. He scarcely touched
the poisonous undergrowth of political contentions. He merely pointed
out with the utmost delicacy that, in the West of Europe, the private
liberty of certain lofty personages would have to remain untouched
unless force were to be used to oppose force. Gentle as his speech was,
it was an admonition. Ivan smiled indulgently.

“Though the whole sky were to flare with the conflagrations that
devastate your Holy Russia,” Crammon said with conscious eloquence,
and the corners of his mouth seemed to bend in right angles toward his
square chin, “we will know how to defend what is sacred to us. Caliban
is an impressive beast. But if he were to lay his hands on Ariel he
might regret it.”

Again Ivan Michailovitch smiled. His expression was strangely mild and
gentle, and gave his homely, large face an almost feminine aspect. He
listened as though desiring to be instructed.

Crammon was encouraged. “What has Ariel to do with your misery? He
looks behind him to see if men kiss the print of his feet. He demands
joy and glory, not blood and force.”

“Ariel’s feet are dancing over open graves,” Ivan Michailovitch said
softly.

“Your dead are safe at peace,” Crammon answered. “With the living we
shall know how to deal.”

“We are coming,” said Ivan Michailovitch still more softly. “We are
coming.” It sounded mysterious.

Half fearfully, half contemptuously Crammon looked at the man. After a
long pause he said as though casually, “At twelve paces I can hit the
ace of hearts four times out of five.”

Ivan Michailovitch nodded. “I can’t,” he said almost humbly, and showed
his right hand, which he usually concealed skilfully. It was mutilated.

“What happened to your hand?” Crammon asked in pained surprise.

“When I lay in the subterranean prison at Kazan a keeper forged the
chain about me too hard,” Ivan Michailovitch murmured.

Crammon was silent, but the other went on: “Perhaps you’ve noticed too
that it’s difficult for me to speak. I lived alone too long in the
desert of snow, in a wooden hut, in the icy cold. I became unused to
words. I suffered. But that is only a single word: suffering. How can
one make its content clear? My body was but a naked scaffolding, a
ruin. But my heart grew and expanded. How can I tell it? It grew to be
so great, so blood red, so heavy that it became a burden to me in the
fearful attempt at flight which I finally risked. But God protected
me.” And he repeated softly, “God protected me.”

In Crammon’s mind all ideas became confused. Was this man with his
gentle voice and the timid eyes of a girl the murderous revolutionary
and hero of possible barricades whom he had expected to meet? In his
surprise and embarrassment he became silent.

“Let us go,” said Ivan Michailovitch. “It is late.” He arose and threw
a coin on the table and stepped out into the street at Crammon’s
side. There he began again, hesitatingly and shyly: “I don’t want to
presume to judge, but I don’t understand these people here. They are
so certain of themselves and so reasonable. Yet that reasonableness is
the completest madness. A beast of the field that feels the tremor of
an earthquake and flees is wiser. And another thing: Ariel, the being
whom you strive so eloquently to protect, has no moral responsibility.
No one thinks of blaming it. What is it but form, gesture, beauty? But
don’t you think that the darker hue and deeper power that are born
of the knowledge of superhuman suffering might raise art above the
interests of idle sybarites? We need heralds who stand above the idioms
of the peoples; but those are possibilities that one can only dream of
with despair in one’s heart.” He nodded a brief good-night and went.

Crammon felt like a man who had merrily gone out in a light spring
suit but had been overtaken by a rainstorm and returns drenched and
angry. The clocks were striking two. A lady of the Opéra Comique had
been waiting for him since midnight; the key to her apartment was in
his pocket. But when he came to the bridge across the Seine he seized
the key and, overcome by a violent fit of depression, flung it into the
water.

“Sweet Ariel!” He spoke softly to himself. “I kiss the prints of your
feet.”


IV

Adda Castillo noticed that Christian was turning from her. She had not
expected that, at least not so soon; and as she saw him grow cold, her
love increased. But his indifference kept pace with her ardour, and so
her passionate heart lost all repose.

She was accustomed to change and, in spite of her youth, had been
greatly loved. She had never demanded fidelity before nor practised it.
But this man was more to her than any other had been.

She knew who was robbing her of him; she had seen the dancer. When she
called Christian to account he frankly admitted as a fact what she had
mentioned only as a suspicion in the hope of having it denied. She
instituted comparisons. She found that she was more beautiful than
Eva Sorel, more harmoniously formed, racier and more impassioned.
Her friends confirmed her in this opinion; and yet she felt that the
other had some advantage to which she must yield. Neither she nor her
flatterers could give it a name. But she felt herself the more deeply
affronted.

She adorned her person, she practised all her arts, she unfolded all
sides of her wild and entrancing temperament. It was in vain. Then she
vowed vengeance and clenched her fists and stamped. Or else she begged
and lay on her knees before him and sobbed. One method was as foolish
as the other. He was surprised and asked calmly: “Why do you throw
aside all dignity?”

One day he told her that they must separate. She turned very white and
trembled. Suddenly she took a revolver from her pocket, aimed at him
and fired twice. He heard the bullets whiz past his head, one on either
side. They hit the mirror and smashed it, and the fragments clattered
to the floor.

People rushed to the door. Christian went out and explained that the
noise meant no harm and was due to mere carelessness. When he returned
he found Adda Castillo lying on the sofa with her face buried in the
pillows. He showed no fright and no sense of the danger that he had
escaped. He thought merely how annoying such things were and how banal.
He took his hat and stick and left the room.

It was long before Adda Castillo arose. She went to the mirror and
shivered. There was but one fragment of it left in the frame. But by
the help of this fragment she smoothed her coal-black hair.

A few days later she came to see Christian. On the card that she had
sent in she begged for an interview of but five minutes. Her farewell
performance in Paris was to take place that evening and she begged
him to be present at the circus. He hesitated. The glowing eyes in
the wax-white face were fixed on him in a mortal terror. It made him
uncomfortable, but something like pity stirred within him and he agreed
to come.

Crammon accompanied him. They entered just as Adda Castillo’s act was
about to begin. The cage with the lions was being drawn into the arena.
Their seats were near the front. “They’re getting to be a bit of a
bore, these lions,” Crammon grumbled and watched the audience through
his glasses.

Adda Castillo in scarlet fleshings, her dark hair loose, her lips and
cheeks heavily rouged, entered the cage of the lionness and her four
cubs. Perhaps something in the woman’s bearing irritated Teddy, the
youngest lion. At all events he backed before her, roared and lifted
his paw. Adda Castillo whistled and commanded him with a gesture to
leave the mother animal. Teddy crouched and hissed.

At that moment Adda, instead of mastering the beast with her glance,
turned to the public and searched the front rows with her sparkling
eyes. Teddy leaped on her shoulder. She was down. One cry arose from
many throats. The people jumped up. Many fled. Others grew pale but
stared in evil fascination at the cage.

At that moment Trilby, the mother animal, came forward with a mighty
leap, not to attack her mistress but to save her from the cubs. With
powerful blows of her paw she thrust Teddy aside and stood protectingly
over the girl who was bleeding from many wounds. But the cubs, greedy
for blood, threw themselves on their mother and beat and bit her back
and flanks, so that she retreated howling to a corner and left the girl
to her fate.

The keepers had rushed up with long spears and hooks, but it was too
late. The cubs had bitten their teeth deep into the body of Adda
Castillo and torn her flesh to shreds. They did not let go until
formaldehyde was sprinkled on her scattered remains.

The cries of pity and terror, the weeping and wringing of hands, the
thronging at the gates and the noise of the circus men, the image of
a clown who stood as though frozen on a drum, a horse that trotted in
from the stables, the sight of the bloody, unspeakably mutilated body
in its dripping shreds--none of all this penetrated in any connected
or logical form the consciousness of Christian. It seemed to him mere
confusion and ghostly whirl. He uttered no sound. Only his face was
pale. His face was very pale.

In the motor car on their way to Jean Cardillac, with whom they were to
dine, Crammon said: “By God, I wouldn’t like to die between the jaws
of a lion. It is a cruel death and an ignominious one.” He sighed and
surreptitiously looked at Christian.

Christian had the car stop and asked Crammon to present his excuses
to Cardillac. “What are you going to do?” Crammon asked in his
astonishment.

And Christian replied that he wanted to be alone, that he must be alone
for a little.

Crammon could scarcely control himself. “Alone? You? What for?” But
already Christian had disappeared in the crowd.

“He wants to be alone! What an insane notion!” Crammon growled. He
shook his head and bade the chauffeur drive on. He drew up the collar
of his greatcoat and dedicated a last thought to the unhappy Adda
Castillo without assigning any guilt or blame to his friend.


V

“Eidolon is not as cheerful as usual,” Eva said to Christian. “What has
happened? Eidolon mustn’t be sad.”

He smiled and shook his head. But she had heard of the happening at
the circus and also knew in what relation Adda Castillo had stood to
Christian.

“I had a bad dream,” he said and told her of it.

“I dreamed that I was in a railroad station and wanted to take a train.
Many trains came in but roared and passed with indescribable swiftness.
I wanted to ask after the meaning of this. But when I turned around I
saw behind me in a semi-circle an innumerable throng. And all these
people looked at me; but when I approached them, they all drew away
slowly and silently with outstretched arms. All about in that monstrous
circle they drew silently away from me. It was horrible.”

She passed her hand over his forehead to chase the horror away. But she
recognized the power of her touch and was frightened by her image in
his eye.

When from the stage where she was bowing amid the flowers and the
applause she perceived the touch of his glances she felt in them a
threat of enslavement. When on his arm she approached a table and heard
the delighted whisper of people at them both, she seemed to herself
the victim of a conspiracy, and a hesitation crept into her bearing.
When Crammon, practising a strange self-abnegation, spoke of Christian
in extravagant terms, and Susan, even in their nocturnal talks, grew
mythical concerning his high descent, when Cardillac grew restless
and Cornelius Ermelang, the young German poet who adored her, asked
questions with his timid eyes--when these things came to pass she
feigned coldness and became unapproachable.

She scolded Susan, she made fun of Crammon, she laughed at Jean
Cardillac, jestingly she bent her knee to the poet. She confused her
entire court of painters, politicians, journalists, and dandies with
her incomprehensible mimicry and flexibility, and said that Eidolon was
only an illusion and a symbol.

Christian did not understand this--neither this nor her swift
withdrawals from him, and then her turning back and luring him anew. A
passionate gesture would arise and suddenly turn to reproof, and one of
delight would turn into estrangement. It was useless to try to bind her
by her own words. She would join the tips of her fingers and turn her
head aside and look out of the corners of her eyes at the floor with a
cool astuteness.

Once he had driven her into a corner, but she called Susan, leaned her
head against the woman’s shoulder and whispered in her ear.

Another time, in order to test her feeling, he spoke of his trip to
England. With charmingly curved hands she gathered up her skirt and
surveyed her feet.

Another time, in the light and cheerful tone they used to each other,
he reproached her with making a fool of him. She crossed her arms and
smiled mysteriously, wild and subdued at once. She looked as though
she had stepped out of a Byzantine mosaic.

He knew the freedom of her life. But when he sought for the motives
that guided her, he had no means of finding them.

He knew nothing of the intellectual fire of the dancer, but took her to
be a woman like any other. He did not see that that which is, in other
women, the highest stake and the highest form of life, needed to be
in her life but a moment’s inclination and a moment’s gliding by. He
did not grasp the form in her, but saw the contour melt in glimmering
change. Coming from the sensual regions of one possessed like Adda
Castillo, he breathed here an air purified of all sultriness, which
intoxicated but also frightened him, which quickened the beat of the
heart but sharpened the vision.

Everything was fraught with presages of fate: when she walked beside
him; when they rode side by side in the Bois de Boulogne; when they sat
in the twilight and he heard her clear and childlike voice; when in the
palm garden she teased her little monkeys; when she listened to Susan
at the piano and let the bright stones glide through her fingers.

One evening when he was leaving he met Jean Cardillac at the gate. They
greeted each other. Then involuntarily Christian stopped and looked
after the man, whose huge form threw a gigantic shadow on the steps.
Invisible little slaves seemed to follow this shadow, all bearing
treasures to be laid at Eva’s feet.

An involuntary determination crystallized in him. It seemed important
to measure his strength against this shadow’s. He turned back and the
servants let him pass. Cardillac and Eva were in the picture gallery.
She was curled up on a sofa, rolled up almost like a snake. Not far
from those two, on a low stool, sat Susan impassive but with burning
eyes.

“You’ve promised to drive with me to the races at Longchamp, Eva,” said
Christian. He stood by the door to show that he desired nothing else.

“Yes, Eidolon. Why the reminder?” answered Eva without moving, but with
a flush on her cheeks.

“Quite alone with me----?”

“Yes, Eidolon, quite alone.”

“My dream suddenly came back to me, and I thought of that train that
wouldn’t stop.”

She laughed at the naïve and amiable tone of his words. Her eyes grew
gentle and she laid her head back on the pillows. Then she looked at
Cardillac, who arose silently.

“Good-night,” said Christian and went.

It was during these days that Denis Lay had arrived in Paris. Crammon
had expected him and now welcomed him with ardour. “He is the one
man living who is your equal and who competes with you in my heart,”
Crammon had said to Christian.

Denis was the second son of Lord Stainwood. He had had a brilliant
career at Oxford, where his exploits had been the talk of the country.
He had formed a new party amid the undergraduates, whose discussions
and agitations had spared no time-honoured institutions. At twenty-two
he was not only a marksman, hunter, fisherman, sailor, and boxer, but a
learned philologist. He was handsome, wealthy, radiant with life, and
surrounded by a legend of mad pranks and by a halo of distinction and
elegance--the last and finest flower of his class and nation.

Christian recognized his qualities without envy and the two became
friends at once. One evening he was entertaining Cardillac, Crammon,
Wiguniewski, Denis Lay, the Duchess of Marivaux, and Eva Sorel. And it
was on this occasion that Eva, in the presence of the whole company,
lightly broke the promise that she had given him.

Denis had expressed the desire to take her to Longchamp in his car. Eva
became aware of Christian’s look. It was watchful, but still assured.
She held a cluster of grapes in her hand. When she had placed the fruit
back on the plate before her, she had betrayed him. Christian turned
pale. He felt that she needed no reminder. She had chosen. It was for
him to be quiet and withdraw.

Eva took up the cluster of grapes again. Lifting it on the palm of
her hand she said with that smile of dreamy enthusiasm which seemed
heartless to Christian now: “Beautiful fruit, I shall leave you until
I am hungry for you.”

Crammon raised his glass and cried: “Whoever wishes to do homage to the
lady of our allegiance--drink!”

They all drank to Eva, but Christian did not lift his eyes.


VI

On the next night after her performance, Eva had invited several
friends to her house. She had danced the chief rôle in the new
pantomime called “The Dryads,” and her triumph had been very great. She
came home in a cloud of flowers. Later a footman brought in a basket
heaped with cards and letters.

She sank into Susan’s arms, happy and exhausted. Every pore of her
glowed with life.

Crammon said: “There may be insensitive scoundrels in the world. But I
think it’s magnificent to watch a human being on the very heights of
life.”

For this saying Eva, with graceful reverence, gave him a red rose. And
the burning in his breast became worse and worse.

It had been agreed that Christian and Denis were to have a fencing
bout. Eva had begged for it. She hoped not only to enjoy the sight, but
to learn something for her own art from the movements of the two young
athletes.

The preparations had been completed. In the round hall hung with
tapestries, Christian and Denis faced each other. Eva clapped her
hands and they assumed their positions. For a while nothing was heard
except their swift, muffled, and rhythmical steps and the clash of
their foils. Eva stood erect, all eye, drinking in their gestures.
Christian’s body was slenderer and more elastic than the Englishman’s.
The latter had more strength and freedom. They were like brothers of
whom one had grown up in a harsh, the other in a mild climate; the
one self-disciplined and upheld by a long tradition of breeding, the
other cradled in tenderness and somewhat uncertain within. The one was
all marrow, the other all radiance. In virility and passion they were
equals.

Crammon was in the seventh heaven of enthusiasm.

When the combat was nearly at an end, Cornelius Ermelang appeared, and
with him Ivan Michailovitch Becker. Eva had asked Ermelang to read a
poem. He and Becker had known each other long, and when he had found
the Russian walking to and fro near the gate he had simply brought
him up. It was the first time that Ivan showed himself to Eva’s other
friends.

Both were silent and sat down.

Christian and Denis had changed back to their usual garments, and now
Ermelang was to read. Susan sat down near Becker and observed him
attentively.

Cornelius Ermelang was a delicate creature and of a repulsive ugliness.
He had a steep forehead, watery blue eyes with veiled glances, a
pendulous nether lip, and a yellowish wisp of beard at the extreme end
of his chin. His voice was extraordinarily gentle and soft, and had
something of the sing-song rhythm of a preacher’s.

The name of the poem was “Saint Francis and Why Men Followed Him,” and
its content was in harmony with the traditions and the writings.

Once upon a time Saint Francis was tarrying in the convent of
Portiuncula with Brother Masseo of Marignano, who was himself a very
holy man and could speak beautifully and wisely concerning God. And
for this reason Saint Francis loved him greatly. Now one day Saint
Francis returned from the forest where he had been praying, and just
as he emerged from the trees Brother Masseo came to meet him and said:
“Why thee rather than another? Why thee?” Saint Francis asked: “What
is the meaning of thy words?” Brother Masseo replied: “I ask why all
the world follows thee, and why every man would see thee and listen
to thee and obey thee. Thou art not goodly to look upon, nor learned,
nor of noble blood. Why is it that all the world follows thee?” When
Saint Francis heard this he was glad in his heart, and he raised his
face to Heaven and stood without moving for a long space, because his
spirit was lifted up to God. But when he came to himself again, he
threw himself upon his knees and praised and thanked God, and full of
a devout passion turned to Brother Masseo and spoke: “Wouldst thou
know why they follow me, and me always, and me rather than another?
This grace has been lent to me by the glance of Almighty God Himself
which rests on the good and the evil everywhere. For His holy eyes saw
among the sinners on earth none who was more wretched than I, none
who was less wise and able, nor any who was a greater sinner. For the
miraculous work that He had it in His heart to bring about He found no
creature on earth so mean as I. And therefore did He choose me to put
to shame the world with its nobility and its pride and its strength and
its beauty and its wisdom, in order that it might be known that all
power and goodness proceed from Him alone and from no created thing,
and that no one may boast before His face. But whoever boast, let him
boast in the Lord.” And Brother Masseo was frightened at this answer,
which was so full of humility and spoken with such fervour.

And the poem related how Brother Masseo went into the forest out of
which Saint Francis had come, and how tones as of organ music came from
the tops of the trees and formed more and more clearly the question:
Wouldst thou know why? Wouldst thou know? And he cast himself upon the
earth, upon the roots and stones, and kissed the roots and stones and
cried out: “I know why! I know why!”


VII

The stanzas had a sweetness and an inner ecstasy; their music was
muffled and infinitely fluid, with many but shy and half-hidden rimes.

“It is beautiful,” said Denis Lay, who understood German perfectly.

And Crammon said: “It is like an old painting on glass.”

“What I admire most,” said Denis, “is that it brings the figure of
Saint Francis very close to one with that magical quality of _cortesia_
which he possessed above all other saints.”

“_Cortesia?_ What does it mean exactly?” Wiguniewski asked. “Does it
mean a humble and devout courtesy?”

Eva arose. “That is it,” she said, “just that.” And she made an
exquisite gesture with both hands. All looked at her, and she added:
“To give what is mine, and only to appear to take what is another’s,
that is _cortesia_.”

During all this conversation Christian had withdrawn himself from the
others. Aversion was written on his face. Even during the reading he
had hardly been able to keep his seat. He did not know what it was
that rebelled in him and irritated him supremely. A spirit of mockery
and scorn was in him and fought for some expression. With assumed
indifference he called out to Denis Lay, and began to talk to him about
the stallion that Lay desired to sell and Christian to possess. He
had offered forty thousand francs for it. Now he offered forty-five
thousand, and his voice was so loud that all could hear him. Crammon
stepped to his side as though to guard him.

“Eidolon!” Eva cried suddenly.

Christian looked at her with a consciousness of guilt. Their eyes met.
The others became silent in surprise.

“The beast is worth that anywhere,” Christian murmured, without taking
his eyes from Eva.

“Come, Susan,” Eva turned to the woman, and about her mouth curled an
expression of bitterness and scorn. “He knows how to fence and how to
trade horses. Of _cortesia_ he knows nothing. Good-night, gentlemen.”
She bowed and slipped through the green hangings.

In consternation the company scattered.

When she had reached her room Eva threw herself into a chair, and in
bitterness of spirit hid her face in her hands. Susan crouched near
her on the floor, waiting and wondering. When a quarter of an hour had
passed she arose and took the clasps out of Eva’s hair and began to
comb it.

Eva was passive. She was thinking of her own master and of what he had
taught her.


VIII

This is what her master had taught her: Train your body to fear and
obey the spirit. What you grant the body beyond its necessity makes you
its slave. Never be the one seduced. Seduce others, and your way will
always be your own to see. Be a secret to others or you grow vulgar to
yourself. Give yourself wholly only to your work. Passions of sense
lay waste the heart. What one man truly receives of another is never
the fullness of the hour or the soul, but lees and dregs that are
fructified late and unconsciously.

She had been only twelve, when, persuaded by jugglers and answering
the call of her fate, she had left her home in a remote little
Franconian town. She was very far from her master then. But the way was
pre-determined.

She never lost herself. She glided over difficulties and degradations
as the chamois does over boulders and abysses. Whoever saw her amid the
strolling jugglers held her to be the kidnapped child of distinguished
parents. She was, as a matter of fact, the daughter of an obscure
musician named Daniel Nothafft and of a servant girl. A dreamy feeling
of pity and admiration united her to her father; her mother she had
never known, and so discarded her ill-sounding name.

She was accustomed to pass the night in tents and barns. In towns by
the sea she had often slept in the shelter of cliffs wrapped in a
blanket. She knew the nocturnal sky with its clouds and stars. She had
slept on straw amid the animals too, near asses and dogs, and on the
rickety, over-burdened cart had ridden on the roadways through rain and
snow. It was a romantic life that recalled another age.

She had had to sew her own costumes and to go through her daily and
difficult exercises under the whip of the chief of the jugglers. But
she learned the language of the country, and secretly bought at fairs
in cities the books of the poets who had used it. Secretly she read,
sometimes from pages torn out of the volumes and thus more easily
concealed, Béranger, Musset, Victor Hugo, and Verlaine.

She walked the tight rope which, without any protective net below, was
slung from gable to gable across the market-places of villages, and she
walked as securely as on the ground. Or she acted as the partner of a
dancing she-bear or with five poodles who turned somersaults. She was a
trapeze artist too, and her greatest trick was to leap from one horse
in full gallop to another. When she did that the hurdy-gurdy stopped
its music so that the spectators might realize what a remarkable thing
they were seeing. She carried the collection plate along the rope, and
her glance persuaded many a one to dip into his pocket who had meant to
slink away.

It was in villages and little towns lying along the Rhône that she
first became aware among the spectators of a man who dragged himself
about with difficulty on two crutches. He followed the troupe from
place to place, and since his whole attention was fixed on Eva, it was
evident that he did so for her sake.

It was after two years of this wandering life that in Lyons she was
seized with typhoid fever. Her companions sent her to a hospital. They
could not wait, but the chief juggler was to return after a period and
fetch her. When he did return she was just beginning to convalesce.
Suddenly by her bed-side she also saw the man with the crutches. He
took the juggler aside and one could see that they were talking about
money. From the pressure of her old master’s hand Eva knew that she saw
him for the last time.


IX

The man with the crutches was named Lucas Anselmo Rappard. He saved Eva
and awakened her. He taught her her art. He took her under his care,
and this care was tyrannical enough. He did not set her free again
until she had become all that he had desired to make of her.

He had long lived in retirement at Toledo, because there were three or
four paintings in the Spanish city that rewarded him for his isolation
from the busy world. Also he found that the sun of Spain warmed him
through and through, and that he liked the folk.

In spite of his crippled state he journeyed northward once a year to
be near the ocean. And like the men of old he went slowly from place
to place. His sister Susan was his unfailing companion. It was on
one of his return journeys that he had seen Eva quite by chance. The
village fairs of this region had long attracted him. And there he found
unexpectedly something that stimulated his creative impulse. It was a
sculptor’s inspiration. He saw the form in his mind’s eye. Here was the
material ready to his hand. The sight of Eva relit an idea in him to
which he had long despaired of giving a creative embodiment.

First he called the whole matter a whim. Later, absorbed in his task,
he knew the passion of a Pygmalion.

He was forty at that time or a little more. His beardless face was
thick-boned, peasant-like, brutal. But on closer observation the
intellect shone through the flesh. The greenish-grey eyes, very
deep-set in their hollows, had so compelling a glance that they
surprised and even frightened others.

This remarkable man had an origin and a fate no less remarkable. His
father had been a Dutch singer, his mother a Dalmatian. They had
drifted to Courland, where an epidemic killed both at almost the same
time. The two children had been taken into the ballet school of the
theatre at Riga. Lucas Anselmo justified the most brilliant hopes. His
incomparable elasticity and lightness surpassed anything that had yet
been seen in a young dancer. At seventeen he danced at the Scala in
Milan, and roused the public to a rare exhibition of enthusiasm. But
his success was out of its due time--too late or too early. His whole
personality had something strange and curiously transplanted; and soon
he became estranged from himself and from the inner forces of his life.
At twenty a morbid melancholy seized him.

He happened at that time to be dancing in Petrograd. A young but lately
married lady of the court fell in love with him. She persuaded him
to visit her on a certain night in a villa beyond the city. But her
husband had been warned. He pleaded the necessity of going on a journey
to make his wife the more secure. Then with his servants he broke into
the lovers’ chamber, had the lad beaten cruelly, then tied, and thrown
naked into the snow. Here in the bitter cold the unhappy dancer lay for
six hours.

A dangerous illness and a permanent crippling of his legs were the
result of this violent adventure. Susan nursed him and never left him
for an hour. She had always admired and loved him. Now she worshipped
him. He had already earned a little fortune, and an inheritance from
his mother’s side increased it, so he was enabled to live independently.

A new man developed in him. His deformity gave to his mind the
resilience and power that had been his body’s. In a curious way
he penetrated all the regions of modern life; and above pain,
disappointment, and renunciation, he built a road from the senses to
the mind. In his transformation from a dancer to a cripple he divined
a deep significance. He now sought an idea and a law; and the harsh
contrast between external calm and inner motion, of inner calm and
outward restlessness, seemed to him important in any interpretation of
mankind and of his age.

At twenty-two he set himself to study Latin, Greek, and Sanskrit. He
became a thorough student, and took courses at the German universities.
And this strange student, who dragged himself along on crutches, was
often an object of curiosity. At the age of thirty he travelled with
Susan to India, and lived for four years at Delhi and Benares. He
associated with learned Brahmins and received their mystic teachings.
Once he had sight of an almost legendary Thibetan priest, who had lived
in a cave of the mountains for eighty years, and whom the eternal
darkness had blinded, but whom the eternal loneliness had made a saint.
The sight of the centenarian moved him, for the first time in his life,
to tears. He now understood saintliness and believed in it. And this
saint danced: he danced at dawn, turning his blinded eyes to the sun.

He saw the religious festivals in the temple cities on the Ganges, and
felt the nothingness of life and the indifference of death when he saw
those who had died of pestilence float by hundreds down the stream.
He had himself carried into primeval forests and jungles, and saw
everywhere in the inextricable coil of life and death each taking the
other’s form and impulse--decay becoming birth and putrefaction giving
life. He was told of the marble-built city of a certain king, in which
dwelled only dancing girls taught by priests. When their flesh faded
and their limbs lost their agility, they were slain. They had vowed
chastity, and none was permitted to survive the breaking of that vow.
He approached the fabled city but could not gain admission. At night
he saw the fires on its roofs, and heard the songs of its virginal
dancers. Now and then it seemed to him that he heard a cry of death.

This night, with its fires and songs, its unseen dancers and uncertain
cries, stored up new energies within his soul.


X

He took Eva with him to Toledo. He had rented a house there in which,
men said, the painter El Greco had once dwelled.

The building was a grey cube, rather desolate within. Cats shared the
dwelling, and owls, bats, and mice.

Several rooms were filled with books, and these books became Eva’s
silent friends in the years that came now, and during which she saw
almost no one but Rappard and Susan.

In this house she learned to know loneliness and work and utter
dedication to a task.

She entered the house full of fear of him who had forced her into
it. His speech and behaviour intimidated her so that she had
terror-stricken visions when she thought of him. But Susan did all in
her power to soothe the girl.

Susan would relate stories concerning her brother at morning or in
the evening hours, when Eva lay with her body desperately exhausted,
too exhausted often to sleep. She had not been spoiled. The life with
the troupe of jugglers had accustomed her to severe exertions. But
the ceaseless drill, the monotonous misery of the first few months,
in which everything seemed empty and painful, without allurement or
brightness or intelligible purpose, made her ill and made her hate her
own limbs.

It was Susan’s hollow voice that besought her to be patient; it was
Susan who massaged her arms and legs, who carried her to bed and
read to her. And she described her brother, who in her eyes was a
magician and an uncrowned king, and on whose eyes and breath she hung,
described him through his past, which she retold in its scenes and
words, at times too fully and confusedly, at others so concretely and
glowingly that Eva began to suspect something of the good fortune of
the coincidence that had brought her to his attention.

Finally came a day on which he spoke to her openly: “Do you believe
that you were born to be a dancer?” “I do believe it,” she answered.
Then he spoke to her concerning the dance, and her wavering feeling
grew firmer. Gradually she felt her body growing lighter and lighter.
When they parted on that day, ambition was beginning to flame in her
eyes.

He had taught her to stand with outstretched arms and to let no muscle
quiver; to stand on the tips of her toes so that her crown touched a
sharp arrow; to dance definite figures outlined by needles on the floor
with her naked feet, and, when each movement had passed into her very
flesh, to brave the needles blindfolded. He taught her to whirl about a
taut rope adjusted vertically, and to walk on high stilts without using
her arms.

She had had to forget how she had walked hitherto, how she had stridden
and run and stood, and she had to learn anew how to walk and stride and
run and stand. Everything, as he said, had to become new. Her limbs and
ankles and wrists had to adjust themselves to new functions, even as a
man who has lain in the mire of the street puts on new garments. “To
dance,” he would say, “means to be new, to be fresh at every moment, as
though one had just issued from the hand of God.”

He inducted her into the meaning and law of every movement, into the
inner structure and outer rhythm of every gesture.

He created gestures with her. And about every gesture he wove some
experience. He showed her the nature of flight, of pursuit, of parting,
of salutation, of expectancy and triumph and joy and terror; and there
was no motion of a finger in which the whole body did not have a part.
The play of the eyes and of facial expression entered this art so
little that the swathing of the face would not have diminished the
effect that was aimed at.

He drew the kernel from each husk; he demanded the quintessential only.

“Can you drink? Let me see you!” It was wrong. “Your gesture was a
shopworn phrase. The man who had never seen another drink did not drink
thus.”

“Can you pray? Can you pluck flowers, swing a scythe, gather grain,
bind a veil? Give me an image of each action! Represent it!” She could
not. But he taught her.

Whenever she fell into a flat imitation of reality he foamed with rage.
“Reality is a beast!” he roared, and hurled one of his crutches against
the wall. “Reality is a murderer.”

In the statues and paintings of great artists he pointed out to her
the essential and noble lines, and illustrated how all that had been
thus created and built merged harmoniously again with nature and her
immediacy of truth.

He spoke of the help of music to her art. “You need no melody and
scarcely tone. The only thing that matters is the division of time,
the audibly created measure which leads and restrains the violence,
wildness, and passion, or else the softness and sustained beauty of
motion. A tambourine and a fife suffice. Everything beyond that is
dishonesty and confusion. Beware of a poetry of effect that does not
issue from your naked achievement.”

At night he took her to wine rooms and taverns, where the girls of the
people danced their artless and excited dances. He revealed to her the
artistic kernel of each, and let her dance a bolero, a fandango, or
a tarantella, which in this new embodiment had the effect of cut and
polished jewels.

He reconstructed antique battle-dances for her, the Pyrrhic and the
Karpaian; the dance of the Muses about the altar of Zeus on Helicon;
the dance of Artemis and her companions; the dance of Delos, which
imitated the path of Theseus through the labyrinth; the dance of the
maidens in honour of Artemis, during which they wore a short chiton and
a structure of willow on their heads; the vintners’ dance preserved on
the cup of Hiero, which includes all the motions used by the gatherers
of the vine and the workers at the winepress. He showed her pictures
of the vase of François, of the geometrical vase of Dipylon, of many
reliefs and terracotta pieces, and made her study the figures that had
an entrancing charm and incomparable rhythm of motion. And he procured
her music for these dances, which Susan copied from old manuscripts,
and which he adapted.

And from these creative exercises he led her on to a higher freedom.
He now stimulated her to invent for herself, to feel with originality
and give that feeling a creative form. He vivified her glance, that
was so often in thrall to the technical or merely beautiful, liberated
her senses, and gave her a clear vision of that deaf, blind swarm and
throng whom her art would have to affect. He inspired her with love
for the immortal works of man, armoured her heart against seduction by
the vulgar, against a game but for the loftiest stakes, against action
without restraint, being without poise.

But it was not until she left him that she understood him wholly.

When he thought her ripe for the glances of the world he gave her
recommendations to smooth the way, and also Susan. He was willing to be
a solitary. Susan had trained a young Castilian to give him the care he
needed. He did not say whether he intended to stay in Toledo or choose
some other place. Since they had left him, neither Eva nor Susan had
heard from him: he had forbidden both letters and messages.


XI

Often in the night Susan would sit in some dark corner, and out of her
deep brooding name her brother’s name. Her thoughts turned about a
reunion with him. Her service to Eva was but a violent interruption of
the accustomed life at his side.

She loved Eva, but she loved her as Lucas Anselmo’s work and
projection. If Eva gained fame it was for him, if she gathered treasure
it was for him, if she grew in power it was for him. Those who
approached Eva and felt her sway were his creatures, his serfs, and his
messengers.

After the incident with Christian Wahnschaffe, as Susan crouched at
Eva’s feet and, as so often, embraced the girl’s knees, she thought:
Ah, he has breathed into her an irresistible soul, and made her
beautiful and radiant.

But always she harboured a superstitious fear. She trembled in secret
lest the irresistible soul should some day flee from Eva’s body, and
the radiance of her beauty be dulled, and nothing remain but a dead and
empty husk. For that would be a sign to her that Lucas Anselmo was no
more.

For this reason it delighted her when ecstasy and glee, glow and tumult
reigned in Eva’s life, and she was cast down and plagued by evil
presentiments when the girl withdrew into quietness and remained silent
and alone. So long as Eva danced and loved and was mobile and adorned
her body, Susan dismissed all care concerning her brother. Therefore
she would sit and fan the flame from which his spirit seemed to speak
to her.

“Just because you’ve chosen the Englishman, you needn’t send the German
away,” she said. “You may take the one and let the other languish a
while longer. You can never tell how things will change. There are many
men: they rise and fall. Cardillac is going down-hill now. I hear all
kinds of rumours.”

Eva, hiding her face in her hands, whispered: “Eidolon.”

It vexed Susan. “First you mock him, then you sigh for him! What folly
is this?”

Eva sprang up suddenly. “You shan’t speak of him to me or praise him,
wretched woman.” Her cheeks glowed, and the brightly mocking tone in
which she often spoke to Susan became menacing.

“_Golpes para besos_,” Susan murmured in Spanish. “Blows for kisses.”
She arose in order to comb Eva’s hair and braid it for the night.

The next day Crammon appeared. “I found you one whose laughter puts
to shame the laughter of the muleteer of Cordova,” he said with mock
solemnity. “Why is he rejected?”

His heart bled. Yet he wooed her for his friend. Much as he loved and
admired Denis Lay, yet Christian was closer to him. Christian was his
discovery, of which he was vain, and his hero.

Eva looked at him with eyes that glittered, and replied: “It is true
that he knows how to laugh like that muleteer of Cordova, but he has no
more culture of the heart than that same fellow. And that, my dear man,
is not enough.”

“And what is to become of us?” sighed Crammon.

“You may follow us to England,” Eva said cheerfully. “I’m going to
dance at His Majesty’s Theatre. Eidolon can be my page. He can learn to
practise reverence, and not to chaffer for horses when beautiful poems
are being read to me. Tell him that.”

Crammon sighed again. Then he took her hand, and devoutly kissed the
tips of her fingers. “I shall deliver your message, sweet Ariel,” he
said.


XII

Cardillac and Eva fell out, and that robbed the man of his last
support. The danger with which he was so rashly playing ensnared him;
the abysses lured him on.

The external impetus to his downfall was furnished by a young engineer
who had invented a hydraulic device. Cardillac had persuaded him with
magnificent promises to let him engage in the practical exploitation of
the invention. It was not long before the engineer discovered that he
had been cheated of the profits of his labour. Quietly he accumulated
evidence against the speculator, unveiled his dishonest dealings, and
presented to the courts a series of annihilating charges. Although
Cardillac finally offered him five hundred thousand francs if he would
withdraw his charges, the outraged accuser remained firm.

Other untoward circumstances occurred. The catastrophe became
inevitable. On a single forenoon the shares he had issued dropped
to almost nothing. In forty-eight hours three hundred millions of
francs had been lost. Innumerable well-established fortunes plunged
like avalanches into nothingness, eighteen hundred mechanics and
shop-keepers lost all they had in the world, twenty-seven great firms
went into bankruptcy, senators and deputies of the Republic were sucked
down in the whirlpool, and under the attacks of the opposition the very
administration shook.

Felix Imhof hurried to Paris to save whatever was possible out of the
crash. Although he had suffered painful losses, he was ecstatic over
the grandiose spectacle which Cardillac’s downfall presented to the
world.

Crammon laughed and rubbed his hands in satisfaction, and pointed to
Imhof. “He wanted to seduce me, but I was as chaste as Joseph.”

On the following evening Imhof went with his friends to visit Eva
Sorel. She had left the palace which Cardillac had furnished for her,
and had rented a handsome house in the Chaussée d’Antin.

Imhof spoke of the curious tragedy of these modern careers. As an
example he related how three days before his collapse Cardillac had
appeared at the headquarters of his bitterest enemies, the Bank of
Paris. The directors were having a meeting. None was absent. With
folded hands and tear-stained face the sorely beset man begged for a
loan of twelve millions. It was a drastic symptom of his naïveté that
he asked help of those whom he had fleeced on the exchange year in and
year out, whose losses had glutted his wealth, and whom he wanted to
fight with the very loan for which he begged.

Christian scarcely listened. He stood with Crammon beside a Chinese
screen. Opposite them sat Eva in a curiously dreamy mood, and not far
from her was Denis Lay. Others were present too, but Christian gave
them no attention.

Suddenly there was a commotion near the door. “Cardillac,” some one
whispered. All glances sought him.

It was indeed Cardillac who had entered. His boots were muddy, his
collar and cravat in disorder. He seemed not to have changed his
garments for a week. His fists were clenched; his restless eyes
wandered from face to face.

Eva and Denis remained calmly as they were. Eva pressed her foot
against the edge of a copper jar filled with white lilies. No one
moved. Only Christian, quite involuntarily, approached Cardillac by a
few paces.

Cardillac became aware of him, and drew him by the sleeve toward the
door of the adjoining room. They had scarcely crossed the threshold
when Cardillac whispered in an intense but subdued tone: “I must have
two thousand francs or I’m done for! Advance me that much, monsieur,
and save me. I have a wife and a child.”

Christian was astonished. No one dreamed that the man had a family. And
why turn precisely to him? Wiguniewski, d’Autichamps, many others knew
him far better.

“I must be at the station in half an hour,” he heard the man say, and
his hand sought his purse.

Wife and child! The words flitted through his head, and there arose in
him the violent aversion he always felt in the presence of beggars.
What had he to do with it all? He took out the bank notes. Two
thousand francs, he thought, and remembered the huge sums which one
was accustomed to name in connection with the man who stood before him
begging.

“I thank you.” Cardillac’s voice came to him as through a wall.

Then Cardillac passed him with bent head. But two men had in the
meantime appeared in the other room. At the open folding-door the
lackeys stood behind them with an embarrassed expression, for the men
were police officials who were seeking Cardillac and had followed him
here.

Cardillac, seeing them and guessing their errand, recoiled with a
gurgling noise in his throat. His right hand disappeared in his
coat-pocket, but instantly the two men leaped on him and pinioned his
arms. There was a brief, silent struggle. Suddenly he was made fast.

Eva had arisen. Her guests crowded about her. She leaned against
Susan’s shoulder and turned her head a little aside, as though a touch
of uncanny terror brushed her. But she still smiled, though now with
pallid cheeks.

“He’s magnificent, magnificent, even at this moment,” Imhof whispered
to Crammon.

Christian stared at Cardillac’s huge back. It was, he couldn’t help
thinking, like the back of an ox dragged to slaughter. The two men
between whom he stood hand-cuffed had greasy necks, and the hair on the
back of their heads was dirty and ill-trimmed.

An unpleasant taste on his palate tormented Christian. He asked a
servant for a glass of champagne.

Cardillac’s words, “I have a wife and a child,” would not leave his
mind. On the contrary, they sounded ever more stridently within him.
And suddenly a second, foolish, curious voice in him asked: How do you
suppose they look--this wife, this child? Where are they? What will
become of them?

It was as annoying and as painful as a toothache.


XIII

In Devon, south of Exeter, Denis Lay had his country seat. The manor
stood in a park of immemorial trees, velvety swards, small lakes that
mirrored the sky, and flowerbeds beautiful in the mildest climate of
such a latitude on earth.

“We’re quite near the Gulf Stream here,” Crammon explained to Christian
and Eva, who, like himself, were Lay’s guests. And he had an expression
as though with his own hands he had brought the warm current to the
English coast from the Gulf of Mexico simply for the benefit of his
friends.

With a gesture of sisterly tenderness Eva walked for hours among the
beds of blossoming violets. Large surfaces were mildly and radiantly
blue. It was March.

A company of English friends was expected, but not until two days later.

The four friends, going for a walk, had been overtaken by showers and
came home drenched. When they had changed their clothes, they met for
tea in the library. It was a great room with wainscoting of dark oak
and mighty cross-beams. Halfway up there ran along the walls a gallery
with carved balustrades, and at one end, between the pointed windows,
appeared the gilded pipes of an organ.

The light was dim and the rain swished without. Eva held an album of
Holbein drawings, and turned the pages slowly. Christian and Crammon
were playing at chess. Denis watched them for a while. Then he sat down
at the organ and began to play.

Eva looked up from the pictures and listened.

“I’ve lost the game,” Christian said. He arose and mounted the steps
to the gallery. He leaned over the balustrade and looked down. In an
outward curve of the balustrade there lay, like an egg in its cup, a
globe on a metal stand.

“What were you playing?” Eva asked, as Denis paused.

He turned around. “I’ve been trying to compose a passage from the Song
of Songs,” he answered. He played again and sang in an agreeable voice:
“Arise, thou lovely one, for the winter is past.”

The sound of the organ stirred a feeling of hatred in Christian. He
gazed upon Eva’s form. In a gown of sea-green, slim, far, estranged,
she sat there. And as he looked at her there blended with his hatred of
the music another feeling--one of oppression and of poignant pain, and
his heart began to throb violently.

“Arise, thou lovely one, and come with me,” Denis sang again, and
Crammon softly hummed the air too. Eva looked up, and her glance met
Christian’s. In her face there was a mysterious expression of loftiness
and love.

Christian took the globe from its stand and played with it. He let
it roll back and forth between his hands on the flat balustrade like
a rubber ball. The sphere suddenly slipped from him, fell and rolled
along the floor to Eva’s feet.

Denis and Crammon gathered about it; Christian came down from the
gallery.

Eva picked up the globe and went toward Christian. He took it from her,
but she at once held out her hands again. Then she held it daintily
poised upon the fingertips of her right hand. Her left hand, with
fingers spread out, she held close to it; her head was gently inclined,
her lips half open.

“So this is the world,” she said, “your world! The blue bits are the
seas, and that soiled yellow the countries. How ugly the countries are,
and how jagged! They look like a cheese at which mice have nibbled. O
world, the things that creep about on you! The things that happen on
you! I hold you now, world, and carry you! I like that!”

The three men smiled, but a psychical shudder passed through them.
For they could no longer stand in human erectness on this little
round earth. A breath of the dancer could blow them down into the
immeasurable depths of the cosmos.

And Christian saw that Denis, fighting with an impulse, regarded
him. Suddenly the Englishman came up to him and held out his hand.
And Christian took the hand of his victorious rival, and knew in his
secretest mind that an ultimate advantage was his. For between Eva’s
face and the smudged globe he seemed to see a ghostly little figure
which charmed her with its glance and which was a tiny image of
himself--Eidolon.

They planned that summer to return to the manor and hunt the deer, as
was the custom of the gentlemen of that region. But when summer came
all things had changed, and Denis had glided from the smooth sphere of
earth into the depth.


XIV

One day in London Crammon came to Christian, sat down affectionately
beside him, and said: “I am leaving.”

“Where are you going?” Christian asked in surprise.

“North, to fish salmon,” Crammon replied. “I’ll join you later or you
can join me.”

“But why go at all?”

“Because I’ll go straight to the dogs if I have to see this woman any
longer without possessing her. That’s all.”

Christian looked at Crammon with a flame in his eyes, and checked a
gesture of angry jealousy. Then his face assumed its expression of
friendly mockery again.

So Crammon departed.

Eva Sorel became the undisputed queen of the London season. Her name
was everywhere. The women wore hats à la Eva Sorel, the men cravats in
her favourite colours. She threw into the shade the most sought-after
celebrities of the day--including the Negro bruiser, Jackson. Fame came
to her in full draughts, and gold by the pailfuls.


XV

May was very hot in London that year. Denis and Christian planned
a night’s pleasure on the Thames. They rented a steam yacht named
“Aldebaran,” ordered an exquisite meal on board, and Denis sent out
invitations to his friends.

Fourteen members of his set joined the party. The yacht lay near the
houses of Parliament, and shortly before midnight the guests appeared
in evening dress. The son of the Russian ambassador was among them, the
Honourable James Wheely, whose brother was in the ministry, Lord and
Lady Westmoreland, Eva Sorel, Prince Wiguniewski, and others.

On the stroke of twelve the “Aldebaran” started out, and the small
orchestra of well-chosen artists began to play.

When the yacht on its way upstream had reached the railway bridge of
Battersea, there became visible on the left bank in the dim light of
the street lamps an innumerable throng of men and women, close-packed,
head by head, thousands upon thousands.

They were strikers from the docks. Why they stood here, so silent and
so menacing in their silence, was known to no one on board. Perhaps it
was a demonstration of some sort.

Denis, who had had a good deal of champagne, went to the railing, and
in his recklessness shouted three cheers across the river. No sound
answered him. The human mass stood like a wall, and in the sombre faces
that turned toward the gleam of the yacht’s light no muscle moved.

Then Denis said to Christian, who had joined him: “Let’s swim across.
Whoever reaches shore first is victor of the race, and must ask those
people what they are waiting for and why they don’t go home at this
hour of the night.”

“Swim over to _them_?” Christian shook his head. He was asked to touch
slimy worms with his hands and pretend they were trophies.

“Then I’ll do it alone!” Denis exclaimed, and threw his coat and
waistcoat down on the deck.

He was known to be an admirable swimmer. The company therefore took
his notion as one of the bizarre pranks for which he was known. Only
Eva tried to restrain him. She approached him and laid her hand on his
arm. In vain. He was quite ready to jump, when the captain grasped his
shoulder and begged him to desist, since the river, despite its calm
appearance, had a strong undercurrent. But Denis eluded him, ran to the
promenade deck, and in another moment his slender body flew into the
black water.

No one had a presentiment of disaster. The swimmer advanced with
powerful strokes. The watchers on board were sure that he would easily
reach the Chelsea shore. But suddenly, in the bright radiance of a
searchlight from shore, they saw him throw up his arms above his head.
At the same moment he cried piercingly for help. Without hesitation
a member of the little orchestra, a cellist, sprang overboard in all
his garments to help the drowning man. But the current caused by the
ebbtide was very powerful, and both Denis and the musician were whirled
onward by it, and disappeared in the inky waves.

Suddenly the confusion caused by these happenings lifted from
Christian’s mind, and before any could restrain him, he was in the
water. He heard a cry, and knew that it came from Eva’s lips. The
ladies and gentlemen on board scurried helplessly to and fro.

Christian could no longer make out the forms of the other two. The
water seemed to bank itself against him and hinder his movements. A
sudden weakness took possession of him, but he felt no fear. Raising
his head he saw the silent masses of the workers, men and women with
such expressions as he had never seen. Although the glance which he
directed toward them was but a momentary one, he felt almost sure that
their sombre earnestness of gaze was fixed on him, and that these
thousands and thousands were waiting for him, and for him alone. His
weakness increased. It seemed to arise from his heart, which grew
heavier and heavier. At that moment a life-boat reached him.

At three o’clock in the morning, in the earliest dawn, the bodies
of Denis and the musician were found jammed between two beams near
the arches of a bridge. Now they lay on deck and Christian could
contemplate them. The guests had left the ship. Eva, too, had gone. She
had been deeply shaken, and Prince Wiguniewski had accompanied her home.

The sailors had gone to their bunks. The deck was empty, and Christian
sat alone with the two dead men.

The sun arose. The waters of the river began to glow. The pavements of
the desolate streets, the walls and the windows of the houses flushed
with the red of dawn. Sea-gulls circled about the smokestack.

Christian sat alone with the dead men. He was huddled in an old coat
which the captain had thrown around his shoulders. Steadily he gazed
upon the faces of the dead. They were swollen and ugly.


XVI

North of Loch Lomond, Christian and Crammon wandered about shooting
snipes and wild ducks. The land was rough and wild; always within their
hearing thundered the sea; storm-harried masses of cloud raced across
the sky.

“My father will be far from pleased,” said Christian. “I’ve spent two
hundred and eighty thousand marks in the last ten months.”

“Your mother will persuade him to bear it,” Crammon answered. “Anyhow,
you’re of age. You can use several times that much without any one
hindering you.”

Christian threw back his head, and drew the salty air deep into his
lungs. “I wonder what little Letitia is doing,” he said.

“I think of the child myself at times. She shouldn’t be left entirely
to that old schemer,” Crammon replied.

Her kiss no longer burned on Christian’s lips, for other flames had
touched them since. Like laughing _putti_ in a painting, the lovely
faces fluttered about him. Many of them, to be sure, were laughing now
no more.

In a dark gown, emerging from between two white columns, Eva had taken
leave of him. He seemed to see her still--the brunette pallor of her
face, her inexpressibly slender hand, the most eloquent hand in the
world.

Jestingly and familiarly she had spoken to him in the language of her
German homeland, which seemed more piercingly sweet and melodious in
her mouth than in any other’s.

“Where are you going, Eidolon?” she had asked carelessly.

He had answered with a gesture of uncertainty. He evidently thought
that his going or coming was indifferent to her.

“It isn’t nice of you to go without asking leave,” she said, and put
her hands on his shoulders. “But perhaps it is just as well. You
confuse me. I am beginning to think of you, and I don’t want to do
that.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t. Why do you need reasons?”

The dead and swollen face of Denis Lay rose up before them, and they
both saw it in the empty air.

After a little he had dared to ask: “When shall we meet again?”

“It depends on you,” she had answered. “Always let me know where you
are, so that I can send for you. Of course, it’s nonsense, and I won’t.
But it might just happen that in some whim I may want you and none
other. Only you must learn----” She stopped and smiled.

“What, what must I learn?”

“Ask your friend Crammon. He’ll teach you.” After these words she had
left him.

The sea roared like a herd of steers. Christian stopped and turned to
Crammon. “Listen, Bernard, there’s a matter that comes back curiously
into my mind. When I last talked to Eva she said there was something I
was to learn before I could see her again. And when I asked after her
meaning, she said that you could give me a hint. What is it? What am I
to learn?”

Crammon answered seriously: “You see, my boy, these things are rather
complicated. Some people like their steak overdone, others almost raw,
most people medium. Well, if you don’t know a certain person’s taste
and serve the steak the way you yourself prefer it, you risk making a
blunder and looking like a fool. People are far from simple.”

“I don’t understand you, Bernard.”

“Doesn’t matter a bit, old chap! Don’t bother your handsome head about
it. Let’s go on. This damned country makes me melancholy.”

They went on. But there was an unknown sadness in Christian’s heart.



AN OWL ON EVERY POST


I

Letitia felt vague longings.

She accompanied her aunt, the countess, to the south of Switzerland,
and loitered in wonder at the foot of blue glaciers; she lay on the
shore of Lake Geneva, dreaming or reading poetry. When she appeared
smiling on the promenade, admiring glances were all about her.
Enthusiastically conscious of her youth and of her emotional wealth,
she enjoyed the day and the evening as each came, pictures and books,
fragrances and tones. But her longings did not cease.

Many came and spoke to her of love--some frankly and some by
implication. And she too was full of love--not for him who spoke, but
for his words, expressions, presages. If a delighted glance met hers,
it delighted her. And she lent her ear with equal patience to wooers of
twenty or of sixty.

But her yearnings were not assuaged.

Her aunt, the countess, said: “Have nothing to do with aristocrats,
my dear. They are uncultivated and full of false pride. They don’t
know the difference between a woman and a horse. They would nail your
young heart to a family tree, and if you don’t appreciate that favour
sufficiently, they stamp you as déclassée for life. If they have no
money they are too stupid to earn any; if they have it they don’t know
how to spend it sensibly. Have no dealings with them. They’re not quite
human.”

The countess’ experiences with the aristocracy had been very bitter.
“You can imagine, my dear,” she said, “that I was hard pressed in my
time to be forced to say these things now.”

Letitia sat on the edge of her bed and regarded her silk stocking,
which had a little hole in it, and still felt the same longing.

Judith wrote her: “We expect you and the countess so soon as we are
settled in our new house near Frankfort. It’s a kind of fairy palace
that papa has built us, and it’s to be the family seat hereafter.
It’s situated in the forest of Schwanheim, and is only ten minutes by
motor from the city. Everybody who has seen it is mad about it. Felix
Imhof says it reminds him of the palace of the Minotaur. There are
thirty-four guest-rooms, a gallery fifty metres long with niches and
columns, and a library that’s been modelled after the cupola of St.
Peter’s at Rome. There are twenty thousand perfectly new books in it.
Who’s to read them all?”

“I love the thought of them,” said Letitia, and pressed her hand
against her heart.

She had had a golden charm made in the likeness of a tiny toad. She did
not wear it about her neck, but kept it in a little leathern case, from
which she often took it, and brooded over it lovingly.

In Schwetzingen she had met a young Argentinian of German descent.
He was studying law at Heidelberg, but he confessed to her frankly
that he had come to Europe to get him a German wife. He gave her this
information at noon. At night he gave her to understand that in her he
had met his goal.

His name was Stephen Gunderam. His skin was olive, his eyes glowing,
his hair coal black and parted in the middle. Letitia was fascinated
by his person, the countess by the rumours of his wealth. She made
inquiries, and discovered that the rumours had not been exaggerated.
The lands of the Gunderams on the Rio Plata were more extensive than
the Duchy of Baden.

“Now, sweetheart, there’s a husband for you!” said the countess. But
when she considered that she would have to part with Letitia, she
began to cry, and lost her appetite for a whole forenoon.

Stephen Gunderam told them about his far, strange country, about his
parents, brothers, servants, herds, houses. He declared that the bride
he brought home would be a queen. He was so strong that he could bend a
horse-shoe. But he was afraid of spiders, believed in evil omens, and
suffered from frequent headaches. At such times he would lie in bed,
and drink warm beer mixed with milk and the yolk of eggs. This was a
remedy which an old mulatto woman had once given him.

Letitia barely listened. She was reading:

    “And have you seen an inmost dream
    Fled from you and denied?
    Then gaze into the flowing stream,
    Where all things change and glide.”

“You really must hurry, darling,” the countess admonished her again.

But Letitia was so full of longing.


II

In a city on the Rhine, Christian and Crammon were delayed by an
accident. Something had happened to the motor of their car, and the
chauffeur needed a whole day for repairs.

It was a beautiful evening of September, so they left the city streets
and wandered quietly along the bank of the river. When darkness fell,
they drifted by chance into a beer-garden near the water. The tables
and benches, rammed firmly into the earth, stood among trees full
of foliage, and were occupied by several hundred people--tradesmen,
workingmen, and students.

“Let us rest a while and watch the people,” said Crammon. And near the
entrance they found a table with two vacant seats. A bar-maid placed
two pitchers of beer before them.

Under the trees the air had something subterranean about it, for it
was filled with the odour of the exudations of so many people. The few
lamps had iridescent rings of smoke about them. At the adjoining table
sat students with their red caps and other fraternity insignia. They
had fat, puffed-out faces and insolent voices. One of them hit the
table three times with his stick. Then they began to sing.

Crammon opened his eyes very wide, and his lips twitched mockingly.
He said: “That’s my notion of the way wild Indians act--Sioux or
Iroquois.” Christian did not answer. He kept his arms quite close to
his body, and his shoulders drawn up a little. There was a good deal of
noise at all the tables, and, after a while, Christian said: “Do let us
go. I’m not comfortable here.”

“Ah, but my dear boy, this is the great common people!” Crammon
instructed him with a mixture of arrogance and mockery. “Thus do they
sing and drink and--smell. ‘And calmly flows the Rhine.’ Your health,
your Highness!” He always called Christian that among strangers, and
was delighted when those who overheard showed a respectful curiosity.
As a matter of fact, several of the men at their table looked at them
in some consternation, and then whispered among themselves.

A young girl with blond braids of hair wreathed about her head
had entered the garden. She stopped near the entrance, and looked
searchingly from table to table. The students laughed, and one called
out to her. She hesitated shyly. Yet she went up to him. “Whom are you
looking for, pretty maiden?” a freshman asked. The girl did not answer.
“Hide in the pitcher for your forwardness,” a senior cried. “It is for
me to ask.” The freshman grinned, and took a long draught of beer.
“What do you desire, little maiden?” the senior asked in a beery voice.
“Have you come to fetch your father, who clings too lovingly to his
jug?” The girl blushed and nodded. She was asked to give her name, and
said it was Katherine Zöllner. Her father, she said, was a boatman.
She spoke softly, yet so that Christian and Crammon understood what she
said. Her father was due to join his ship for Cologne at three o’clock
in the morning. “For Cologne,” the senior growled. “Give me a kiss, and
I’ll find your father for you.”

The girl trembled and recoiled. But the fraternity approved of the
demand, and roared applause. “Don’t pretend!” the senior said. He got
up, put his arms roughly about her waist, and, despite her resistance
and fright, he kissed her.

“Me, too! Me, too!” The cries arose from the others. The girl had
already been passed on to a second, a third snatched her, then a
fourth, fifth, sixth. She could not cry out. She could scarcely
breathe. Her resistance grew feebler, the roaring and the laughter
louder. The fellows at the neighbouring table grew envious. A fat man
with warts on his face called out: “Now you come to us!” His comrades
brayed with laughter. When the last student let her go, it was this
man who grasped her, kissed her and threw her toward his neighbour.
More and more men arose, stretched out their arms, and demanded the
defenceless victim. Nothing happened except that they kissed her. Yet
there spread through the crowd a wildness of lust, so that even the
women screeched and cried out. The students, in the meantime, proud of
their little game, raised their rough voices and sang a foolish song.

The body of the girl, now an unresisting and almost lifeless thing,
was whirled from arm to arm. Christian and Crammon had arisen. They
gazed into the quivering throng under the trees, heard the shrieks,
the cries, the laughter, saw the girl, now far away, and the hands
stretched out after her, and her face with eyes that were now closed,
now open again in horror. At last one was found who had compassion.
He was a young workingman, and he hit the man who was just kissing
the girl square between the eyes. Two others then attacked him, and
there ensued a rough fight, while the girl with her little remaining
strength reeled toward the fence where the ground was grassy. Her hair
fell loose, her blue bodice was torn and showed her naked bosom, her
face was covered with ugly bruises. She tried to keep erect, groped
about, but fell. A few thoughtful people now came up, helped her, and
asked each other what was to be done.

Christian and Crammon followed the shore of the river back to the city.
The students had begun a new ditty, that sounded discordantly through
the night, until the distance gradually silenced it.


III

In the middle of the night Christian left his couch, slipped into a
silk dressing gown and entered Crammon’s room. He lit a candle, sat
down by the side of Crammon’s bed, and shook his sleeping friend by the
shoulder. Crammon battled with sleep itself, and Christian turned his
head away in order not to see the struggling, primitive face.

At last, after much grunting and groaning, Crammon opened his eyes.
“What do you want?” he asked angrily. “Are you practising to play a
ghost?”

“I would like to ask you something, Bernard,” Christian said.

This enraged Crammon all the more. “It is crazy to rob a man of his
well-deserved rest. Are you moonstruck, or have you a bellyache? Ask
what you want to ask, but hurry!”

“Do you believe I do right to live as I do?” asked Christian. “Be quite
honest for once, and answer me.”

“There is no doubt that he’s moonstruck!” Crammon was truly horrified.
“His mind is wandering. We must summon a physician.” He half-rose, and
fumbled for the electric button.

“Don’t do that!” Christian restrained him mildly, and smiled a vexed
smile. “Try to consider what I’ve said. Rub your eyes if you aren’t
quite awake yet. There’s time enough for sleep. But I am asking you,
Bernard, for your quite sincere opinion: Do you think I am right in
living as I do?”

“My dear Christian Wahnschaffe, if you can tell me by what process this
craze has----”

“Don’t jest, Bernard,” Christian interrupted him, frowning. “This is no
time for a jest. Do you think that I should have remained with Eva?”

“Nonsense,” said Crammon. “She would have betrayed you; she would have
betrayed me. She would betray the emperor, and yet stand guiltless
in the sight of God. You can’t reckon with her, you can’t really be
yourself with her. She was fashioned for the eye alone. Even that
little story of the muleteer of Cordova was a trick. Be content, and
let me sleep.”

Christian replied thoughtfully. “I don’t understand what you say, and
you don’t understand what I mean. Since I left her I feel sometimes
as though I had grown hunchbacked. Jesting aside, Bernard, I get up
sometimes and a terror comes over me. I stretch myself out. I know that
I’m straight, and yet I feel as though I were hunchbacked.”

“Completely out of his head,” Crammon murmured.

“And now tell me another thing, Bernard,” Christian continued,
undeflected by his friend, and his clear, open face assumed an icy
expression. “Should we not have helped the boatman’s daughter, you
and I? Or should I not have done so, if you did not care to take the
trouble? Tell me that!”

“The devil take it! What boatman’s daughter?”

“Are you so forgetful? The girl in the beer-garden. She even gave her
name--Katherine Zöllner. Don’t you remember? And how those ruffians
treated her?”

“Was I to risk my skin for a boatman’s daughter?” Crammon asked,
enraged. “People of that sort may take their pleasures in their own
fashion. What is it to you or to me? Did you try to hold back the paws
of the wild beasts that tore up Adda Castillo? And that was a good deal
worse than being kissed by a hundred greasy snouts. Don’t be an idiot,
my dear fellow, and let me sleep!”

“I am curious,” said Christian.

“Curious? What about?”

“I’m going to the house where she lives and see how she is. I want you
to go along. Get up.”

Crammon opened his mouth very wide in his astonishment. “Go now?” he
stammered, “at night? Are you quite crazy?”

“I knew you’d scold,” Christian said softly and with a dreamy smile.
“But that curiosity torments me so that I’ve simply been turning from
side to side in bed.” And in truth his face had an expression of
expectation and of subtle desire that was new to Crammon. He went on:
“I want to see what she is doing, what her life is like, what her room
looks like. One should know about all that. We are hopelessly ignorant
about people of that kind. Do please come on, Bernard.” His tone was
almost cajoling.

Crammon sighed. He waxed indignant. He protested the frailty of
his health and the necessity of sleep for his wearied mind. Since
Christian, however, opposed to all these objections an insensitive
silence, and since Crammon did not want to see him visit a dangerous
and disreputable quarter of the city alone by night, he finally
submitted, and, grumbling still, arose from his bed.

Christian bathed and dressed with his accustomed care. Before leaving
the hotel they consulted a directory, and found the address of the
boatman. They hired a cab. It was half-past four in the morning when
their cab reached the hut beside the river bank. There was light in the
windows.

Crammon was still at a loss to comprehend. With the rusty bell-pull
in his hand, his confused and questioning eyes sought Christian once
more. But the latter paid no attention to his friend. A care-worn,
under-nourished woman appeared at the door. Crammon was forced to
speak, and, with inner vexation, said that they had come to ask after
her daughter. The woman, who immediately imagined that her daughter had
had secret affairs with rich gentlemen, stepped aside and let the two
pass her.


IV

What Crammon saw and what Christian saw was not the same thing.

Crammon saw a dimly lit room, with old chests of drawers that were
smoke-stained, with a bed and the girl Katherine on it covered by the
coarse, red-checked linen, with a cradle in which lay a whining baby.
He saw clothes drying by the oven, the boatman sitting and eating
potato soup, a bench on which a lad was sleeping, and many other
unclean, ugly things.

To Christian it was like a strange dream of falling. He, too, saw
the boatman and the poor woman and the girl, whose glassy eyes and
convulsed features brought home to him at once the reason for his
visit. But he saw these things as one sees pictures while gliding down
a shaft, pictures that recur at intervals, but are displaced by others
that slip in between them.

Thus he saw Eva Sorel feeding a walnut to one of her little monkeys.

The boatman got up and took off his cap. And suddenly Christian saw
Denis Lay and Lord Westmoreland giving each other their white-gloved
hands. It was an insignificant thing; but his vision of it was glaring
and incisive.

Now the lad on the bench awakened, stretched himself, sat up with a
start, and gave a sombre stare of astonishment at the strangers. The
girl, ill from her horrible experience, turned her head away, and
pulled the coverlet up to her chin. And suddenly Christian saw the
charming vision of Letitia, playing at ball in the great room crossed
by the gleams of lightning; and each thing that he saw had a relation
to some other thing in that other world.

The curiosity that had brought him hither still kept that unwonted
smile on his face. But he looked helplessly at Crammon now, and he was
sensitive to the indecency of his silent, stupid presence there, the
purposelessness and folly of the whole nocturnal excursion. It seemed
almost intolerable to him now to stay longer in this low-ceiled room,
amid the odour of ill-washed bodies, and clothing that had been worn
for years.

Up to the last moment he had imagined that he would talk to the girl.
But it was precisely this that he found it impossible to do. He did
not even dare to turn his head to where she lay. Yet he was acutely
conscious of her as he had seen her out there, reeling from the tables
with loose hair and torn bodice.

When he thought over the words that he might say to her, each seemed
strikingly superfluous and vulgar.

The boatman looked at him, the woman looked at him. The lad stared
with malevolently squinting eyes, as though he planned a personal
attack. And now there emerged also an old man from behind a partition
where potatoes were stored, and regarded him with dim glances. In the
embarrassment caused him by all these eyes, he advanced a few steps
toward Katherine’s bed. She had turned her face to the wall, and did
not move. In his sudden angry despair he put his hands into pocket
after pocket, found nothing, hardly knew indeed what he sought, felt
the diamond ring on his finger which was a gift of his mother, hastily
drew it off, and threw it on the bed, into the very hands of the girl.
It was the act of one who desired to buy absolution.

Katherine moved her head, saw the magnificent ring, and contempt and
astonishment, delight and fear, struggled in her face. She looked
up, and then down again, and grew pale. Her face was not beautiful,
and it was disfigured by the emotions she had experienced during the
past hours. An impulse that was utterly mysterious to himself caused
Christian suddenly to laugh cheerfully and heartily. At the same time
he turned with a commanding gesture to Crammon, demanding that they go.

Crammon had meantime determined to ease the painfulness of the
situation in a practical way. He addressed a few words to the boatman,
who answered in the dialect of Cologne. Then he drew forth two bank
notes and laid them on the table. The boatman looked at the money; the
hands of the woman were stretched out after it. Crammon walked to the
door.

Five minutes after they had entered the house, they left it again. And
they left it swiftly, like men fleeing.

While the cab drove over the rough stones of the street, Crammon said
peevishly: “You owe your paymaster a hundred marks. I won’t charge you
for anything except the money. You can’t, I suppose, give me back my
lost sleep.”

“I shall give you for it the Chinese apple of amber-coloured ivory
about which you were so enthusiastic at Amsterdam,” Christian replied.

“Do that, my son,” Crammon said, “and do it quickly, or my rage over
this whole business will make me ill.”

When he got up at noon thoroughly rested, Crammon reflected on the
incident with that philosophic mildness of which, under the right
circumstances, he was capable. After they had had a delightful
breakfast, he filled his short pipe, and discoursed: “Such
extravagances in the style of Haroun al Rashid get you nowhere, my dear
boy. You can’t fathom those sombre depths. Why hunt in unknown lands,
when the familiar ones still have so many charms? Even your humble
servant who sits opposite you is still a very treasure of riddles and
mysteries. That is what a wise poet has strikingly expressed:

    “What know we of the stars, of water or of wind?
    What of the dead, to whom the earth is kind?
      Of father and mother, or of child and wife?
    Our hearts are hungry, but our eyes are blind.”

Christian smiled coolly. Verses, he thought contemptuously, verses....


V

When they reached the magnificent structure in the forest of
Schwanheim, they found a great restlessness there and a crowd of
guests. Letitia had not yet arrived; Felix Imhof was expected hourly;
purveyors and postmen came and went uninterruptedly. The place hummed
like a hive.

Frau Wahnschaffe greeted Christian with restraint and dignity, although
her joy gave her eyes a phosphorescent gleam. Judith looked exhausted,
and paid little attention to her brother. But one evening she suddenly
rushed into his arms, with a strange wild cry that betrayed the
impatience and the hidden desires that had so long preyed on the cold
and ambitious girl.

Christian felt the cry like a discord, and disengaged himself.

He and Crammon went hunting or took trips to the neighbouring cities.
Nothing held Christian anywhere. He wanted always to go farther or
elsewhere. His very eyes became restless. When they walked through the
streets, he glanced surreptitiously into the windows of apartments and
into the halls of houses.

One night they sat in a wine cellar at Mainz, drinking a vintage
that was thirty years old and had a rare bouquet. Crammon, who was
a connoisseur through and through, kept filling his glass with an
enchanted air. “It’s sublime,” he said, and began eating his caviare
sandwich, “simply sublime. These are the realities of life. Here are
my altars, my books of devotion, my relics, the scenes of my silent
prayers. The immortal soul is at rest, and the lofty and unapproachable
lies in the dust behind me.”

“Talk like a decent man,” said Christian.

But Crammon, who felt the ecstasy of wine, was not to be deflected. “I
have drunk the draught of earthly delight. I have done it, O friend and
brother, in huts and palaces, North and South, on sea and land. Only
the final fulfilment was denied me. O Ariel, why did you cast me forth?”

He sighed, and drew from his inner pocket a tiny album in a precious
binding. He always had it with him, for it contained twelve exquisite
photographs of the dancer, Eva Sorel. “She is like a boy,” he said,
wholly absorbed in the pictures, “a slender, swift, unapproachable
boy. She stands on the mystic boundary line of the sexes; she is that
equivocal and twofold thing that maddens men if they but think of flesh
and blood. Elusive she is as a lizard, and chill in love as an Amazon.
Do you not feel a touch of horror, Christian? Does not a cold ichor
trickle through your veins, when you imagine her in your arms, breast
to breast? I feel that horror! For there would be something of the
perverse in it--something of an unnatural violation. He who has touched
her lips is lost. We saw that for ourselves.”

Christian suddenly felt a yearning to be alone in a forest, in a dark
and silent forest. He did feel a sense of horror, but in a way utterly
alien to Crammon’s thought. He looked at the older man, and it was
hard for him to comprehend that there, opposite him, sat his familiar
friend, whose face and form he had seen a thousand times unreflectively.

Crammon, contemplating the photograph on which Eva appeared dancing
with a basket of grapes, began again: “Sweetest Ariel, they are all
harlots, all, all, all, whether shameless and wild or fearful and
secretive: you alone are pure--a vestal, a half-ghost, a weaver of
silk, like the spider, who conquers the air upon her half-spun web. Let
us drink, O friend! We are made of dirt, and must be medicined by fire!”

He drained his glass, rested his head upon his hand, and sank into
melancholy contemplation.

Suddenly Christian said: “Bernard, I believe that we must part.”

Crammon stared at him, as though he had not heard right.

“I believe that we must part,” Christian repeated softly and with an
indistinct smile. “I fear that we are no longer suited to each other.
You must go your ways, and I shall go mine.”

Crammon’s face became dark red with astonishment and rage. He brought
his fist down on the table and gritted his teeth. “What do you mean? Do
you think you can send me packing as though I were a servant? Me?” He
arose, took his hat and coat, and went.

Christian sat there for long with his thoughts. The indistinct smile
remained on his lips.

When Christian, on awakening next day, rang for his valet, Crammon
entered the room in the man’s stead and made a deep bow. Over his
left arm he had Christian’s garments, in his right hand his boots. He
said good-morning quite in the valet’s tone, laid the clothes on a
chair, set the boots on the floor, asked whether the bath was to be
prepared at once, and what Herr Wahnschaffe desired for breakfast. And
he did all this with complete seriousness, with an almost melancholy
seriousness, and with a certain charm within the rôle he was assuming
that could not fail to be pleasing.

Christian was forced to laugh. He held out his hand to Crammon. But
the latter, refusing to abandon his acting, drew back, and bowed in
embarrassment. He pulled the curtains aside, opened the windows, spread
the fresh shirt, the socks, the cravat, and went, only to return a
little later with the breakfast tray. After he had set the table and
put the plates and cups in order, he stood with heels touching and
head gently inclined forward. Finally, when Christian laughed again,
the expression of his features altered, and he asked half-mockingly,
half-defiantly: “Are you still prepared to assert that you can get
along without me?”

“It’s impossible to close accounts with you, dear Bernard,” Christian
answered.

“It is not one of my habits to leave the table when only the soup has
been served,” Crammon said. “When my time comes I trundle myself off
without urging. But I don’t permit myself to be sent away.”

“Stay, Bernard,” Christian answered. He was shamed by his friend. “Only
stay!” And their hands clasped.

But it almost seemed to Christian that his friend had really in a sense
become a servant, that he was one now, at all events, toward whom one
no longer had the duty of intimate openness, with whom no inner bond
united one--a companion merely.

From that time on, jests and superficial persiflage were dominant
in their conversations, and Crammon either did not see or failed
very intentionally to observe that his relations with Christian had
undergone a fundamental change.


VI

The arrival of the Argentinian caused a commotion among the guests of
the house of Wahnschaffe. He had exotic habits. He pressed the hands
of the ladies to whom he was presented with such vigour that they
suppressed a cry of pain. Whenever he came down the stairs he stopped
a few steps from the bottom, swung himself over the balustrade like an
acrobat, and went on as though this were the most natural thing in the
world. He had presented the countess with a Pekingese dog, and whenever
he met the animal he tweaked its ear so that it howled horribly. And
he did not do that merrily or with a smile, but in a dry, businesslike
manner.

Among the numerous trunks that he brought with him, one was arranged
in the form of a travelling pharmacy. Screwed down tightly in
neat compartments there were all possible mixtures, powders, and
medicaments; there were little boxes, tubes, jars, and glasses. If any
one complained of indisposition, he at once pointed out the appropriate
remedy in his trunk, and recommended it urgently.

Felix Imhof had taken an enthusiastic fancy to him. Whenever he could
get hold of him, he took him aside, and questioned him regarding his
country, his plans and undertakings, his outer and his inner life.

Judith, who was jealous, resented this bitterly. She made scenes for
the benefit of Felix, and reproached Letitia for her failure to absorb
Stephen Gunderam’s attention.

Letitia was astonished, and her eyes grew large. With innocent coquetry
she asked: “What can I do about it?”

Judith’s answer was cynical. “One must study to please the men.”

She hated the Argentinian. Yet when she was alone with him she sought
to ensnare him. Had it been possible to alienate him from Letitia, she
would have done so out of sheer insatiableness.

Her eyes glittered with a constant and secret desire. She went to the
theatre with Imhof, Letitia, and Stephen to see Edgar Lorm in “The
Jewess of Toledo.” The applause which was so richly given to the actor
stirred the very depth of her soul and filled it with more piercing
desire. But whether she desired the man or the artist, his art or his
fame, she was herself unable to tell.

She waited impatiently for Crammon, of whose friendship with Lorm she
had heard. He was to bring the actor to the house with him. She was
accustomed to have all men come after whom she cast her hook. They
usually bit, were served up, and then enjoyed in proportion to their
excellence of flavour. The household consumption of people was large.

But Crammon and Christian did not return until Lorm’s visit to
Frankfort was over. So Judith fell into an evil mood, and tormented all
about her without reason. Had her wish been fulfilled, her flickering
soul, that needed ever new nourishment, might have been calmed. Now she
buried herself stubbornly in the thought of what had passed by her.


VII

Crammon and Christian had been spending a week with Clementine and
Franz Lothar von Westernach in Styria. Clementine had summoned Crammon
for the sake of her brother, who had recently returned from a stay in
Hungary with a deeply shaken mind.

Crammon and Franz Lothar were very old friends. The latter’s profession
of diplomacy had made the frank and flexible man reserved and
difficult. He took his profession seriously, although he did not love
it. A hypochondriacal state of the nerves had developed in him, even in
his youth.

Christian’s sympathy went out to him in his present state. He felt
tempted to question the man who sat so still and with a dim stare in
his eyes. Clementine, in her empty chattering manner, gave Crammon
directions for his behaviour, at which he shrugged his shoulders.

She said that she had written to her cousin, Baron Ebergeny, on whose
estate in Syrmia Franz had been a guest. But the baron, who was half a
peasant, had been able to give her no explanation of any real import.
He had merely pointed out that he and Franz Lothar, on one of the last
days of the latter’s presence, had witnessed the burning of a barn at
Orasje, a neighbouring village, during which many people had lost their
lives.

No information was to be obtained from Franz Lothar himself. He
was steadily silent. His sister redoubled her care, but his sombre
reticence only increased. Perhaps Crammon was capable of some tone,
some glance, that pierced and melted his petrified soul. One evening,
at all events, the unexpected happened. Crammon learnt that the burning
of the barn was the real cause of his morbid melancholy.

According to her custom, Clementine had gone to bed early. Christian,
Crammon, and Franz Lothar sat silently together. Suddenly--without any
external impetus--Franz covered his face with his hands, and deep sobs
came from his breast. Crammon sought to soothe him. He stroked his hair
and grasped his hands. In vain. The sobbing became a convulsion that
shook the man’s body violently.

Christian sat without moving. A bitterness rose in his throat, for
there came to him with unexpected power a sense of the essential
reality of the spiritual pain that was being uttered here.

The convulsion ceased as suddenly as it had begun. Franz Lothar arose,
walked up and down with dragging footsteps, and said: “You shall hear
how it was.” Thereupon he sat down and told them.

In the village of Orasje a dance had been planned. No hall was
available, and so the large, well-boarded barn of a peasant was
prepared. Numerous lamps were hung up, and the wooden walls adorned
with flowers and foliage. According to a local custom, the magnates on
all the neighbouring estates and their families received invitations to
attend the festivity. A mounted messenger delivered these solemnly by
word of mouth.

Franz Lothar begged his brother to take him to the peasants’ ball.
He had long heard stories in praise of the picturesqueness of these
feasts: the snow-white garments of the men, the strong and varied
colours of the women’s, the national dances, the primitive music. There
was a promise in all these, both of pleasure and of a knowledge of new
folk-ways.

They intended to drive over at a late hour when the dancing had already
begun. Two young countesses and the latters’ brother, all members of
their circle, planned to join them. But in the end the others went
first, for the young ladies did not want to miss any of the dancing.
Franz Lothar had long and cordially admired the Countess Irene, who was
the older of the two.

Several days before the ball, however, a quarrel had broken out
between the youths and maidens of Orasje. On the way to church, a
lad, whom a seventeen-year-old beauty had given too rude an evidence
of her dislike, had put a live mouse on her naked shoulder. The girl
ran crying to her companions, and they sent an envoy to the youths,
demanding that the guilty one apologize.

The demand was refused. There was laughter and teasing. But they
insisted on this punishment, although they were repeated their demand
in a more drastic form. When it was refused a second time they
determined to invite to their ball the young men of Gradiste, between
whom and those of Orasje there was a feud of many years’ standing.
They knew the insult they were inflicting on the youths of their own
village. But they insisted on this punishment, although they were
warned even by their fathers and mothers, and by loud and silent
threats which should have inspired them with fear.

The youths of Gradiste were, of course, loudly triumphant over their
cheap victory. On the evening of the dance they appeared without
exception, handsomely dressed, and accompanied by their own village
band. Of the youths of Orasje not one was to be seen. In the twilight
they passed in ghostly procession through the streets of the village,
and were then seen no more.

The elders and the married folk of Orasje sat at tables in their yards
and gardens, and chatted. But they were not as care-free as on other
festive evenings, for they felt the vengeful mood of their sons, and
feared it. They drank their wine and listened to the music. In the barn
over three hundred young people were assembled. The air was sultry, and
the dancers were bathed in sweat. Suddenly, while they were dancing a
Czarda, the two great doors of the barn were simultaneously slammed to
from without. Those who saw it and heard it ceased dancing. And now
a powerful and disturbing noise broke in upon the loud and jubilant
sound of the instruments. It was the sound of hammers, and a sharp and
terror-shaken voice called out: “They are nailing up the doors.”

The music stopped. In a moment the atmosphere had become suffocating.
As though turned to stone, they all stared at the doors. Their blood
seemed to congeal under the terrible blows of the hammers. Loud and
mingled voices came to them from without. The older people there raised
their protesting voices. The voices grew loud and wild, and then rose
to desperate shrieks and howls. Then it began to crackle and hiss. The
blows of the hammers had shaken down a lamp. The petroleum had caught
on fire, and the dry boarding of the floor flared like tinder that
could no longer be extinguished.

All reason and all human restraints fled. In the twinkling of an eye
the three hundred became like wild beasts. With the violence of mania
the youths hurled themselves against the locked doors; but these
had been built of heavy oak, and resisted all exertions. The girls
shrieked madly; and since the smoke and the fumes did not all float
out through the cracks in the walls and through the small, star-shaped
window-holes, the girls drew up their skirts about their heads. Others
threw themselves moaning to the floor; and when they were trodden on by
the others, who surged so madly to and fro, they writhed convulsively,
and stretched out their arms. Soon the dry woodwork had become a mass
of flame. The heat was intolerable. Many tore off their garments, both
youths and maidens, and in the terror and the torment of death, united
in the wild embraces of a sombre ecstasy, and wrung from their doomed
lives an ultimate sting of delight.

These embracing couples Franz Lothar saw later with his own eyes as
lumps of cinders amid the smoking ruins. He arrived with his cousin,
when the whole horror had already taken place. They had seen the
reflection of the flames in the sky from afar, and whipped up their
horses. From the neighbouring villages streamed masses of people. But
they came too late to help. The barn had been burned down within five
minutes, and all within, except five or six, had found their death.

Among the victims was also the Countess Irene, her sister and brother.
Terrible as this was, it added but little to the unspeakable horror
of the whole catastrophe. The image of that place of ruins; the sight
of the smouldering corpses; their odour and the odour of blood and
burned hair and garments; the pied, short-haired village dogs, who
crept with greedy growls about this vast hearth of cooked flesh; the
distorted faces of the suffocated, whose bodies lay untouched amid the
other burned and blackened ones; the loud or silent grief of mothers,
fathers, brothers; the Syrmian night, fume-filled to the starry
sky,--these things rained blow on blow upon the spirit of Franz Lothar,
and caused a black despair to creep into the inmost convolutions of his
brain.

It eased him that he had at last found the release of speech. He sat by
the window, and looked out into the dark.

Crammon, a sinister cloud upon his lined forehead, said: “Only with a
whip can the mob be held in leash. What I regret is the abolition of
torture. The devil take all humanitarian twaddle!” Then he went out and
put his arms about Lothar and kissed him.

But Christian felt a sense of icy chill and rigidness steal over him.

Their departure was set for the next morning. Crammon entered the room
of Christian, who was so lost in thoughts that he did not reply to the
greeting of his friend. “Look here, what’s wrong with you?” Crammon
exclaimed, as he examined him. “Have you looked in the glass?”

Christian had dispensed with his valet on this trip, or the slight
accident could not have happened. The colours of his suit and his
cravat presented an obvious discord.

“I’m rather absent-minded to-day,” Christian said, half-smiling. He
took off the cravat, and replaced it by another. It took him three
times as long as usual. Crammon walked impatiently up and down.


VIII

Confusion seized upon Christian whenever he sought to think about the
condition in which he found himself.

In his breast there was an emptiness which nothing could fill from
without, and about him was a rigid armour that hindered all freedom of
movement. He yearned to fill the emptiness and to burst the armour.

His mother became anxious, and said: “You look peaked, Christian. Is
anything wrong with you?” He assured her that there was nothing. But
she knew better, and inquired of Crammon: “What ails Christian? He is
so still and pale.”

Crammon answered: “Dear lady, that is his style of personality.
Experiences carve his face. Has it not grown nobler and prouder? You
need fear nothing. He follows his road firmly and unwaveringly. And so
long as I am with him, nothing evil can happen to him.”

Frau Wahnschaffe was moved in her faint way, though still in doubt, and
gave him her hand.

Crammon said to Christian: “The countess has made a great catch--a
person from overseas. Quite fitting.”

“Do you like the man?” Christian asked, uncertainly.

“God forbid that I should think evil of him,” Crammon replied,
hypocritically. “He is from so far away, and will go so far away again,
that I cannot but find him congenial. If he takes that child Letitia
with him, he shall be accompanied by my blessings. Whether it will mean
her happiness, that is a matter I refuse to be anxious about. Such
remote distances have, at all events, something calming. The Argentine,
the Rio de la Plata! Dear me, it might just as well be the moon!”

Christian laughed. Yet the figure of Crammon, as it stood there before
him, seemed to dissolve into a mist, and he suppressed what he still
had to say.

Twenty-three of the guest rooms were occupied. People arrived and
left. Scarcely did one begin to recognize a face, when it disappeared
again. Men and women, who had met but yesterday, associated quite
intimately to-day, and said an eternal farewell to-morrow. A certain
Herr von Wedderkampf, a business associate of the elder Wahnschaffe,
had brought his four daughters. Fräulein von Einsiedel arranged to
settle down for the winter, for her parents were in process of being
divorced. Wolfgang, who was spending his vacation at home, had brought
with him three student friends. All these people were in a slightly
exalted mood, made elaborate plans for their amusement, wrote letters
and received them, dined, flirted, played music, were excited and
curious, witty and avid for pleasure, continued to carry on their
worldly affairs from here, and assumed an appearance of friendliness,
innocence, and freedom from care.

Liveried servants ran up and down the stairs, electric bells trilled,
motor car horns tooted, tables were laid, lamps shone, jewels
glittered. Behind one door they flirted, behind another they brewed a
scandal. In the hall with the fair marble columns sat smiling couples.
It was a world thoroughly differentiated from those quite accidental
modern groupings at places where one pays. It was full of a common will
to oblige, of secret understandings, and of social charm.

Letitia had gone with her aunt to spend a week in Munich. She did
not return until the third day after Christian’s arrival. Christian
was glad to see her. Yet he could not bring himself to enter into
conversation with her.


IX

One morning he sat at breakfast with his father. He marvelled how
strange to him was this gentleman with the white, parted hair, with the
elegantly clipped and divided beard and the rosy complexion.

Herr Wahnschaffe treated him with very great courtesy. He inquired
after the social relations that Christian had formed in England,
and commented upon his son’s frugal answers with instructive remarks
concerning men and things. “It is well for Germans to gain ground
there--useful and necessary.”

He discussed the threatening clouds in the political sky, and expressed
his disapproval of Germany’s attitude during the Moroccan crisis.
But Christian remained silent, through want of interest and through
ignorance, and his father became visibly cooler, took up his paper, and
began to read.

What a stranger he is to me, Christian thought, and searched for a
pretext that would let him rise and leave. At that moment Wolfgang came
to the table, and talked about the results of the races at Baden-Baden.
His voice annoyed Christian, and he escaped.

It happened that Judith was sitting in the library and teased him about
Letitia. Then Letitia herself and Crammon entered chatting. Felix
Imhof soon joined them. Letitia took a book, and carefully avoided,
as was clear, looking in Christian’s direction. Then those three left
the room again, and Judith listened with pallor to their retreating
voices, for she had heard Felix pay Letitia a compliment. “Perhaps she
is committing a great folly,” she said. Then she turned to her brother.
“Why are you so silent?” She wrinkled her forehead, and rested her
folded hands on his shoulder. “We are all merry and light hearted here,
and you are so changed. Don’t you like to be among us? Isn’t it lovely
here at home? And if you don’t like it, can’t you go at any time? Why
are you so moody?”

“I hardly know; I am not moody,” Christian replied. “One cannot always
be laughing.”

“You’ll stay until my wedding, won’t you?” Judith continued, and raised
her brows. “I’ll never forgive you if you don’t.” Christian nodded, and
then she said with a friendly urgency, “Why don’t you ever talk to me,
you bear? Ask me something!”

Christian smiled. “Very well, I’ll ask you something,” he said. “Are
you contented, Judith? Is your heart at peace?”

Judith laughed. “That’s asking too much at once! You used not to be so
forthright.” Then she leaned forward, with her elbows on her knees,
and spread out her hands. “We Wahnschaffes can never be contented. All
that we have is too little, for there is always so much that one has
not. I’m afraid I shall be like the fisherman’s wife in the fairy tale.
Or, rather, I’m not afraid but glad at the thought that I’ll send my
fisherman back to the fish in the sea again and again. Then I shall
know, at least, what he is willing to risk.”

Christian regarded his beautiful sister, and heard the temerity of
her words. There was an audacity about her gestures, her words, her
bright, clear voice, and the glow of her eyes. He remembered how he
had sat one evening with Eva Sorel; and she had been as near him as
Judith was now. In silent ecstasy he had looked at Eva’s hands, and she
had raised her left hand and held it against the lamp, and though the
radiance outlined only the more definitely the noble form of the rosy
translucence of her flesh, the dark shadow of the bony structure had
been plainly visible. And Eva had said: “Ah, Eidolon, the kernel knows
nothing of beauty.”

Christian arose and asked almost sadly: “You will know what he risks.
But will that teach you to know what you gain?”

Judith looked up at him in surprise, and her face darkened.


X

One day he entered the sitting-room of his mother, but she was not
there. He approached the door that led to her bedroom, and knocked.
When he received no answer, he opened it. She was not in this room
either. Looking about, he became aware of a brown silk dress trimmed
with lace that belonged to his mother and that had been put on a form.
And for a second he seemed to see her before him, but without a head.
He fell to thinking, and the same thought came to him that he had had
in his father’s presence: What a stranger she is to me! And the dress,
that hid only the wicker form, became an image of his mother, more
recognizable to him than her living body.

For there was about her something impenetrable and inexplicable--the
rigid attitude, the hopeless mien, the dull eye, the rough voice that
had no resonance, her whole joyless character. She, in whose house all
made merry, and whose whole activity and being seemed dedicated to give
others the opportunity of delight, was herself utterly barren of joy.

But she had the most magnificent pearls in Europe. And all men knew
this and esteemed her for it and boasted of it.

Christian’s self-deception went so far, that he was about to talk to
that hollow form more intimately than he would have done to his living
mother. A question leaped to his lips, a tender and cheerful word. Then
he heard her footsteps, and was startled. He turned around, and seemed
to see her double.

She was not surprised at meeting him here. She was rarely surprised at
anything. She sat down on a chair and her eyes were empty.

She discussed Imhof, who had introduced a Jewish friend of his to the
house. She deprecated association with Jews as a practice. She added
that Wahnschaffe--she always called her husband so--agreed with her.

She expressed her disapproval of Judith’s engagement. “Wahnschaffe is
really opposed to this marriage too,” she said, “but it was difficult
to find a pretext to refuse. If Judith sets her heart on anything!
Well, you know her! I am afraid her chief ambition was to get ahead of
her friend Letitia.”

Christian looked up in amazement. His mother did not observe it, and
continued: “With all his good qualities Imhof does not seem reliable.
He is a plunger, and restless and changeable as a weather vane. Of the
ten millions which his foster father left him, five or six are already
lost through speculation and extravagance. What is your judgment of
him?”

“I haven’t really thought about it,” Christian answered. This
conversation was beginning to weary him.

“Then, too, his origin is obscure. He was a foundling. Old Martin
Imhof, whom Wahnschaffe knew, by the way, and who belonged to one of
the first patrician families of Düsseldorf, is said to have adopted
him under peculiar circumstances. He was an old bachelor, and had a
reputation for misanthropy. At last he was quite alone in the world,
and absolutely adored this strange child. Hadn’t you heard about that?”

“Some rumour, yes,” Christian said.

“Well, now tell me something about yourself, my son,” Frau Wahnschaffe
asked, with a changed expression and with a smile of suffering.

But Christian had no answer. His world and his mother’s world--he saw
no bridge between the two. And as the knowledge came to him, another
matter also became clear. And it was this, that there was likewise no
bridge between the world of his conscious life and another that lay
far behind it, misty and menacing, luring and terrible at once, which
he did not understand, nor know, of which he had not even a definite
presage, but which had come to him only as a vision through flashes of
lightning, or as a dream or in a swift touch of horror.

He kissed his mother’s hand, and hastened out.


XI

In spite of a gently persistent rain, he walked with Letitia through
the twilit park. Many times they wandered up and down the path from the
hot-houses to the pavillion, and heard the sound of a piano from the
house. Fräulein von Einsiedel was playing.

At first their conversation was marked by long pauses. Something in
Letitia was beseeching: Take me, take me! Christian understood. He
wore his arrogant smile, but he did not dare to look at her. “I love
music heard from afar,” Letitia said. “Don’t you, Christian?”

He drew his raincoat tighter about him, and replied: “I care little
about music.”

“Then you have a bad heart, or at least a hard one.”

“It may be that I have a bad heart; it is certainly hard.”

Letitia flushed, and asked: “What do you love? I mean what things.
What?” The archness of her expression did not entirely conceal the
seriousness of her question.

“What things I love?” he repeated lingeringly, “I don’t know. Does one
have to love things? One uses them. That is all.”

“Oh, no!” Letitia cried, and her deep voice brought a peculiar
warmth to Christian. “Oh, no! Things exist to be loved. Flowers, for
instance, and stars. One loves them. If I hear a beautiful song or see
a beautiful picture, at once something cries within me: That is mine,
mine!”

“And do you feel that too when a bird suddenly drops down and dies, as
you have seen it happen? Or when a wounded deer dies before you when
you are hunting?” Christian asked, hesitatingly.

Letitia was silent, and looked at him with a touch of fear. The glance
of her eyes was inexpressibly grateful to him. Take me, take me, that
silent voice pleaded with him again. “But those are not things,” she
said softly, “they are living beings.”

His voice was gentler than hitherto when he spoke again: “All things
that are fragrant and glowing, that serve adornment and delight are
yours indeed, Letitia. But what are mine?” He stood still, and asked
again with a look of inner distress which shook Letitia’s soul. Never
had she expected such words or such a tone of him.

Her glance reminded him: you kissed me once! Think of it--you kissed me
once!

“When is your wedding going to be?” he asked, and his lids twitched a
little.

“I don’t know exactly. We’re not even formally engaged at present,”
Letitia answered, laughing. “He has declared that I must be his wife
and won’t be contradicted. Christmas my mother is coming to Heidelberg,
and then, I suppose, the wedding will take place. What I do look
forward to is the voyage overseas and the strange country.” And in her
radiant eyes flamed up the impassioned plea: Oh, take me, take me!
My yearning is so great! But with a coquettish turn of the head, she
asked: “How do you like Stephen?”

He did not answer her question, but said softly: “Some one is watching
us from the house.”

Letitia whispered: “He is jealous of the very earth and air.” It began
to rain harder, and so they turned their steps toward the house. And
Christian felt that he loved her.

An hour later he entered the smoking room. Imhof, Crammon, Wolfgang,
and Stephen Gunderam sat about a round table, and played poker. The
demeanour of each accorded with his character: Imhof was superior and
talkative, Crammon absent-minded and sombre, Wolfgang distrustful and
excited. Stephen Gunderam’s face was stonily impassive. He was as
utterly dedicated to his occupation as a somnambulist. He has been
winning uninterruptedly, and a little mountain of bank notes and gold
was rising in front of him. Crammon and Imhof moved aside to make room
for Christian. At that moment Stephen jumped up. Holding his cards in
his hand, he stared at Christian with eyes full of hatred.

Christian regarded him with amazement. But when the other three, rather
surprised, also moved to get up, Stephen Gunderam sank back into his
chair, and said with sombre harshness: “Let us play on. May I ask for
four cards?”

Christian left the neighbourhood of the table. He felt that he loved
Letitia. His whole heart loved her, tenderly and with longing.


XII

A discharged workman had lain in wait one evening for the automobile of
Herr Albrecht Wahnschaffe. When the car slowed up and approached the
gate of the park, the assassin, hidden by the bushes, had stealthily
shot at his former employer.

The bullet only grazed its victim’s arms. The wound was slight, but
Albrecht Wahnschaffe had to remain in bed for several days. After his
deed the criminal had escaped under cover of darkness. It was not until
next morning that the police succeeded in catching him.

This happening, inconsiderable as were its consequences, had disturbed
for a little the merry life in the house of Wahnschaffe. Several
persons left. Among these was Herr von Wedderkampf, who told his
daughters that the ground here was getting too hot for his feet.

But on the third evening every one was dancing again.

It surprised Christian. He did not understand such swift forgetfulness.
He was surprised at the equanimity of his mother, the care-free mood of
his sister and brother.

He wished to learn the name of that workingman, but no one knew. He was
told that the man’s name was Müller. Also that it was Schmidt. He was
surprised. Nor did any one seem to know exactly what motive impelled
the man to his deed. One said that it had been mere vengefulness, the
result of the flame of class hatred systematically fanned. Another said
that only a lunatic could be capable of such a deed.

Whatever it was, this shot fired from ambush by an unknown man for an
unknown cause was not quite the same to Christian as it was to all the
others who lived about him and sought their pleasure in their various
ways. It forced him to meditation. His meditation was aimless and
fruitless enough. But it was serious, and caused him strange suffering.

He would have liked to see the man. He would have liked to look into
his face.

Crammon said: “Another case that makes it clear as day that the
discarding of torture has simply made the canaille more insolent. What
admirable inventions for furthering discipline and humanity were the
stocks and the pillory!”

Christian visited his father, who sat in an armchair with his arm in a
sling. A highly conservative newspaper was spread out before him. Herr
Wahnschaffe said: “I trust that you and your friends are not practising
any undue restraint. I could not endure the thought of darkening the
mood of my guests by so much as a breath.”

Christian was astonished at this courtesy, this distinction and
temperance, this amiable considerateness.


XIII

Deep in the woods, amid ruins, Stephen Gunderam demanded of Letitia
that she decide his fate.

A picnic in very grand style had been arranged; Letitia and Stephen had
remained behind here; and thus it had happened.

Around them arose the ancient tree-trunks and the immemorial walls.
Above the tree-tops extended the pallid blue of the autumnal sky. His
knees upon the dry foliage, a man, using sublime and unmeasured words,
asserted his eternal love. Letitia could not withstand the scene and
him.

Stephen Gunderam said: “If you refuse me nothing is left me but to put
a bullet through my head. I have had it in readiness for long. I swear
to you by the life of my father that I speak truly.”

Could a girl as gentle and as easily persuaded as Letitia assume the
responsibility for such blood-guiltiness? And she gave her consent. She
did not think of any fetter, nor of the finality of such a decision,
nor of time nor of its consequences, nor of him to whom her soul was to
belong. She thought only of this moment, and that there was one here
who had spoken to her these sublime and unmeasured words.

Stephen Gunderam leaped up, folded her in his arms and cried: “From now
on you belong to me through all eternity--every breath, every thought,
every dream of yours is mine and mine only! Never forget that--never!”

“Let me go, you terrible man!” Letitia said, but with a shiver of
delight. She felt herself carried voluptuously upon a wave of romance.
Her nerves began to vibrate, her glance shimmered and broke. For the
first time she felt the stir of the flesh. With a soft cry she glided
from his grasp.

Even on the way home they received congratulations. Crammon slunk
quietly away. When Christian came and gave Letitia his hand, there
was in her eyes a restless expectation, a fantastic joy that he
could not understand at all. He could not fathom what she hid behind
this expression. He could not guess that even at this moment she was
faithlessly withdrawing herself from him to whom she had just entrusted
her life, its every breath and thought and dream, and that in her
innocent but foolish way she desired to convey to Christian a sense of
this fact.

He loved her. From hour to hour his love grew. He felt it to be almost
an inner law that he must love her--a command which said to him: This
is she to whom you must turn; a message whose burden was: In her shall
you find yourself.

He seemed to be hearing the voice of Eva: Your path was from me to her.
I taught you to feel. Now give that feeling to a waiting heart. You
can shape it and mould it and yourself. Let it not be extinguished nor
flicker out and die.

Thus the inner voice seemed to speak.


XIV

Crammon, the thrice hardened, had a dream wherein some one reproved him
for standing by idly, while his flesh and blood was being sold to an
Argentinian ranchman. So he went to the countess, and asked her if she
indeed intended to send the tender child into a land of savages. “Don’t
you feel any dread at the thought of her utter isolation in these
regions of the farthest South?” he asked her, and rolled his hands in
and out, which gave him the appearance of an elderly usurer.

“What are you thinking of, Herr von Crammon?” The countess was
indignant. “What right have you to question me? Or do you happen to
know a better man for her, a wealthier, more distinguished, more
presentable one? Do you imagine one can be happy only in Europe? I’ve
had a look at a good many people. They ran after us by the dozen at
Interlaken, Aix-les-Bains, at Geneva and Zürich and Baden-Baden--old
and young, Frenchmen and Russians, Germans and Englishmen, counts and
millionaires. We didn’t start out with any particular craze for the
exotic. Your friend Christian can bear witness to that! But he, I dare
say, thought himself too good for us. It’s bad enough that I have to
let my darling go across the ocean, without your coming to me and
making my heart heavier than ever!”

But Crammon was not to be talked down. “Consider the matter very
carefully once more,” he said. “The responsibility is tremendous. Do
you realize that venomous snakes exist in those regions whose bite
kills within five seconds? I have read of storms that uproot the most
powerful trees and overturn houses nine stories high. So far as I have
been informed, certain tribes native to Terra del Fuego still practise
cannibalism. Furthermore, there are species of ants that attack human
beings and devour them bodily. The heat of summer is said to be
insufferable, and equally so the cold of winter. It is an inhospitable
region, countess, and a dirty one with dangerous inhabitants. I want
you to consider the whole matter carefully once more.”

The countess was rather overcome. Delighted with the effect of his
words, Crammon left her with head erect.

That evening, when Letitia was already in bed, the countess, with
arms crossed on her bosom, walked up and down in the girl’s room. Her
conscience was heavy, but she hardly knew how to begin a discussion.
All afternoon she had been writing letters and addressing announcements
of the engagement, and now she was tired. The little dog, Puck,
meanwhile sat on a silken pillow in the adjoining room, and barked
shrilly and without cause from time to time.

Letitia stared into the dim space above her with eyes that gleamed
softly with the mystery of dreams. So rapt was she that if one had
pressed a pin into her flesh she would not have noticed it.

At last the countess conquered herself sufficiently. She sat down
near the bed, and took Letitia’s hands into her own. “Is it true,
sweetheart,” she began, “and did Stephen tell you about all these
things that Herr von Crammon speaks of--venomous snakes and cannibals
and tornadoes and wild ants and frightful heat and cold in this
terrible country that you’re going to? If all this is true, I want to
beseech you to reconsider very thoroughly this step that you’re about
to take.”

Letitia laughed a deep and hearty laugh. “Are you beginning to get
frightened now, auntie?” she cried, “just as I’ve been dreaming about
the future! Crammon has played an ill-timed prank. That is all. Stephen
never lies, and according to his description the Argentine is a
veritable earthly paradise. Do listen, auntie!” She said this with an
air of mystery, moved to the edge of her bed, and regarded the countess
full of confidence and delight. “The land is full of peaches as large
as a child’s head and of the most exquisite flavour. They are so
plentiful that those that cannot be eaten or sold are piled up in great
heaps and burned. They have game of all sorts, which they prepare in
wonderful ways quite unknown in Europe, and fishes and fowl and honey,
the rarest vegetables, and everything that the heart can desire.”

The countess’ face brightened. She petted Letitia’s arm, and said:
“Well, of course, in that case, and if it is really so....”

But Letitia went on: “When I’ve become thoroughly acclimated and
familiar with everything, I’ll ask you, dear aunt, to come out to us.
You’ll have a house of your own, a charming villa all overgrown with
flowers. Your pantries shall be filled afresh daily and you shall have
a marble bath next to your bedroom. You’ll be able to get into it as
often as you like, and you will have Negro women to wait on you.”

“That is right, my darling,” the countess answered, and her face was
transfigured with delight. “Whether it’s a paradise or not, I am pretty
sure that it will be dirty. And dirt, as you know, is something I hate
almost as much as poisonous serpents or cannibals.”

“Don’t be afraid, auntie,” said Letitia, “we’ll lead a wonderful life
there.”

The countess was calmed, and embraced Letitia with overwhelming
gratitude.


XV

In order to escape from the confusion at Wahnschaffe Castle, as the
new house was known, Christian and Crammon retired for several days to
Christian’s Rest. Scarcely had they settled down, when they were joined
by Judith and her companion, by Letitia and Fräulein von Einsiedel.

The countess and Stephen Gunderam had gone to Heidelberg, where they
were expecting Frau von Febronius. Letitia was to follow them a week
later. Felix had been summoned to Leipzig, where he was to join in
the founding of a great new publishing house. After his return to the
castle, his and Judith’s wedding was to take place.

Judith announced that she intended to enjoy the last days of her
liberty. It had not needed much persuasion to bring Letitia with her.
The companion and Fräulein von Einsiedel were regarded as chaperones,
and so with laughter and merriment these four surprised Christian and
Crammon suddenly.

The weather was beautiful, though somewhat cold. They passed most of
their time out of doors, walking in the woods, playing golf, arranging
picnics. The evenings flew by in cheerful talk. Once Crammon read to
them Goethe’s “Torquato Tasso,” and imitated the intonation and the
rhythms of Edgar Lorm so deceptively that Judith grew excited and
could not hear enough. She was attracted by the very imitation that
he practised; to Letitia the verses were like wine; Fräulein von
Einsiedel, who had been mourning a lost love for years, struggled with
her tears at many passages. Judith, on the other hand, saw an adored
image in a magic mirror, and when the reading was over, turned the
conversation to Lorm, and besought Crammon to tell her about him.

Crammon did as she desired. He told her of the actor’s romantic
friendship with a king, of his first marriage to a fair-haired Jewess.
He had loved her madly, and she had left him suddenly and fled to
America. He had followed her thither, and tracked her from place to
place, but all his efforts to win her back had been in vain. He had
returned in grave danger of losing himself and wasting his talent.
Lonely and divided in his soul, he had tried to settle in various
places. He had broken his contracts, been outlawed by the managers,
and barely tolerated by the public as a dangerous will o’ the wisp. At
last, however, his genius had fought down all unfortunate circumstances
as well as the weaknesses of his own nature, and he was now the most
radiant star in the heaven of his art.

When Crammon had ended, Judith came up to him and stroked his cheeks.
“That was charming, Crammon. I want you to be rewarded.”

Crammon laughed in his deepest bass voice, and answered: “Then I ask as
my reward that you four ladies return to-morrow morning to the castle,
and leave my friend Christian and me to each other’s silence. Isn’t it
true, Christian, dear boy? We like to brood over the mysteries of the
world.”

“The brute!” they cried out, “the traitor! The base intriguer!” But it
was only a jesting indignation. Their return had really been set for
the next day.

Christian arose and said: “Bernard is not wrong when he says we desire
silence. It is lovely to be surrounded by loveliness. But you girls are
too restless and unquiet.” He had spoken in jest. But as he passed his
hand over his forehead, one could see the deep seriousness in his heart.

They all looked at him. There was something strangely proud about his
appearance. Letitia’s heart beat. When he looked at her, her eyes fell
and she blushed deeply. She loved all that he was, all that lay behind
him, all that he had experienced, all women he had loved, all men from
whom he came or to whom he went.

Suddenly she remembered the little golden toad. She had brought it with
her and she determined to give it to him to-day. But to do that she
wanted to be alone with him.


XVI

It was her wish that their meeting be at night, and she gave him a
sign. Unnoticed by the others, she succeeded in whispering to him that
she would come to him that night with a gift. He was to wait for her.

He looked at her without a word. When she glided away, his lips
throbbed.

After midnight, when all were asleep in the house, she left her
chamber, and mounted to the upper floor where Christian had his rooms.
She went softly but without especial fear. Bending her head forward,
she held in her hands the folds of the white silken over-garment that
she wore. Its transparent texture was more like a white shimmer, a
pearly gleam upon her flesh than a garment. It was doubled only about
her waist and bosom, and her steps were impeded by a satin riband
about her knees. Thus, while her pulses throbbed, she had to trip, to
her own amusement, like the Geisha girls she had seen in a theatre.

When Christian had locked the door behind her, she leaned against it in
sudden weakness.

Gently he took her wrists, and breathed a kiss upon her forehead,
smiled, and asked: “What did you want to bring to me, Letitia? I long
to know.”

Suddenly she was aware that she had forgotten the golden toy. Shortly
before she had left her room, she had laid it in readiness; and yet she
had forgotten it. “How stupid of me!” The words slipped out, and she
gazed in shame at her little shoes of black velvet. “How stupid of me!
There was a little toad made of gold that I meant to bring to you.”

It startled him. Then he recalled the words that he had spoken so many
months ago. The intervening time seemed thrice its natural length.
He wondered now how he could ever have been frightened of a toad. He
could, to be sure, hear his own words again: “Have a little toad made
of gold, that the evil magic may disappear.” But the monition had no
validity to-day. The spell had been broken without a talisman.

And as he saw the girl stand before him, quivering and intoxicated,
the trembling and the ecstasy seized him too. Many others had come to
him--none so innocent and yet so guilty, none so determined and so
deluded at once. He knew those gestures, that silent yearning, the eye
that flamed and smouldered, the half-denial and the half-assent, the
clinging and repulsing, the sighs and the magical tears that tasted
like warm and salty dew. He knew! And his senses urged him with all
their power to experience and to taste it all again.

But there were things that stood between him and his desire. There
was a pallid brunette face whose eyes were upon him with unimaginable
clearness. There was a blood-soaked face to which the black hair clung.
There was a face that had once been beautiful, swollen by the waters of
the Thames. And there was a face full of hatred and shame against the
coarse linen of a bed, and another in the storeroom of a hotel which
was swathed in a white cloth. There were other faces--faces of men and
women, thousands upon thousands, on the shore of a river, and still
others that were stamped upon and charred, which he had seen as though
they were concrete realities through the eyes of another. All these
things stood between him and his desire.

And his heart opposed it too. And the love that he felt for Letitia.

He grew a little paler, and a chill crept into his fingertips. He
took Letitia by the hand, and led her to the middle of the room. She
looked about her timidly, but every glance was his who filled her whole
being. She asked him concerning the pictures that hung on the wall,
and admired a picture of himself which was among them. She asked after
the meaning of a little sculptured group which he had bought in Paris:
a man and a woman emerging from the earth of which they were made,
contending with primitive power.

Her deep voice had a more sensuous note than ever. And as he answered
her, the temptation assailed him anew to touch with his lips the warm,
rosy, throbbing curve of her shoulder, which was like a ripe fruit. But
an inescapable voice within him cried: Resist once! Resist but this
single time!

It was difficult, but he obeyed.

Letitia did not know what was happening to her. She shivered, and
begged him to close the window. But when he had done so, her chill
increased. She looked at him furtively. His face seemed arrogant and
alien. They had sat down on a divan, and silence had fallen upon them.
Why did I forget the little toad? Letitia thought. My folly is to blame
for everything. And instinctively she moved away from him a little.

“Letitia,” he said, and arose, “perhaps you will understand it all some
day.” Then he kneeled on the floor at her feet, and took her cool hands
and laid them against his cheeks.

“No, I don’t understand,” Letitia whispered, and her eyes were wet,
although she smiled, “and I shall never understand.”

“You will! Some day you will!”

“Never,” she asserted passionately, “never!” All things were confused
within her. She thought of flowers and stars, of dreams and images. She
thought of birds that fell dead out of the air, as he had described
them once, and a deer dying at the hunter’s feet. She thought of paths
upon which she would go, of far sea-faring, and of jewels and costly
garments. But none of these images held her. They were formed and
dissolved. A chain broke in her soul, and she felt a need to lie down
and weep for a while. Not for long. And it was possible that, when the
weeping was over, she might look forward with delight once more to the
coming day and to Stephen Gunderam and to their wedding.

“Good-night, Christian,” she said, and gave him her hand as after
a simple chat. And all the objects in the room had changed their
appearance. On the table stood a cut-glass bowl full of meadow-saffron,
and their white stalks were like the antennæ of a polypus. The night
outside was no longer the same night. One seemed quite free now in a
peculiar way--in a defiant and vengeful way.

Christian was amazed by her gesture and posture. He had not touched
her; yet it was a girl who had come to him, and it was a woman who
went. “I will think about it,” she said, and nodded to him with a
great, dark look. “I will learn to understand it.”

So she went--went on into her rich, poverty-stricken, adventurous,
difficult, trifling life.

Christian listened to the dying echo of her tread beyond the door. He
stood without moving, and his head was bent. To him, too, the night had
changed into another. Despite his obedience to the inner voice, a doubt
gnawed at his soul whether what he had done was right or wrong, good or
evil.


XVII

One day Christian received a letter that bore the signature of Ivan
Michailovitch Becker. Becker informed him that he was staying for
a short time in Frankfort, and that a woman, a mutual friend, had
insisted that he should visit Christian Wahnschaffe. But this he
would not do for well-considered reasons. If, however, Christian
Wahnschaffe’s state of mind was such as their friend seemed to assume,
he would be glad to see him on some evening.

Eva’s name was not mentioned. But twice he spoke of that woman who was
their mutual friend--twice. And Becker had added the street where he
lived and the number of the house.

Christian’s first impulse was to ignore the invitation. He told himself
that there was nothing in common between him and Becker. The Russian
had not been congenial to him. He had disapproved and arrogantly
overlooked the man’s friendship with Eva. Whenever he thought of his
ugly face, his dragging gait, his sombre, silent presence, a sense of
discomfort seized upon him. What did the man want? Why this summons in
which there was a shadow of menace?

After he had tried in vain to keep from brooding over this incident,
he showed the letter to Crammon, in the secret hope that his friend
would warn him against any response. Crammon read the letter, but
shrugged his shoulders and said nothing. Crammon was in a bad humour;
Crammon was hurt. He had felt for some time that Christian excluded
him from his confidence. In addition he was thinking far more of Eva
Sorel than was good for the peace of his soul. He paid ardent attention
to Fräulein von Einsiedel, nor was that lady unresponsive. But this
triumph could not restore the equilibrium of his mind, and Becker’s
letter opened his old wound anew.

Christian put an end to his vacillation by a sudden decision, and
started out to find Becker. The house was in the suburbs, and he
had to climb the four flights of stairs of a common tenement. He was
careful to come in contact with neither the walls nor the balustrades.
When he had reached the door and pulled the bell, he was pale with
embarrassment and disgust.

When Christian had entered the shabbily furnished room and sat opposite
Becker, what impressed him most was the stamp of suffering on the
Russian’s face. He asked himself whether this was new or whether he had
merely not perceived it before. When Becker spoke to him, his answers
were shy and awkward.

“Madame Sorel is going to Petrograd in the spring,” Ivan Michailovitch
told him. “She has signed a three-months’ contract with the Imperial
Theatre there.”

Christian expressed his pleasure at this information. “Are you going to
stay here long?” he asked, courteously.

“I don’t know,” was the answer. “I’m waiting for a message here.
Afterwards I shall join my friends in Switzerland.”

“My last conversation with Madame Sorel,” he continued, “was
exclusively about you.” He watched Christian attentively out of his
deep-set eyes.

“About me? Ah....” Christian forced himself to a conventional smile.

“She insisted on my remaining in communication with you. She said that
it meant much to her, but gave no reason. She never does give reasons,
though. She insisted likewise that I send her a report. Yet she did
not even give me a message for you. But she kept repeating: ‘It means
something to me, and it may mean very much to him.’ So you see that I
am only her instrument. But I hope that you are not angry with me for
annoying you.”

“Not in the least,” Christian asserted, although he felt oppressed.
“Only I can’t imagine what is in her mind.” He sat there wondering, and
added: “She has her very personal ways!”

Ivan Becker smiled, and the moisture of his thick lips became
unpleasantly visible. “It is very true. She is an enthusiastic
creature, and a woman of great gifts. She has power over others, and is
determined to use that power.”

A pause ensued.

“Can I be of assistance to you?” Christian asked conventionally.

Becker regarded him coldly. “No,” he said, “not of the least.” He
turned his eyes to the window, from which one could see the chimneys
of the factories, the smoke, and the sinister snow-fraught air. Since
the room was unheated, he had a travelling rug spread across his knees,
and under it he hid his crippled hand. A movement of his limbs shifted
the rug, and the hand became visible. Christian knew the story of it.
Crammon had told him at the time in Paris of his meeting and his talk
with Becker. He had heard it with indifference, and had avoided looking
at the hand.

Now he regarded it. Then he got up, and with a gesture of freedom
and assurance, which astonished even Becker, despite the Russian’s
superficial knowledge of him, he held out his own hand. Ivan
Michailovitch gave him his left hand, which Christian held long and
pressed cordially. Then he left without speaking another word.


XVIII

But on the following day he returned.

Ivan Michailovitch told him the story of his life. He offered him a
simple hospitality, made tea, and even had the room heated. He spoke
rather disconnectedly, with half-closed eyes and a morbid, suffering
smile. Now he would relate episodes of his youth, now of his later
years. The burden was always the same: oppression, need, persecution,
suffering--suffering without measure. Wherever one went, one saw
crushed hearts, happiness stamped out, and personalities destroyed.
His parents had gone under in poverty, his brothers and sisters had
drifted away and were lost, his friends had fallen in wars or died in
exile. It was a life without centre or light or hope--a world of hate
and malevolence, cruelty and darkness.

Christian sat there and listened until late into the night.

Next they met in a coffee house, an ugly place which Christian would
once not have endured, and sat until far into the night. Often they
sat in silence; and this silence tormented Christian, and kept him in
a state of unbearable tension. But his expression was a gentle one.

They took walks along the river, or through the streets and parks in
the snow. Ivan Michailovitch spoke of Pushkin and Byelinsky, of Bakunin
and Herzen, of Alexander I and the legend of his translation to heaven,
and of the peasants--the poor, dark folk. He spoke of the innumerable
martyrs of forgotten names, men and women whose actions and sufferings
beat at the heart of mankind, and whose blood, as he said, was the red
dawn of the sunrise of a new and other age.

So Christian kept disappearing from his home, and no one knew where he
went.

Once Ivan Michailovitch said: “I am told that a workingman made a
murderous assault on your father. The man was condemned to seven years
in the penitentiary yesterday.”

“Yes, it is true,” Christian replied. “What was his name? I have
forgotten it.”

It turned out that the man’s name was neither Schmidt nor Müller,
but Roderick Kroll. Ivan Michailovitch knew it. “There’s a wife and
five little children left in extreme distress,” he said. “Have you
ever tried for a moment to grasp imaginatively what that means--real
distress? Is your imagination powerful enough to realize it? Have you
ever seen the countenance of a human being that suffered hunger? There
is this woman. She bore five children, and loves these children just as
your mother loves hers. Very well. The drawers are empty, the hearth
is cold, the bedding is in pawn, their clothes and shoes are in rags.
These children are human, each one, just as you and I are. They have
the same instinctive expectation of content, bread, quiet sleep, and
pure air, that you have or Herr von Crammon or countless others, who
never realize reflectively that all these things are theirs. Very well.
Now the world does not only feign to know nothing of all this, not only
resents being reminded of it, but actually demands of these beings that
they are to be silent, that they accept and endure hunger, nakedness,
cold, disease, the theft of their natural rights, and the insolent
injustice of it all, as something quite natural and inevitable. Have
you ever thought about that?”

“It seems to me,” Christian replied, softly, “that I have never thought
at all.”

“This man,” Ivan Michailovitch continued, “this Roderick Kroll, so
far as I have been able to learn, was systematically exasperated to
the very quick. He was an enthusiastic socialist, but somewhat of an
annoyance even to his own party on account of his extreme views and
his violent propaganda. The masters dug the ground from under his
feet. They embittered him by the constant sting of small intrigues,
and drove him to despair. The intention was to render him harmless and
to force him to silence. But tell me this: is there an extreme on the
side of the oppressed that is so unfair, so insolent, so damnable as
the extreme on the other side--the arrogance, luxury, revelling, the
hardness of heart, and the insensate extravagance of every day and
every hour? You did not even know the name of that man!”

Christian stood still. The wind blew the snow into his face, and wet
his forehead and cheeks. “What shall I do, Ivan Michailovitch?” he
asked, slowly.

Ivan Michailovitch stopped too. “What shall I do?” he cried. “That
is what they all ask. That is what Prince Jakovlev Grusin asked, one
of our chief magnates and marshal of the nobility in the province of
Novgorod. After he had starved his peasants, plundered his tenants,
sent his officials to Siberia, violated girls, seduced women, driven
his own sons to despair, spent his life in gluttony, drunkenness, and
whoring, and heaped crime upon crime--he went into a monastery in the
seventy-fourth year of his age, and day after day kneeled in his cell
and cried: ‘What shall I do? My Lord and Saviour, what shall I do?’ And
no one, naturally, had an answer for him. I have heard the question
asked softly by another, whose soul was clean and white. He was going
to his death, and his age was seventeen. Nine men with their rifles
stood by the trench of the fortress. He approached, reeling a little,
and his guiltless soul asked: ‘Father in Heaven, what shall I do? What
shall I do?’”

Ivan Michailovitch walked on, and Christian followed him. “And we poor
men, we terribly poor men,” Ivan Becker said, “what shall _we_ do?”


XIX

Judith’s wedding was to be celebrated with great magnificence.

Even to the preliminary festival more than two hundred guests had been
invited. There was no end to the line of motor cars and carriages.

The coal and iron barons of the whole province appeared, military and
civil officials of high rank with their ladies, the chief patricians
and financiers of Frankfort, members of the Court circles of Darmstadt
and Karlsruhe, and friends from afar. A tenor from Berlin, a famous
lyric singer, a Viennese comedian, a magician, and a juggler had been
engaged to furnish the guests with amusement.

The great horse-shoe table in the dining-hall, radiant with gold,
silver, and cut glass, had three hundred and thirty covers.

The festive throng surged up and down in the marble gallery and the
adjoining rooms. Yellow and rose predominated in the toilettes of the
ladies; the young girls were mostly in white. Bare shoulders were
agleam with diamonds and pearls. The severe black and white of the men
effectually softened the gorgeousness of the colour scheme.

Christian was walking up and down with Randolph von Stettner, a young
lieutenant of hussars, stationed at Bonn. They had been friends since
their boyhood, had not seen each other for several years, and were
exchanging reminiscences. Randolph von Stettner said that he was
not very happy in his profession; he would much rather have taken a
university degree. He had a strong taste for the study of chemistry,
and felt out of place as a soldier. “But it is futile to kick against
the pricks,” he ended, sighing; “a man must merely take the bit between
his teeth and keep still.”

Christian happened to observe Letitia, who stood in the centre of a
circle of men. Upon her forehead was forgetfulness; she knew nothing of
yesterday and nothing of to-morrow. There was no one else so absorbed
by the passing hour as she.

A footman approached Christian and gave him a card. The footman frowned
doubtfully, for the card was not quite clean. On it Christian read
these pencilled words: “I. M. Becker must speak with you at once.”
Hurriedly he excused himself and went out.

Ivan Michailovitch stood perfectly still in the outer hall. Newly
arrived guests, who gave the footmen their hats and coats, passed by
without noticing him. The men took mincing steps, the ladies sought the
mirror for a final look with their excited eyes.

Ivan Michailovitch wore a long grey coat, shabby and wet. The
black-bearded face was pale as wax. Christian drew him into an empty
corner of the hall, where they were undisturbed.

“I beg you to forgive me for throwing a shadow on all this festivity,”
Ivan Michailovitch began, “but I had no choice. I received a
notification of expulsion from the police this afternoon. I must leave
the city and the country within twelve hours. The simple favour I ask
of you is to take this notebook into your keeping, until I myself
or some properly identified friend asks it back.” He glanced swiftly
about him, took a thin, blue notebook out of his pocket, and gave it to
Christian, who slid it swiftly and unobtrusively into a pocket of his
evening coat.

“It contains memoranda in Russian,” Ivan continued, “which have no
value to any one but myself, but which must not be found on me. Since I
am being expelled there is little doubt but that my person and effects
will be searched.”

“Won’t you come and rest in my room?” Christian asked, timidly. “Won’t
you eat or drink something?”

Ivan Michailovitch shook his head. From the hall floated the sound of
the violins, playing an ingratiating air by Puccini.

“Won’t you at least dry your coat?” Christian asked again. The strains
of the music, the splendour there within, the merriment and laughter,
the fullness of beauty and happiness, all this presented so sharp a
contrast to the appearance of this man in a wet coat, with wax-like
face and morbidly flaming eyes, that Christian could no longer endure
his apparently unfeeling position between these two worlds, of whose
utter and terrible alienation from each other he was acutely aware.

Ivan Michailovitch smiled. “It is kind of you to think of my coat. But
you can’t do any good. It will only get wet again.”

“I’d like to take you, just as you are,” said Christian, and he smiled
too, “and go in there with you.”

Ivan Michailovitch shrugged his shoulders, and his face grew dark.

“I don’t know why I should like to do that,” Christian murmured. “I
don’t know why it tempts me. I stand before you, and you put me in the
wrong. Whether I speak or am silent does not matter. By merely being
I am in the wrong. We should not be conversing here in the servants’
corner. You are making some demand of me, Ivan Michailovitch, are you
not? What is it that you demand?”

The words bore witness to a confusion of the emotions that went to the
very core of his being. They throbbed with the yearning to become and
to be another man. Ivan Michailovitch, in a sudden flash of intuition,
saw and understood. At first he had suspected that here was but a
lordly whim, or that it was at best but the foolish and thoughtless
defiance of a too swiftly ardent proselyte that urged this proud and
handsome man to his words. He recognized his error now. He understood
that he heard a cry for help, and that it came from the depth of one of
those decisive moments of which life holds but few.

“What is it that I am to demand of you, Christian Wahnschaffe?” he
asked, earnestly. “Surely not that you drag me in there to your
friends, and ask me to regard that as a definite deed and as a triumph
over yourself?”

“It would not be that,” Christian said, with lowered eyes, “but a
simple confession of my friendship and my faith.”

“But consider what a figure I would cut in my blouse, taken so
unwillingly and emphatically, to use the Russian proverb, into the
realm of the spheres. You would be forgiven. You would be accused
of an eccentricity, and laughed at; but it would be overlooked. But
what would happen to me? You could guard me from obvious insult. The
profound humiliation of my position would still be the same. And what
purpose would such a boastful action serve? Do you see any promise of
good in it--for myself, or you, or the others? I could accuse no one,
persuade no one, convince no one. Nor would you yourself be convinced.”

He was silent for a few seconds, and then regarded Christian with a
kind and virile glance. Then he continued. “Had I appeared in evening
clothes, this whole conversation would be without meaning. That shows
how trivial it is. Why, Christian Wahnschaffe, should I exhibit my
blouse and coat amid the garb of your friends? Do you go with me to a
place where your coat is a blasphemy and a stain, and where my rough,
wet one is a thing of pride and advantage. I know such a house. Go with
me!”

Christian, without answering a word, summoned a footman, took his
fur-coat, and followed Ivan Becker into the open. The lackey hurried
to the garage. In a few minutes the car appeared. Christian permitted
Ivan Michailovitch to precede him into it, asked for the address, and
sat down beside him. The car started.


XX

Twice before this had Ivan Michailovitch visited the family of the
imprisoned workman, Roderick Kroll. His interest in these people was
not an immediate one. It had been evoked by the interest he took in
Christian Wahnschaffe. There was something in Christian that moved him
deeply. After their first conversation he had at once reflected long
concerning his personality and his great charm, as well as concerning
the circumstances of his life and the social soil from which he had
sprung. And since the name of the industrial baron Wahnschaffe had been
so closely connected with the trial of Roderick Kroll, and since that
trial had made quite a stir in the world, his attention had naturally
been drawn in this direction. It is possible that he had already
weighed the step he was now taking. For he was immovably convinced that
many men would be better, and deal more justly, if they could but be
brought to see, or given an opportunity to see, the realities of the
world.

Frau Kroll and her five children had found refuge in a mere hole of a
garret at the top of a populous tenement on the extreme edge of the
city. Before that she had inhabited one of the numerous cottages for
workingmen that Albrecht Wahnschaffe had built near his factories. But
she had been driven from this home, and had moved to the city.

The room she now had gave shelter not only to herself and her
children, the oldest of whom was twelve, but to three lodgers: a
rag-picker, a hurdy-gurdy man, and a chronically drunken vagabond.
The room had a floor-space of sixty square feet; the lodgers slept on
dirty straw sacks, the children on two ragged mattresses pushed close
together, Frau Kroll on a shawl and a bundle of old clothes in the
corner where the slanting ceiling met the floor.

On this particular day the agent of the landlord had appeared
three times to demand the rent. The third time, since no money was
forthcoming, he had threatened to evict them all that night. Fifteen
minutes before the arrival of Ivan Becker and Christian he had appeared
with the janitor and another helper in the dim, evil-smelling room,
and had proceeded to make good his threat. His face had an expression
of good nature rather than of harshness. He was proud of the touch
of humour which he brought to the execution of his duties. Cries
and lamentations did not disturb him in the least. He said: “Hurry,
children! Come on there!” Or else: “Shoulder your guns and march! Let’s
have no scenes! Don’t get excited! No use getting on your knees! Time
is money! Quick work is good work!”

As was usual on such occasions, a commotion stirred all the neighbours,
and they assembled in the hall. There was a yellow-haired woman in her
shift; there was one in a scarlet dressing gown; there was a cripple
without legs, an old man with a long beard, children who were fighting
one another, a painted woman with a hat as large as a cart-wheel,
another with a burning candle in her hand, while a man who had just
come in from the street in her company sought to hide in the darkness
near the roof.

What one heard was the wailing of the Kroll children, and the hard
beseeching voice of the woman, who looked on with desperate eyes as the
agent and his men heaped up her poor possessions. The vagabond cursed,
the hurdy-gurdy man dragged his straw sack toward the door, the agent
snapped his fingers and said: “Hurry, good people, hurry! Let’s have
no tender scenes! My supper is getting cold!”


XXI

Christian and Ivan Becker entered. They forced their way through the
staring crowd. Christian had on his costly fur-coat. The agent stood
still and his jaw dropped. His men instinctively touched their caps.
Ivan Michailovitch wanted to close the door, but the woman in the big
hat stood on the threshold and would not stir. “The door should be
closed,” he said to the agent, who went forward and closed it, simply
thrusting the woman roughly back. Ivan asked whether the woman and her
children were to be evicted. The agent declared that she was unable
to pay her rent, that one extension of time after another had been
granted her, but that to continue would be to create disorder and
institute a bad example. Ivan Michailovitch answered that he understood
the situation. Then he turned to Christian, and repeated the words as
though he needed to translate them into another tongue: “She cannot
pay her rent.” A whistle sounded from without, and a woman screeched.
The agent opened the door, cried out a command, and slammed it again.
Silence ensued.

Frau Kroll was crouching among her children, her elbows dug into her
lap. She had a robust figure, and a bony face that was pale as dough
and deeply furrowed. It looked like the head of a corpse. The children
looked at her in terror: two were mother naked, and one of these had
the itch. The agent, assuming a benevolent tone, asked Ivan Becker
whether something was to be done for these people; he evidently did not
dare to address Christian. “I think we shall be able to do something
for them,” Ivan answered, and turned to Christian.

Christian heard and saw. He nodded rapidly, and gave an impression of
timidity and passionate zeal.

Christian’s attention somehow became fixed on a water jug with a
broken handle. The jug was stamped with a greenish pattern and the
banal arabesques bit into his mind. The snow-edged, slanting window
in the roof troubled him, and the sight of a single muddy boot. Next
a sad fascination came to him from a rope that dangled from the roof,
and from a little coal-oil lamp with a smoky chimney. His mere bodily
vision clung to these things. But they passed into his soul, and he
merged into oneness with them. He himself was that broken jug with its
green figures, the snow-edged window, the muddy boot, the dangling
rope, the smoky lamp. He was being transformed as in a melting furnace,
shape glided into shape; and although he was objectively aware of
what was taking place and also of the people--the beggar, the woman,
the children, Ivan Michailovitch, the agent, and those who waited
outside--yet it cost him a passionate effort to keep them outside of
himself for yet a little while, until they should plunge down upon his
soul with their torment, despair, cruelty, and madness, like wild dogs
throwing themselves upon a bone.

A sigh escaped him; a disturbed and fleeting smile hovered about his
lips. One of the children, a boy of four, clad in a shapeless rag, came
to him, and gazed up at him as though he were a tower. At once the eyes
of the others were fixed on him too. At least, he felt them. His breast
seemed a fiery crucible upborne and held high by the boy’s emaciated
arms. In a moment he had filled his hand with gold pieces, and by a
gesture encouraged the child to hold out its hands. He poured the gold
into them. But they could grasp only a few. The coins rolled on the
floor, and the people there watched them in dumb amazement.

He drew out his wallet, took from it with trembling fingers every bank
note it held, looked about, and approached the cowering woman. Then
suddenly there seized him a strange contempt for his own erectness
while she crouched on the floor. And so he kneeled, kneeled down beside
her, and let the notes slip into her lap. He did not know how much
money there was. But it was found later that the sum was four thousand
six hundred marks. He arose and took Ivan’s arm, and the latter
understood his glance.

There was a breathless silence when they left. The agent and his men,
the lodgers, the children--all seemed turned to stone. The woman
stared at the wealth in her lap. Then she uttered a loud cry and lost
consciousness. The little boy played with the pieces of gold, and they
clinked as only gold can, faintly sweet and without hardness.

Below, in the street, Ivan Michailovitch said to Christian: “That you
kneeled down before her--that was it, and that alone! The gift--there
was something fateful in it to me and something bitter! But that you
kneeled down beside her--ah, that was it!” And with a sudden gesture
he lifted himself on his toes, and took Christian’s head between his
hands, and kissed him with a kiss that was a breath upon the forehead.
Then he murmured a word of farewell, and hurried down the street
without looking at the waiting car.

Christian ordered the chauffeur to drive out to Christian’s Rest.
Two hours later he was there, in deep quietude, the quietude that he
needed. He telephoned his family that unforeseen events had prevented
him from staying to the end of the evening’s festivities, but that he
would be present at the ceremony of Judith’s marriage without fail.
Then he retired to the farthest room of his house, and held vigil all
night.


XXII

Letitia married six weeks after Judith. At Stephen Gunderam’s desire,
however, the wedding was a quiet one. There was a simple meal in a
hotel at Heidelberg, and those present were Frau von Febronius, the
countess, their two nephews Ottomar and Reinhold, and an Argentinian
friend of Stephen’s--a raw-boned giant who had been sent to Germany for
a year to acquire polish.

Ottomar recited an original poem in praise of his pretty cousin, and
Reinhold had composed an address in the style of Luther’s table-talk.
Stephen Gunderam showed small appreciation of the literary culture of
his new kinsman.

Frau von Febronius was silent even at the moment of farewell. The
countess wept very copiously. She provided Letitia with all manner of
rules and admonitions, but the most difficult of all she had delayed,
out of sheer cowardice to the very last. She drew Letitia into her own
room and, blushing and paling by turns, attempted to give the girl some
notion of the physiology of marriage. But her courage failed her even
now, and whenever she approached the real crux of her subject, she
began to stammer and grow confused. It amused Letitia immensely.

Stephen Gunderam wanted to depart in haste, like some one anxious to
secure his booty.

Frau von Febronius said to her sister: “I have evil presentiments in
regard to this marriage, even though the child seems quite happy. It is
only her own nature that protects her against unhappiness. It is her
only dowry, but a wonderful one.” Then the countess folded her hands,
and shed tears, and said: “If I have sinned, I pray God to forgive me.”

The voyage proved Letitia to be an excellent sailor. For a few days she
and her husband stopped in Buenos Ayres and met many people. Stephen’s
acquaintances regarded her with sympathetic curiosity; and everything
was strange and fascinating to her--the people, the houses, animals,
plants, the very earth and sky. But most fascinating and strange to her
was still the jealous tyranny of the man she had married, although at
times the fascination held a touch of fear. But when that assailed her,
she jested even with herself, and drove it away.

Early one morning there drew up a firmly built, heavy little coach,
with two small, swift horses, to carry them the thirty miles to the
Gunderam estate. Generously provisioned they left the city. After a
few hours the road ended as a brook is lost in sands, and before them
stretched to the very horizon the pathless plain of the pampas.

Yet they were not unguided. On either side of the way which the horses
had to travel, poles had been driven into the grassy earth. These poles
were of about human height, and stood at intervals of about twenty
yards. Thus the horses pursued their way calmly. The Negro on the box
had no need to urge them on. The safe and monotonous journey permitted
him to sleep.

There were no settlements at all. When the horses needed food or
came upon water, a halt was made under the open sky. No house, no
tree, no human being appeared from sun to sun, and a dread stole upon
Letitia. She had long given up talking, and Stephen had long given up
encouraging her. He slept like his coachman.

When the sun had sunk behind a veil of whitish clouds, Letitia stood
up, and gazed searchingly over the endless plain of grass. The high
wooden posts still projected with unwearying regularity at both sides
of the uncut road.

But suddenly she saw on one of the posts a greyish-brown bird, moveless
and bent, with huge, round, glowing eyes.

“What kind of a bird is that?” she asked.

Stephen Gunderam started from his slumber. “It’s an owl,” he answered.
“Have you never seen one? Every evening, when darkness falls, they sit
on the posts. Look, it is starting: there is one on each.”

Letitia looked and saw that it was true. On every post and on either
side, far as one’s sight could reach, sat with its great, circular,
glowing eyes a heavy, slothful, solemn owl.



OR EVER THE SILVER CORD BE LOOSED


I

Fraulein von Einsiedel took Crammon’s tender trifling quite seriously.
When Crammon observed this, he grew cold, and planned at once to rid
himself of the threatened complication.

She sent him urgent little notes by her maid; he left them unanswered.
She begged him for a meeting; he promised to come but did not. She
reproached him and inquired after the reason. He cast down his eyes and
answered sadly: “I was mistaken in the hour, dear friend. For some time
my mind has been wandering. I sometimes wake in the morning and fancy
that it is still evening. I sit down at table and forget to eat. I need
treatment and shall consult a physician. You must be indulgent, Elise.”

But Elise did not want to understand. According to Crammon’s words of
regretful deprecation, she belonged to the sort of woman who makes a
kiss or a tender meeting an excuse for drawing all sorts of tiresome
and impossible inferences.

He said to himself: “You must be robust of soul, Bernard, and not
permit your innate delicacy to make a weakling of you. Here is a little
trap for mice, and you can smell the cheese from afar. She is pretty
and good, but alas, quite blind and deluded. As though a brief pleasure
were not to be preferred to a long wretchedness!”

To be prepared for any event, he packed his belongings.


II

Crammon had discovered where and in whose company Christian had been on
the night of the festival preceding Judith’s wedding. The chauffeur
had been indiscreet. Then Crammon, in his brotherly concern, had made
inquiries, and the rumours that had reached the castle had all been
confirmed.

One morning, when they were both at Christian’s Rest, Crammon entered
his friend’s room and said: “I can’t hold in any longer. The sorrow of
it gnaws at me. You ought to be ashamed, Christian, especially of your
secretiveness. You join fugitive disturbers of the peace and hurlers
of bombs, and then you confuse the innocent poor by your brainless
generosity. What is it to lead to?”

Christian smiled, and did not answer.

“How can you expose yourself in that fashion,” Crammon cried; “yourself
and your family and your friends? I shall tell you this in confidence,
dearest boy: If you imagine that you have really helped the woman
to whom that Russian desperado dragged you, you are badly mistaken.
Fortunately I can rob you of that illusion.”

“Did you hear anything about her?” Christian asked, with a surprising
indifference in his tone and expression.

Crammon seemed to expand, and told his tale with breadth and unction:
“Certainly I have. I have even had dealings with the police and saved
you annoyance. The woman was to have been arrested and the money
confiscated. Luckily I was able to prevent that. I believe that the
State should keep order, but I don’t think it desirable that the
government should interfere in our private affairs. Its duty is to
safeguard us; there its function ends. So much for that! Concerning
your protégée I have nothing pleasant to report. The rain of gold
simply distracted the crowd in that house. They stuck to her and
begged, and several of them stole. Naturally there was a fight, and
some one plunged a knife into some one else’s bowels, and the maddened
woman beat them both with a coal shovel. The police had to interfere.
Then the woman moved into other quarters, and bought all sorts of
trash--furniture, beds, clothing, kitchen utensils, and even a cuckoo
clock. You have seen those little horrors. A cuckoo comes out of the
clock and screams. I was once staying with people who had three of
them. Whenever I went to sleep another cuckoo screeched; it was enough
to drive one mad. In other respects my friends were charming.

“As for the Kroll woman--your gift robbed her of every vestige of
common sense. She keeps the money in a little box, which she carries
about and won’t let out of her sight by night or day. She buys lottery
tickets, penny dreadfuls; the children are as dirty as ever and the
household as demoralized. Only that dreadful cuckoo clock roars. So
what have you accomplished? Where is the blessing? Common people cannot
endure sudden accessions of fortune. You do not know their nature in
the slightest degree, and the best thing you can do is to leave them in
peace.”

Christian’s eyes wandered out to the cloudy sky. Then he turned to
Crammon. He saw, as though he had never seen it before, that Crammon’s
cheeks were rather fat, and that his chin was bedded in soft flesh and
had a dimple. He could not make up his mind to answer. He smiled, and
crossed his legs!

What shapely legs, Crammon thought and sighed, what superb legs!


III

A few days later Crammon appeared again with the intention of testing
Christian.

“I don’t like your condition, my dear boy,” he began, “and I won’t
pretend to you that I do. It’s just a week to-day that we’ve been
perishing of boredom here. I grant you it’s a delightful place in
spring and summer with agreeable companions, when one can have picnics
in the open and think of the dull and seething cities. But now in the
midst of winter, without orgies or movement or women--what is the use
of it? Why do you hide yourself? Why do you act depressed? What are
you waiting for? What have you in mind?”

“You ask so many questions, Bernard,” Christian replied. “You should
not do that. It is as well here as elsewhere. Can you tell me any place
where it is better?”

The last question aroused Crammon’s hopes. In the expectation of common
pleasures his face grew cheerful. “A better place? My dearest boy, any
compartment in a train is better. The greasy reception room of Madame
Simchowitz in Mannheim is better. However, we shall be able to agree.
Here is an admirable plan. Palermo, Conca d’Oro, Monte Pellegrino, and
Sicilian girls with avid glances behind their virtuous veils. From
there we shall take a flying trip to Naples to see my sweet little
friend Yvonne. She has the blackest hair, the whitest teeth, and the
most exquisite little feet in Europe. The regions between are--sublime.
Then we can send a telegram to Prosper Madruzzi, who is nursing his
spleen in his Venetian villa, and let him introduce us into the
most inaccessible circles of Roman society. There one has dealings
exclusively with contessas, marchesas, and principessas. The striking
characters of all five continents swarm there as in a fascinating
mad-house; cold-blooded American women commit indiscretions with
passionate lazzaroni, who have magical names and impossible silk socks;
every kennel there can claim to be a curiosity, every heap of stones
adds to your culture, at every step you stumble over some masterpiece
of art.”

Christian shook his head. “It doesn’t tempt me,” he said.

“Then I’ll propose something else,” Crammon said. “Go with me to
Vienna. It is a city worthy of your interest. Have you ever heard of
the Messiah? The Messiah is a person at whose coming the Jews believe
time will come to an end, and whom they expect to welcome with the
sound of shawms and cymbals. It is thus that every distinguished
stranger is greeted in Vienna. If you cultivate an air of mystery,
and are not too stingy in the matter of tipping, and occasionally
snub some one who is unduly familiar--all Viennese society will be
at your feet. A pleasant moral slackness rules the city. Everything
that is forbidden is permitted. The women are simply _hors concours_;
the broiled meat at Sacher is incomparable; the waltzes which you
hear whenever a musician takes up a fiddle are thrilling; a trip to
the Little House of Delight--name to be taken literally, please--is
a dream. I yearn for it all myself--the ingratiating air, the roast
chicken, the apple-pudding with whipped cream, and my own little hut
full of furniture of the age of Maria Theresa, and my two dear, old
ladies. Pull yourself together, and come with me.”

Christian shook his head. “It is nothing for me,” he said.

A flush of indignation spread over Crammon’s face. “Nothing for you?
Very well. I cannot place the harem of the Sultan at your disposal, nor
the gardens promised by the Prophet. I shall leave you to your fate,
and wander out into the world.”

Christian laughed, for he did not believe him. On the next day,
however, Crammon said farewell with every sign of deep grief, and
departed.


IV

Christian remained at his country house. A heavy snow-fall came, and
the year drew toward its end.

He received no visitors. He answered neither the letters nor the
invitations of his friends. He was to have spent Christmas with his
parents at the castle, but he begged them to excuse him.

Since he was of age, Christian’s Rest had now passed fully into his
possession, and all his objects of art were gathered here--statuary,
pictures, miniatures, and his collection of snuff-boxes. He loved these
little boxes very much.

The dealers sent him their catalogues. He had a trusted agent at every
notable auction sale. To this man he would telegraph his orders, and
the things would arrive--a beaker of mountain crystal, a set of Dresden
porcelains, a charcoal sketch by Van Gogh. But when he looked at his
purchases, he was disappointed. They seemed neither as rare nor as
precious as he had hoped.

He bought a sixteenth century Bible, printed on parchment, with
mani-coloured initials and a cover with silver clasps. It had cost him
fourteen thousand marks, and contained the book-plate of the Elector
Augustus of Saxony. Curiously he turned the pages without regarding the
words, which were alien and meaningless to him. Nothing delighted him
but his consciousness of the rarity and preciousness of the volume. But
he desired other things even rarer and more precious.

Every morning he fed the birds. With a little basket of bread crumbs
he would issue from the door, and the birds would fly to him from all
directions, for they had come to know both him and the hour. They were
hungry, and he watched them busy at their little meal. And doing this
he forgot his desires.

Once he donned his shooting suit, and went out and shot a hare. When
the animal lay before him, and he saw its dying eyes, he could not bear
to touch it. He who had hunted and killed many animals could no longer
endure this sport, and left his booty a prey to the ravens.

Most of his walks led him through the village, which was but fifteen
minutes from his park. At the end of the village, on the high-road,
stood the forester’s house. Several times he had noticed at one of
its windows the face of a young man, whose features he seemed to
recall. He thought it must be Amadeus Voss, the forester’s son. When
he was but six he had often visited that house. Christian’s Rest had
not been built until later, and in those early years his father had
rented the game preserve here and had often lodged for some days at the
forester’s. And Amadeus had been Christian’s playmate.

The face, which recalled his childhood to him, was pallid and
hollow-cheeked. The lips were thin and straight, and the head covered
with simple very light blond hair. The reflection of the light’s rays
in the powerful lenses of spectacles made the face seem eyeless.

It amazed Christian that this young man should sit there for hours,
day after day, without moving, and gaze through the window-panes into
the street. The secret he felt here stirred him, and a power from some
depth seemed to reach out for him.

One day Christian met the mayor of the village at the gate of his park.
Christian stopped him. “Tell me,” he said, “is the forester Voss still
alive?”

“No, he died three years ago,” the man answered. “But his widow still
lives in the house. The present forester is unmarried, and lets her
have a few rooms. I suppose you are asking on account of Amadeus, who
has suddenly turned up for some strange reason--”

“Tell me about him,” Christian asked.

“He was to have been a priest, and was sent to the seminary at Bamberg.
One heard nothing but good of him there, and his teachers praised him
to the sky. He got stipends and scholarships, and every one expected
him to do well for himself. Last winter his superiors got him a
position as tutor to the boys of the bank president, Privy Councillor
Ribbeck. You’re familiar with the name. Very big man. The two boys
whose education Voss was to supervise lived at Halbertsroda, an estate
in Upper Franconia, and the parents didn’t visit them very often. They
say the marriage isn’t a happy one. Well, everything seemed turning out
well. Considering his gifts and the patron he had now, Amadeus couldn’t
have wanted for anything. Suddenly he drops down on us here, doesn’t
budge from the house, pays no attention to any one, becomes a burden
to his poor old mother, and growls like a dog at any one who talks to
him. There must have been crazy doings at Halbertsroda. No one knows
any details, you know. But every now and then the pot seethes over, and
then you get the rumour that there was something between him and the
Privy Councillor’s wife.”

The man was very talkative, and Christian interrupted him at last.
“Didn’t the forester have another son?” A faint memory of some
experience of his childhood arose in him.

“Quite right,” said the mayor. “There was another son. His name was
Dietrich, and he was a deaf-mute.”

“Yes, I remember now,” Christian said.

“He died at fourteen,” the mayor went on. “His death was never properly
explained. There was a celebration of the anniversary of the battle of
Sedan, and he went out in the evening to look at the bonfires. Next
morning they found his body in the fish-pond.”

“Did he drown?”

“He must have,” answered the mayor.

Christian nodded farewell, and went slowly through the gate toward his
house.


V

Letitia and her husband were in the Opera house at Buenos Ayres. The
operetta of the evening was as shallow as a puddle left by the rain in
the pampas.

In the box next to theirs sat a young man, and Letitia yielded now and
then to the temptation of observing his glances of admiration. Suddenly
she felt her arm roughly grasped. It was Stephen who commanded her
silently to follow him.

In the dim corridor he brought his bluish-white face close to her ear,
and hissed: “If you look at that fool once more, I’ll plunge my dagger
into your heart. I give you this warning. In this country one doesn’t
shilly-shally.”

They returned to their box. Stephen smiled with a smile as glittering
as a torero’s, and put a piece of chocolate into his mouth. Letitia
looked at him sidewise, and wondered whether he really had a dagger in
his possession.

That night, when they drove home, he almost smothered her with his
caresses. She repulsed him gently, and begged: “Show me the dagger,
Stephen. Give it to me! I want so much to see it.”

“What dagger, silly child?” he asked, in astonishment.

“The dagger you were going to plunge into my heart.”

“Let that be,” he answered, in hollow tones. “This is no time to speak
of daggers and death.”

But Letitia was stubborn. She insisted that she wanted to see it. He
took his hands from her, and fell into sombre silence.

The incident taught Letitia that she could play with him. She no
longer feared that sombre stillness of his, nor his great skull on his
powerful neck, nor the thin mouth, nor the paling face, nor the great
strength of his extraordinary small hands. She knew that she could play
with him.

Great fire-flies flew through the air, and settled in the grass about
them. When the carriage stopped at the villa, Letitia looked around
with a cry of delight. Sparks seemed to be falling in a golden rain.
The gleaming insects whirred about the windows, the roof, the flowery
creepers on the walls. They penetrated into the hall.

Letitia stopped at the dark foot of the stairs, looked at the
phosphorescent glimmer, and asked fearfully and with an almost
imperceptible self-mockery in her deep voice: “Tell me, Stephen,
couldn’t they set the house on fire?”

The Negro Scipio, who appeared with a lamp at the door, heard her words
and grinned.


VI

Around Twelfth Night Randolph von Stettner with several friends came to
Christian’s Rest. The young men had called up Christian by telephone,
and he had been alone so long that he was glad to receive them and
be their host. He was always glad to see Randolph. The latter brought
with him two comrades, a Baron Forbach and a Captain von Griesingen,
and also another friend, a young university teacher, who was fulfilling
his required military service at Bonn and was therefore also in
uniform. Christian had met him before at a celebration of the Borussia
fraternity.

A delicious meal was served, followed by excellent cigars and liqueurs.

“It is consoling to see that you still don’t despise the comforts of
the flesh,” Randolph von Stettner said to Christian.

Captain von Griesingen sighed: “How should one despise them? They
torment us and they flit temptingly about us! Think of all that is
desirable in the world--women, horses, wine, power, fame, money, love!
There is a dealer of jewels in Frankfort, named David Markuse, who has
a diamond that is said to be worth half a million. I have no desire for
that special object. But the world is full of things that are possessed
and give delight.”

“It is the diamond known as Ignifer,” Dr. Leonrod remarked, “a sort of
adventurer among precious stones.”

“Ignifer is an appropriate name for a diamond,” said Randolph. “But why
do you speak of it so gravely? What, except its price, makes it differ
from other stones? Has it had so strange a fate?”

“Undoubtedly,” said Dr. Leonrod, “most strange. I happen to know the
details because, as a professional mineralogist, I take a certain
interest in precious stones, too.”

“Do tell us about it!” the young officers cried.

“Whoever buys Ignifer,” Dr. Leonrod began, “will show no little
courage. The jewel is a tragic thing. It has been proved that its
first owner was Madame de Montespan. No sooner did it come into her
possession than the king dismissed her. Marie Antoinette owned it next.
It weighed ninety-five carats at that time. But during the Revolution
it was stolen and divided, and did not reappear until fifty years
later. The recovered stone weighed sixty carats. An Englishman, named
Thomas Horst, bought it, and was soon murdered. The heirs sold it to
an American. The lady who wore it, a Mrs. Malmcote, was throttled by
a madman at a ball. Then Prince Alexander Tshernitsheff brought it to
Russia, and gave it to an actress who was his mistress. Another lover
shot and killed her on the stage. The prince was blown to pieces by a
nihilist. Then the stone was brought to Paris, and purchased by the
Sultan Abdul Hamid for his favourite wife. The woman was poisoned, and
you all know what happened to the Sultan. After the Turkish Revolution
Ignifer drifted West again, and then back to the Orient. For its new
owner, Tavernier, took a voyage to India, and was shipwrecked and
drowned. For a time it was thought that the diamond was lost. But that
was an error; it had been deposited in a safety vault in a Calcutta
bank. Now it is back in Europe, and for sale.”

“The stone must harbour an evil spirit,” said Randolph. “I confess that
I have no desire for it. I am very little inclined to superstition; but
when the facts are as compelling as in this case, the most enlightened
scepticism seems rebuked.”

“What does all that matter if the stone is beautiful, if it really is
incomparably lovely?” Christian cried, with a defiant look, that yet
seemed turned inward upon his soul. After this he said little, even
when the conversation drifted to other subjects.

Next day at noon he ordered his car and drove in to Frankfort to the
shop of the jeweller David Markuse.


VII

Herr Markuse knew Christian.

Ignifer was kept in the safe of a fire-proof and burglar-proof vault.
Herr Markuse lifted the stone out of its case, laid it upon the green
cloth of a table, stepped aside, and looked at Christian.

Christian looked silently at the concentrated radiance of the stone.
His thought was: This is the rarest and costliest thing in the world;
nothing can surpass it. And it was immediately clear to him that he
must own the jewel.

The diamond had the faintest tinge of yellow. It had been cut so that
it had many rich facets. A little groove had been cut into it near one
end, so that a woman could wear it around her neck by a thin chain or
a silken cord.

Herr Markuse lifted it upon a sheet of white paper and breathed upon
it. “It is not of the first water,” he said, “but it has neither rust
nor knots. There is no trace of veins or cracks, no cloudiness or
nodules. Not a flaw. The stone is one of nature’s miracles.”

The price was five hundred and fifty thousand marks. Christian offered
the half million. Herr Markuse consulted his watch. “I promised a lady
that I would hold it,” he declared. “But the promised hour is past.”
They agreed upon five hundred and twenty thousand marks. Half was to
be paid in cash, the other in two notes running for different periods.
“The name of Wahnschaffe is sufficient guarantee,” the merchant said.

Christian weighed the diamond in his hand, and laid it down again.

David Markuse smiled. “In my business one learns how to judge people,”
he said without any familiarity. “You are making this purchase with a
deeper intention than you yourself are probably conscious of. The soul
of the diamond has lured you on. For the diamond has a soul.”

“Do you really mean that?” Christian was surprised.

“I know it. There are people who lose all shame when they see a
beautiful jewel. Their nostrils quiver, their cheeks grow pale, their
hands tremble uncertainly, their pupils expand, and they betray
themselves by every motion. Others are intimidated, or bereft of their
senses, or saddened. You gain curious insights into human nature. The
masks drop. Diamonds make people transparent.”

The indiscreet turn of the conversation irritated Christian. But he had
often before become aware of the fact that something in him seemed to
invite the communicativeness and confidence of others. He arose, and
promised to return that evening.

“The lady of whom I was speaking,” Markuse continued, as he accompanied
him to the door, “and who was here yesterday, is a very wonderful
lady. When she came in, I thought: is it possible for mere walking to
be so beautiful? Well, I soon found out that she is a famous dancer.
She is stopping at the Palace Hotel for a day, on her way from Paris
to Russia, merely in order to see Ignifer. I showed her the stone. She
stood looking at it for at least five minutes. She did not move, and
the expression of her face! Well, if the jewel didn’t represent a large
part of all I have in the world, I would have begged her simply to
keep it. Such moments are not exactly frequent in my business. She was
to have returned to-day, but, as I have told you, she didn’t keep her
engagement.”

“And you don’t know her name?” Christian asked, shyly.

“Oh, yes. Her name is Eva Sorel. Did you ever hear of her?”

The blood came into Christian’s face. He let go the knob of the door.
“Eva Sorel is here?” he murmured. He pulled himself together, and
opened the door to an empty room that was carpeted in red, and the
walls of which were hidden by ebony cases. Almost at the same moment
the opposite door was thrown open; and, followed by four gentlemen, Eva
Sorel crossed the threshold.

Christian stood perfectly still.

“Eidolon!” Eva cried, and she folded her hands in that inimitably
enthusiastic and happy gesture of hers.


VIII

Christian did not know the gentlemen who were with her. Their features
and garments showed them to be foreigners. Accustomed to surprising
events in Eva’s daily life, they regarded Christian with cool curiosity.

Eva’s whole form was wrapped in a grey mole-skin coat. Her fur cap was
trimmed with an aigrette of herons’ feathers, held by a marvellous ruby
clasp. From under the cap her honey-coloured hair struggled forth. The
wintry air had given her skin an exquisite delicate tinge of pink.

With a few steps she came stormily to Christian, and her white gloved
hands sought both of his. Her great and flaming looks drove his
conscious joy and his perceptions of her presence back upon his soul,
and fear appeared upon his features. He found himself as defenceless as
a ball flung by another’s hand. He awaited his goal.

“Did you buy Ignifer?” That was her first question. Since he was
silent, she turned with raised brows to David Markuse.

The merchant bowed and said: “I thought that I could no longer count on
you, Madame. I am sorry with all my heart.”

“You are right. I hesitated too long.” Eva spoke her melodious German,
with its slightly foreign intonation. Turning to Christian she went on:
“Perhaps it makes no difference, Eidolon, whether you have it or I. It
is like a heart that ambition has turned to crystal. But you are not
ambitious. If you were, we should have met here like two birds swept by
a storm into the same cave. The preciousness of the stone almost makes
it ghostly to me, and I would permit no one to give it to me who was
not conscious of its significance. And who is there? What do they give
one? Wares from a shop, that is all.”

David Markuse looked at her in admiration, and nodded.

“It is said to bring misfortune to its possessors,” Christian almost
whispered.

“Do you intend to test yourself, Eidolon, and put it to the proof?
Will you challenge the demon to prevail against you? Ah, that is what
allured me, too. Its name made me envious. As I held it, it seemed like
the navel of Buddha, from which one cannot divert one’s thought, if one
has once seen it.”

She noticed that the people about them seemed to make Christian
hesitate, so she took his arm, and drew him behind the curtains of a
window-niche.

“That it brings misfortune to people is certain,” Christian repeated
mechanically. “How can I keep it, Eva, since you desired it?”

“Keep it and break the evil spell,” Eva answered, and laughed. But his
seriousness remained unchanged; and she apologized for her laughter by
a gesture, as though she were throwing aside the undue lightness of
her mood. She watched him silently. In the sharp light reflected from
the snow, her eyes were green as malachite. “What are you doing with
yourself?” she asked. “Your eyes look lonesome.”

“I have been living rather alone for some time,” answered Christian.
His utterances were dry and precise. “Crammon too has left me.”

“Ivan Becker wrote me about you,” Eva said in muffled tones. “I kissed
the letter. I carried it in my bosom, and said the words of it over to
myself. Is there such a thing as an awakening? Can the soul emerge from
the darkness, as a flower does from the bulb? But there you stand in
your pride, and do not move. Speak! Our time is short.”

“Why speak at all?”

Although his eyes seemed so unseeing, it did not escape him that Eva’s
face had changed. A new severity was on it, and a heightened will
controlled its nerves, even to the raising and lowering of her long
lashes. Experience of men and things had lent it an austere radiance,
and her unbounded mastery over them a breath of grandeur.

“I had not forgotten that this is the city where you dwell,” she said,
“but in these driven hours there was no place for you. They count my
steps, and lie in wait for the end of my sleeping. What I should have
is either a prison or a friend unselfish enough to force me to be more
frugal of myself. In Lisbon the queen gave me a beautiful big dog,
who was so devoted to me that I felt it in my very body. A week later
he was found poisoned at the gate of the garden. I could have put on
mourning for him. How silent and watchful he was, and how he could
love!” She raised her shoulders with a little shiver, dropped them
again, and continued with hurry in her voice. “I shall summon you some
day. Will you come? Will you be ready?”

“I shall come,” Christian answered very simply, but his heart throbbed.

“Is your feeling for me the same--changeless and unchangeable?” In her
look there was an indescribably lyrical lift, and her body, moved by
its spirit, seemed to emerge from veils.

He only bowed his head.

“And how is it in the matter of _cortesia_?” She came nearer to him,
so that he felt her breath on his lips. “He smiles,” she exclaimed,
and her lips opened, showing her teeth, “instead of just once throwing
himself on his knees in rage or jubilation--he smiles. Take care, you
with your smile, that I am not tempted to extinguish your smiling some
day.” She stripped the glove from her right hand, and gave the naked
hand to Christian, who touched it with his lips. “It is a compact,
Eidolon,” she said serenely now, and with an air of seduction, “and
you will be ready.” Emerging from the niche, she turned to the
gentlemen who had come with her, and who had been holding whispered
conversations: “Messieurs, nous sommes bien pressés.”

She inclined her head to the jeweller, and the heron feathers trembled.
The four gentlemen let her precede them swiftly, and followed her
silently and reverently.


IX

When next Christian went through the village and saw Amadeus Voss at
the window, he stopped.

Voss got up suddenly and opened the window, and thereupon Christian
approached.

It was a time of thaw. The water dripped from the roofs and gutters.
Christian felt the moist air swept by tepid winds as something that
gives pain.

Behind the powerful lenses the eyes of Amadeus Voss had a yellowish
glitter. “We must be old acquaintances,” he said, “although it is very
long ago since we hunted blackberries among the hedges. Very long.” He
laughed a little weakly.

Christian had determined to lead the conversation to the dead brother
of Amadeus. There was that event in the mist of the past concerning
which he could gain no clearness, much as he might reflect.

“I suppose everybody is wondering about me,” Voss said, in the tone
of one who would like to know what people are saying. “I seem to be a
stumbling-block to them. Don’t you think so?”

“I mustn’t presume to judge,” Christian said, guardedly.

“With what an expression you say that!” Voss murmured, and looked
Christian all over. “How proud you are. Yet it must have been curiosity
that made you stop.”

Christian shrugged his shoulders. “Do you remember an incident that
took place when I stayed here with my father?” he asked gently and
courteously.

“What kind of an incident? I don’t know. Or--but wait! Do you mean that
affair of the pig? When they killed the pig over there in the inn, and
I----”

“Quite right. That was it,” Christian said with a faint smile. He had
scarcely spoken when the scene and the incident appeared with unwonted
clarity before his mind.

He and Amadeus and the deaf and dumb Dietrich had been standing at
the gate. And the pig had begun to scream. At that moment Amadeus had
stretched out his arms, and held them convulsively trembling in the
air. The long, loud, and piercing cry of the beast’s death agony had
been something new and dreadful to Christian too, and had drawn him
running to the spot whence it came. He saw the gleaming knife, the
uplifted and then descending arm of the butcher, the struggle of the
short, bristly legs, and the quivering and writhing of the victim’s
body. The lips of Amadeus, who had reeled after him, had been flecked
with foam, and he pointed and moaned: “Blood, blood!” And Christian had
seen the blood on the earth, on the knife, on the white apron of the
man. He did not know what happened next. But Amadeus knew.

He said: “When the pig screamed, a convulsive rigour fell upon me. For
many hours I lay stiff as a log. My parents were badly frightened,
for I had never had any such attacks before. What you remember is
probably how they tried to cheer me or shame me out of my collapse.
They walked into the puddle of blood and stamped about in it so that
the blood spurted. My dumb brother noticed that this only increased
my excitement. He made noises in his throat, and raised his hands
beseechingly, while my mother was hastening from the house. At that
moment you struck him in the face with your fist.”

“It is true. I struck him,” said Christian, and his face became very
pale.

“And why? Why did you do that? We haven’t met since that day, and we’ve
only seen each other from afar. That is, I’ve seen you. You were far
too proud and too busy with your friends to see me. But why did you
strike Dietrich that day? He had a sort of silent adoration of you. He
followed you about everywhere. Don’t you remember? We often laughed
about it. But from that day on he was changed--markedly so.”

“I believe I hated him at that moment,” Christian said, reflectively.
“I hated him because he could neither hear nor speak. It struck me as
a sort of malevolent stubbornness.”

“Strange! It’s strange that you should have felt so.”

They both became silent. Christian started to leave. Voss rested his
arms on the window ledge and leaned far out. “There’s a paragraph in
the paper saying that you’ve bought a diamond for half a million. Is
that true?”

“It is true,” Christian replied.

“A single diamond for over half a million? I thought it was merely a
newspaper yarn. Is the diamond to be seen? Would you show it to me?” In
his face there was something of horrified revolt, of panting desire,
but also of mockery. Christian was startled.

“With pleasure, if you’ll come to see me,” he answered, but determined
to have himself denied to Voss if the latter really came.

For a secret stirred him again, a depth opened at his feet, an arm was
stretched out after him.


X

On a certain night Letitia awoke and heard dragging, running steps,
the breathing of pursuers and pursued, whispers and hoarse curses, now
nearer, now farther. She sat up and listened. Her bed-chamber opened
upon gardens. Its doors led to the verandah that surrounded the entire
house.

Then the hurrying steps approached; she saw forms that detached
themselves in black from the greenish night and flitted by: one, and
then another, and then a third, and after a little while a fourth. She
was frightened, but she hated to call for help. To rouse Stephen, who
slept in the adjoining room, was a risk for her, as it was for every
one. At such times he would roar like a steer, and strike out wildly.

Letitia laughed and shuddered at the thought.

She fought her fear, got up, threw on a dressing gown, and stepped
determinedly on the verandah. At that moment thick clouds parted and
revealed the moon. Surprised by the unexpected light, the four forms
stopped suddenly, collided against each other, and stood panting and
staring.

What Letitia saw was old Gottlieb Gunderam and his three sons,
Riccardo, Paolo, and Demetrios, the brothers of her husband. There was
an unquenchable distrust between this father and his sons. They watched
and lay in wait for each other. If there was cash in the house, the old
man did not dare go to bed, and each of the brothers accused the rest
of wanting to rob their father. Letitia knew that much. But it was new
to her that in their dumb rage and malice they went so far as to chase
each other at night, each pursuer and pursued at once, each full of
hatred of the one in front and full of terror of the one behind him.
She laughed and shuddered.

The old man was the first to slink away. He dragged himself to his
room, and threw himself on the bed in his clothes. Beside the bed stood
two huge travelling boxes, packed and locked. They had stood thus for
twenty years. Daily, during all that period, he had determined at
least once to flee to the house in Buenos Ayres, or even to the United
States, whenever the conflict, first with his wife and later with his
sons, became too much for him. He had never started on that flight; but
the boxes stood in readiness.

Silently and secretively the brothers also disappeared. While Letitia
stood on the verandah and looked at the moon, she heard the rattle of a
phonograph. Riccardo had recently bought it in the city, and it often
happened that he set it to playing at night.

Letitia stepped a little farther, and peered into the room in which the
three brothers sat with sombre faces and played poker. The phonograph
roared a vulgar waltz out of its brazen throat.

Then Letitia laughed and shuddered.


XI

Christian wondered whether Amadeus would come. Two days passed in
slightly depressing suspense.

He had really intended to go to Waldleiningen to look after his horses.
Sometimes he could actually see their spirited yet gentle eyes, their
velvet coats, and that fine nervousness that vibrated between dignity
and restiveness. He recalled with pleasure the very odour of the
stables.

The pure bred Scotch horse which he had bought of Denis Lay was to run
in the spring races. His grooms told him that the beautiful animal had
been in poor form for some weeks, and he thought that perhaps it missed
his tender hand. Nevertheless he did not go to Waldleiningen.

On the third day Amadeus Voss sent a gardener to ask whether he might
call that evening. Instead Christian went down to the forester’s house
that afternoon at four, and knocked at the door.

Voss looked at him suspiciously. With the instinct of the oppressed
classes he divined the fact that Christian wanted to keep him from his
house. But Christian was far from being as clear about his own motives
as Amadeus suspected. He scented a danger. Some magic in it drew him on
half-consciously to go forth to meet it.

Looking about in the plain but clean and orderly room Christian saw on
the tinted wall above the bed white slips of paper on which verses of
Scripture had been copied in a large hand. One was this: “He was led
as a sheep to the slaughter; and like a lamb dumb before his shearer,
so opened he not his mouth.” And another was this: “For it is a day of
trouble, and of treading down, and of perplexity by the Lord God of
hosts in the valley of vision, breaking down the walls, and of crying
to the mountains.” And this other: “The Lord said unto me, Within a
year, within the years of an hireling, and all the glory of Kedar shall
fail.” And finally there was this: “I know thy works, that thou art
neither cold nor hot; I would thou were cold or hot. So then because
thou art lukewarm, and neither cold or hot, I will spue thee out of my
mouth.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Christian looked at Amadeus Voss long and curiously. Then he asked,
in a very careful voice, and yet not without an inevitable tinge of
worldly mockery: “Are you very religious?”

Amadeus frowned and answered: “Whether I answer one way or the other
it will mean equally little to you. Did you come to cross-question
me? Have we anything in common that an answer to that question could
reveal? Amadeus Voss and Christian Wahnschaffe--are those not the
names of sundered poles? What image is there that could express the
differences that divide us? Your faith and mine! And such things are
possible on the same earth!”

“Was your youth especially hard?” Christian asked, innocently.

Voss gave a short laugh, and looked at Christian sidewise. “D’you know
what meal days are? Of course you don’t. Well, on such days you get
your meals at strangers’ houses who feed you out of charity. Each day
of the week you’re with another family. Each week repeats the last.
Not to be thought ungrateful you must be obedient and modest. Even if
your stomach revolts at some dish, you must pretend it’s a delicacy.
If the grandfather laughs, you must laugh too; if an uncle thinks
he’s a wit, you must grin. If the daughter of the house chooses to be
insolent, you must be silent. If they respond to your greeting, it’s a
great favour; the worn overcoat with ragged lining they gave you when
winter came binds you in eternal gratitude. You come to know all the
black moods of all these people with whom you sit at table, all their
shop-worn opinions, their phrases and hypocritical expressions; and for
the necessary hour of each day you must learn to practise its special
kind of dissembling. That is the meaning of meal days.”

He got up, walked to and fro, and resumed his seat. “The devil appeared
to me early,” he said in a hollow voice. “Perhaps I took a certain
experience of my childhood more grievously to heart than others,
perhaps the poison of it filtered deeper into me. But you cannot
forget. It is graven upon my soul that my drunken father beat my
mother. He did it every Saturday night with religious regularity. That
image is not to be obliterated.”

Christian did not take his eyes from the face of Amadeus.

Softly, and with a rigid glance, Voss continued: “One night before
Easter, when I was eight years old, he beat her again. I rushed into
the yard, and cried out to the neighbours for help. Then I looked up
at the window, and I saw my mother stand there wringing her hands in
despair. And she was naked.” And his voice almost died into silence as
he added: “Who is it that dare see his own mother naked?”

Again he arose and wandered about the room. He was so full of himself
that his speech seemed indeed addressed to himself alone. “Two things
there are that made me reflect and wonder even in my childhood.
First, the very many poor creatures, whom my father reported because
they stole a little wood, and who were put in prison. I often heard
some poor, little old woman or some ragged half-starved lad beg for
mercy. There was no mercy here. My father was the forester, and had
to do his duty. Secondly, there were the many rich people who live
in this part of the country in their castles, on their estates, in
their hunting-lodges, and to whom nothing is denied that their wildest
impulses demand. Between the two one stands as between two great
revolving cylinders of steel. One is sure to be crushed to bits in the
end.”

For a while he gazed into emptiness. “What is your opinion of an
informer?” he asked, suddenly.

Christian answered with a forced smile: “It’s not a good one.”

“Listen to me. In the seminary I had a fellow-student named Dippel.
His gifts were moderate, but he was a decent chap and a hard worker.
His father was a signalman on the railroad--one of the very poor, and
his son was his one hope and pride. Dippel happened to be acquainted
with a painter in whose studio he came across an album of photographs
displaying the female form in plastic poses. The adolescent boy gazed
at them again and again, and finally begged the painter to lend him the
album. Dippel slept in my dormitory. I was monitor, and I soon observed
the crowding and the sensuous atmosphere about Dippel, who had shown
the pictures to a few friends. It was like a spreading wound. I went
into the matter and ruthlessly confiscated the pictures. I informed the
faculty. Dippel was summoned, sternly examined, and expelled. Next day
we found him swinging dead from the apple tree.”

Christian’s face flushed hotly. The tone of equanimity with which it
was recited was more repulsive than the story itself.

Amadeus Voss continued: “You think that was a contemptible action. But
according to the principles that had been impressed on us I was merely
doing my duty. I was sixteen; and I seemed to be, and was, in a dark
hole. I needed to get out to the air and light. I was like one squeezed
in by a great throng, who cannot see what happens beyond. The fumes of
impatience throttled me, and everything in me cried out for space and
light. It was like living on the eternally dark side of the moon. I was
afraid of the might of evil; and all that I heard of men was more or
less evil. The scales rose and fell in my breast. There are hours in
which one can either become a murderer or die on the cross. I yearned
for the world. Yet I prayed much in those days, and read many books of
devotion, and practised cruel penances. Late at night, when all others
slept, a priest found me absorbed in prayer with the hair-shirt about
my body. During mass or choral singing an incomparable and passionate
devotion streamed through me. But then again I saw flags in the streets
of the city, or well-dressed women, or I stood in the railway station,
and a train of luxurious cars seemed to mock me. Or I saw a man who had
hurled himself out of a window and whose brains spattered the pavement,
and he seemed to cry out to me: Brother, brother! Then the evil one
arose in bodily form and I desired to clutch him. Yes, evil has bodily
form and only evil--injustice, stupidity, lying, all the things that
are repulsive to one to the very core, but which one must embrace and
be, if one has not been born with a silver spoon in one’s mouth. To
save a ray of light for myself, I learned to play the organ. It helped
little. What does music matter, or poems or beautiful pictures, or
noble buildings, or books of philosophy, or the whole magnificent world
without? I cannot reach myself. Between me and that real self there is
something--what is it? A wall of red-hot glass. Some are accursed from
the beginning. If I ask: how could the curse be broken? there is but
one answer: the monstrous would need to come to pass, the unimaginable!
Thus it is with me.”

Christian was shocked. “What do you mean by that?”

“One would have to gain a new experience,” answered Amadeus Voss, “to
know a being truly human--in the highest and deepest sense.” In the
gathering dusk his face had the hue of stone. It was a well-shaped
face--long, narrow, intelligent, full of impassioned suffering. The
lenses in front of his eyes sparkled in the last light of day, and on
his fair hair was a glimmer as upon jewels.

“Are you going to stay in the village?” Christian inquired, not from
a desire to know, but out of the distress which he felt in the heavy
silence. “You were employed by Councillor Ribbeck. Will you return to
him?”

Voss’s nerves twitched. “Return? There is no return,” he murmured.
“Do you know Ribbeck? Well, I hardly know him myself. I saw him just
twice. The first time was when he came to the seminary to engage a
tutor for his sons. When I think of him I have the image of something
fat and frozen. I was picked out at once. My superiors approved of me
highly and desired to smooth my path. Yes. And I saw him for the second
time one night in December, when he appeared at Halbertsroda with a
commissary of police to put me out. You needn’t look at me that way.
There were no further consequences. It wouldn’t have done to permit
any.”

He fell silent. Christian got up. Voss did not urge him to stay longer,
but accompanied him to the door. There he said in a changed voice:
“What kind of a man are you? One sits before you and pours out one’s
soul, and you sit there in silence. How does it happen?”

“If you regret it I shall forget all you have said,” Christian answered
in his flexible, courteous way, that always had a touch of the
equivocal.

Voss let his head droop. “Come in again when you are passing,” he
begged gently. “Perhaps then I’ll tell you about what happened there!”
He pointed with his thumb across his shoulder.

“I shall come,” said Christian.


XII

Albrecht Wahnschaffe came into his wife’s bedroom. She was in bed. It
was a magnificent curtained bed with carved posters. On both sides of
the wall hung costly tapestries representing mythological scenes. A
coverlet of blue damask concealed Frau Wahnschaffe’s majestic form.

Gallantly he kissed the hand which she held out toward him with a weary
gesture, and glided into an armchair. “I want to talk to you about
Christian,” he said. “For some time his doings have worried me. He
drifts and drifts. The latest thing is his purchase of that diamond.
There is a challenge in such an action. It annoys me.”

Frau Wahnschaffe wrinkled her forehead, and answered: “I see no need to
worry. Many sons of wealthy houses pass their time as Christian does.
They are like noble plants that need adornment. They seem to me to
represent a high degree of human development. They regard themselves
quite rightly as excellent within themselves. By birth and wealth they
are freed from the necessity of effort. Their very being is in their
aristocratic aloofness and inviolability.”

Albrecht Wahnschaffe bowed. He played with his slender white fingers
that bore no sign of age. He said: “I’m sorry that I cannot quite
share your opinion. It seems to me that in the social organism each
member should exercise a function that serves the whole. I was brought
up with this view, and I cannot deny it in favour of Christian. I am
not inclined to quarrel with his mere expenditure of money, though he
has exceeded his budget considerably during the last few months. The
house of Wahnschaffe cannot be touched even by such costly pranks. What
annoys me is the aimlessness of such a life, its exceedingly obvious
lack of any inner ambition.”

From under her wearily half-closed lids Frau Wahnschaffe regarded her
husband coolly. It angered her that he desired to draw Christian, who
had been created for repose and play, delight and beauty, into his
own turbid whirl. She answered with a touch of impatience: “You have
always let him choose his own path, and you cannot change him now. All
do not need to toil. Business is terribly unappetizing. I have borne
two sons--one for you, one for myself. Demand of yours what you will
and let him fulfil what he can. I like to think of mine and be happy
in the thought that he is alive. If anything has worried me it is the
fact that, since his trip to England, Christian has withdrawn himself
more and more from us, and also, I am told, from his friends. I hope it
means nothing. Perhaps there is a woman behind it. In that case it will
pass; he does not indulge in tragic passions. But talking exhausts me,
Albrecht. If you have other arguments, I beg you to postpone them.”

She turned her head aside, and closed her eyes in exhaustion. Albrecht
Wahnschaffe arose, kissed her hand with the same gallant gesture, and
went out.

But her saying that she had borne one son for him and one for herself
embittered him a little against his wife, whom he commonly regarded as
an inviolable being of finer stuff. Why did I build all this? he asked
himself, as he slowly passed through the magnificent halls.

It was more difficult for him to approach Christian than a member
of the ministry or a distinguished foreigner. He vacillated between
issuing a request and a command. He was not sure of his authority, and
even less of any friendly understanding. But while he was spending
a few days of rest and recreation in the family’s ancestral house
at Würzburg, he sent a message to Christian, and begged him for an
interview.


XIII

Crammon wrote to Christian. It was his humour to affect an archaic
manner of speech:

“Most Honoured and Worthy Friend: With deep satisfaction I learn
that your Worship has ruefully returned to the god Dionysos, and as
a sign thereof laid down upon his altar a jewel, whose price has
caused the teeth of the Philistines in the land to rattle, and their
lame digestions to work with unwelcome swiftness. Your servant, the
undersigned, did, on the contrary, when the news of happy augury came
to him, perform a dance in his lonely closet, which so shocked the
ladies of his palace that they at once called up psychiatrists on the
telephone. Thus the world, barren of understanding, is incapable of
great reflections.

“Unlovely are my days. I am ensnared in amorous adventures which do
not content me, and, in addition, disappoint those who are involved.
At times I sit by the charming glow of my chimney fire, and, closing
my eyes, peruse the book of memory. A bottle of golden-hued cognac is
my sole companion, and while I nourish my heart upon its artificial
warmth, the higher regions are wont to sink into the cold mystery of
mere idiocy. My mental powers are moving, like the crab, backward; my
virile powers decline. Years ago in Paris I knew a chess player, a
purblind old German, who lost every game he played, and exclaimed each
time: ‘Where are the days in which I vanquished the great Zuckertort?’
The latter, I must explain, was a great master of the royal game. The
necessary application to myself embarrasses me. There was once a Roman
emperor famous above all others for his power over women; Maxentius
was, I believe, the man’s name. But were I to exclaim: ‘Where are the
days in which I rivalled the great Maxentius?’ it were but damnable
boasting!

“It is a pity that you cannot be a beholder when I arise from my couch
in the morning. Were this spectacle to be tested by connoisseurs and
to be enjoyed by the laity, throngs would attend it, as whilom they
did the rising of the kings of France. The gentry of the land would
come to do me reverence, and lovely ladies would tickle me to elicit a
beam of cheer upon my face. O blessed youth, friend and playmate of my
dreams, I would have you know that the moments in which one leaves the
linen well warmed by one’s own body, and goes forth to twelve hours of
the world’s mischief, are to me moments of incomparable pitifulness.
I sit on the bed’s edge, and regard my underwear with a loud though
inward rage. Sadly I gather the remnants of my ego, and reknot the
thread of consciousness where Morpheus cut it yestereve. My soul is
strewn about, and rolls in little globules, like mercury spilt from
a broken thermometer. Only the sacrificial fumes of the tea kettle,
the fragrance of ham and of an omelet like cowslips, and, above all,
gentle words uttered by the soft lips of my considerate housekeepers,
reconcile me to my fate.

“Dear old Regamey is dead. The Count Sinsheim has had a paralytic
stroke. My friend, Lady Constance Cuningham, a member of the highest
aristocracy, has married a wealthy American bounder. The best are
going, and the tree of life is growing bare. On my trip here I stopped
over in Munich for three days as the guest of the young Imhofs. Your
sister Judith is cutting a great figure. The painters paint her, the
sculptors hew her in marble, the poets celebrate her. Yet her ambition
is still vaulting. She desires passionately a little nine-pointed
coronet upon her linen, her liveries, and her four motors, and flirts
with everything that comes from the court or goes to it. Felix, on
the contrary, being a democrat, surrounds himself with business men,
speculators, explorers, and clever people of both sexes. Hence their
house is a mixture of Guildhall, a grain exchange, a meeting of
pettifoggers, and a jockey club. After watching the goings on for an
evening, I retired to a corner with a pretty girl, and asked her to
feel my pulse. She obeyed, and my suffering soul was soothed.

“Our sweet Ariel, I am told, intoxicates the Poles in Warsaw and the
Muscovites in Moscow. In the latter city the students are said to have
expressed their homage by a torchlight procession, and the officers to
have covered the snowy streets from her dwelling to the theatre with
roses. I am also told that the Grand Duke Cyril, commonly known as
the human butcher, is half-mad with love of her, and is turning the
world topsy-turvy to get her. It fills me with a piercing, depthless
melancholy to think, O Ariel, that once I, too, felt thy breath. No
more than that; but it suffices. _Le moulin n’y est plus, mais le vent
y est encore._

“With this final remark, dear brother of my heart and sorely missed
friend, I commend you to God, and beseech you to give some sign to your
affectionately longing Bernard Gervasius C. v. W.”

When Christian had read the letter, he smiled, and laid it quietly
aside.


XIV

On the slope of the hill behind the village Christian and Amadeus Voss
met quite by chance.

“I have been waiting for you all week,” said Voss.

“I was going to come to you to-day,” said Christian. “Won’t you walk a
little with me?”

Amadeus Voss turned and accompanied Christian. They climbed the
hill-top, and then turned toward the forest. Silently they walked side
by side. The sun shone through the boughs and everything was watery.
Remnants of snow rested on the dry foliage; the ground was slippery; on
the road the water flowed in the deep ruts. When they left the forest
the sun was just setting, the sky was greenish and pink, and when they
reached the first houses of Heptrich, twilight had fallen. On the whole
way they had not exchanged a syllable. At first Voss had deliberately
not kept step with Christian. Later they walked in a rhythmic harmony
that was like the prelude to their conversations.

“I’m hungry,” said Amadeus Voss; “there is an inn yonder. Let us go.”

They entered the guest room, which they found empty. They sat down at a
table near the oven, for the cold air had chilled them. A bar-maid lit
a lamp, and brought what they ordered. Christian, in an access of fear,
which was less only than his curiosity, thought: What will happen now?
and watched Voss attentively.

“The other day I read a moral tale in an old book,” said Amadeus, and
he used a sharpened match as a tooth-pick in a way that made Christian
tremble with nervousness. “It tells about a king, who realized that men
and things in his country were growing worse every day, and he asked
four philosophers to find out the reason. The four wise men consulted,
and then each went to one of the four gates of the city and inscribed
thereon one of the chief reasons. The first wrote: ‘Here might is
right, and therefore this land has no law; day is night, and therefore
this land has no road; conflict is flight, and therefore this land has
no honour.’ The second wrote: ‘One is two here, and therefore this
land has no truth; friend is enemy here, therefore this land has no
troth; evil is good, therefore we see no piety.’ The third wrote: ‘The
snail pretends to be an eagle, and thieves hold all power.’ The fourth
wrote: ‘The will is our counsellor, and its counsel is evil; the penny
pronounces judgment, therefore our rule is vile; God is dead, and
therefore the land is filled with sins.’”

He threw the match away, and leaned his head upon his hand. “In the
same book,” he went on, “there is yet another story, and perhaps you
will feel the connection between the two. Once upon a time the earth
opened in the midst of Rome, and a yawning abyss was seen. The gods
were questioned, and they made answer: ‘This abyss will not close
until some one has leaped into it of his own free will.’ None could
be persuaded to do that. At last a youth came and said: ‘If you will
let me live for one year according to my pleasure, then at the year’s
end I shall gladly and voluntarily plunge into the abyss.’ It was
decided that nothing should be forbidden him, and he used the women and
possessions of the Romans freely and at his pleasure. All yearned for
the moment to come when they could be rid of him. And when the year was
gone, he rode up on a noble charger, and with it leaped into the abyss,
which immediately closed behind him.”

Christian shrugged his shoulders. “It is all dark to me,” he said
moodily. “Did you really want to tell me these old tales? They have no
meaning.”

Voss laughed hoarsely to himself. “You are not nimble,” he said, “you
have not a nimble mind. Have you never felt the need of seeking refuge
in some metaphor? It is like a drug that stills pain.”

“I don’t know what you mean by that,” Christian said, and again he
heard the other’s soft laughter.

“Let us go,” said Christian and arose.

“Very well. Let us go.” Voss spoke with a morose air. And they went.


XV

The night air was very still and the sky sown with stars that gleamed
coldly. When the village lay behind them, they heard no sound.

“How long were you in Ribbeck’s house?” Christian asked suddenly.

“Ten months,” Amadeus Voss replied. “When I got to Halbertsroda, the
land lay under ice and snow. When I left, the land lay under ice and
snow. Between my coming and going, there was a spring, a summer, and an
autumn.”

He stopped for a moment, and gazed after an animal that in the darkness
leaped across the road and disappeared in the furrows of a field. Then
he began to talk, at first in a staccato manner and drily, then vividly
and tempestuously, and at last gasping for breath. They wandered away
from the road, but were not aware of it; the hour grew late, but they
did not know it.

Voss told his story:

“I had never seen a house like that. The carpets, pictures, tapestries,
the silver, the many servants--it was all new to me. I had never eaten
of such dishes nor slept in such beds. I came from amid four bare
walls, from a cot, an iron stove, a wash stand, a book shelf, and a
crucifix.

“My two pupils were eleven and thirteen. The older was blond and spare,
the younger brunette and stocky. Their hair hung down their shoulders
like manes. From the very first hour they treated me with a jeering
resistance. At first I did not see Frau Ribbeck at all. Not till a week
had passed did she summon me. She made the impression of a young girl;
she had rust-red hair and a pale, intimidated, undeveloped face. She
treated me with a contempt that I had not expected, and that drove
the blood into my temples. My meals were served to me alone. I was not
permitted to eat at the master’s table, and the servants treated me as
their equal. That gnawed at me cruelly. When Frau Ribbeck appeared in
the garden and I lifted my hat, she barely nodded, blind and shameless
in her contempt for one whom she paid. I was no more to her than thin
air!

“It is as old as the world, this sin that was sinned against my soul.
Ye sinners against my soul, why did you let me famish? Why did I taste
of renunciation while ye revelled? How shall a hungry man withstand the
temptations which the living Tempter places before him? Do you think we
are not aware of your gluttony? All action, whether good or evil, runs
through all nature. When the grape blossoms in Madeira, the wine that
has been pressed from it stirs in a thousand casks far over sea and
land, and a new fermentation sets in.

“One morning the boys locked the door of their room and refused
to come to their instruction. While I shook the knob they mocked
me from within. In the halls the servants stood and laughed at my
powerlessness. I went to the gardener, borrowed an axe, and crashed
through the door with three blows. A minute later I was in the room.
The boys looked at me in consternation, and realized at last that I
would not endure their insolence. The noise had brought Frau Ribbeck
to the scene. She looked at the broken door and then at me. I shall
never forget that look. She did not turn her eyes from me even while
she was speaking to the children, and that was at least ten minutes.
Her eyes asked: How dare you? Who are you? When she went out, she saw
the axe near the door and stopped a moment, and I saw her shiver. But I
knew that the direction of the wind had changed. Also it came into my
consciousness that a human woman had stood before me.

“The teasing of my pupils was by no means at an end. On the contrary,
they annoyed me as much as possible. But they did it secretively
now, and the blame was hard to fix. I found pebbles and needles in
my bed, ink spilled over my books, a horrible rent in the best suit
of clothes I had. They jeered at me before others, lied about me to
their mother, and exchanged glances of shameless insolence when I held
them responsible. What they did was not like the ordinary mischief of
silly boys. They had been sophisticated by luxury. They were afraid
of a draught, had the rooms so overheated that one grew faint, and
thought of nothing but physical comforts. Once they fought, and the
younger bit the older’s finger. The boy went to bed for three days, and
insisted that a physician be called. Nor was this merely a case of lazy
malingering; bottomless malevolence and vengefulness entered into it.
They considered me as far beneath them, and lost no chance to make me
feel my dependent position. My mood was often bitter, but I determined
to practise patience.

“One evening I entered the drawing-room. The hour which I had set as
the boys’ bed-time was past. Frau Ribbeck sat on the carpet, the boys
snuggled on either side of her. She was showing them the pictures in
a book. Her hair hung loose,--an unfitting thing, I thought--and its
reddish splendour covered her as well as the boys like a mantle of
brocade. The boys fixed green and evil eyes upon me. I ordered them to
bed at once. There must have been something in my tone that frightened
them and forced them to obey. Without contradiction they got up and
retired.

“Adeline remained on the carpet. I shall simply call her Adeline, as,
indeed, I did later during our intercourse. She looked at me exactly
as she had done that day I had used the axe. One cannot well be paler
than she was by nature, but her skin now became positively transparent.
She arose, went to the table, lifted some indifferent object, and put
it down again. At the same time a mocking smile hovered upon her lips.
That smile went through and through me. And indeed the woman herself
pierced me, body and soul. You’ll misunderstand me. It doesn’t matter.
If you don’t understand, no explanations will do any good. The sheet
of ice above me cracked, and I had a glimpse of the upper world.”

“I believe I do understand you,” said Christian.

“To my question whether she desired me to leave the house, she replied
that, since her husband had engaged me, it was for her to respect the
arrangement. Her tone was frosty. I replied that the pressure of her
dislike made it impossible for my activities to be fruitful. With
an indirect glance at me, she answered that some method of decent
co-operation could probably be found, and that she would think it over.
Beginning with that evening, I was invited to table with her, and the
boys and she treated me with respect, if not with kindness. Late one
evening she sent for me and asked me to read to her. She gave me the
book from which I was to read. It was a current fashionable novel,
and, after I had read a few pages, I threw the volume on the table,
and said that the stuff nauseated me. She nodded, and answered that
that was quite her feeling, too, which she had not wanted to admit
even to herself, and that she was grateful to me for my frankness. I
went for my Bible, and read her the story of Samson from the Book of
Judges. It must have seemed naïve to her, for when I had finished that
mocking smile played again about her lips. Then she asked: ‘It’s hardly
necessary, is it, to be a hero in Judah to share Samson’s fate? And do
you think that what Delilah accomplished was so remarkable?’ I replied
that I had no experience of such matters, and she laughed.

“One word led to another, and I gathered the courage to reproach her
with the morally neglected condition of her children, and with the
wounding and vulgar quality of all I had so far seen and experienced
in her house. I intentionally used the sharpest words, in order that
she might flare up in wrath and show me the door. But she remained
quite calm, and begged me to explain my ideas more fully. I did so,
not without passion, and she heard me with pleasure. Several times I
saw her breathe deeply and stretch herself and close her eyes. She
contradicted me, then agreed, defended her position, and in the end
admitted it to be indefensible. I told her that the love which she
thought she felt for her sons was really a sort of hatred, based on
a poisoning of her own soul, in which there was yet another life and
another love, which it was wicked to condemn to withering and death.
She must have misunderstood me at this point, for she looked at me with
her large eyes suddenly, and bade me go. When I had closed her door
behind me, I heard sobs. I opened the door again, and saw her sitting
there with her face hidden in her hands. I had the impulse to return to
her. But her gesture dismissed me.

“I had never before seen any woman cry except my mother. I cannot
tell you of my feelings. If I had had a sister and grown up in her
companionship, I might have acted and felt differently. But Adeline was
the first woman whom, in any deeper sense, I truly saw.

“Several days later she asked me whether I had any hope of forming her
boys into human beings in my sense. She said that she had reflected on
all I had urged, and had come to the conclusion that things could not
go on as they were. I answered that it was not yet too late. She begged
me to save what was possible, and announced that, in order to leave
me a free hand, she had determined to travel for a few months. Three
days later she departed. She took no personal farewell of her sons, but
wrote them a letter from Dresden.

“I took the boys with me to a hunting lodge, that lay isolated in the
woods, at a distance of two hours from Halbertsroda. It belonged to the
Ribbeck estate, and Adeline had assigned it to me as a refuge. There
I settled down with the boys and took them sternly in hand. Sometimes
dread overcame me, when I thought of the words of Scripture: Why do
you seek constantly to change your way? Beware lest you be deceived by
Egypt, as you were deceived by Assyria.

“A deaf, old man-servant cooked for us, and luxurious meals were a
thing of the past. The boys had to pray, to fast once a week, to
sleep on hard mattresses, and to rise at five in the morning. In every
way I broke down their stubbornness, their dull sloth, their furtive
sensuality, their plots and tricks. There was no play now, and the
days were divided with iron regularity. I shrank from no severity. I
chastised them; at the slightest disobedience I used a whip. I taught
them the meaning of pain. When they cowered naked before me, with the
bloody stripes on their bodies, I spoke to them of the martyrdom of
the saints. I kept a diary, in order that Adeline might know exactly
what had happened. The boys started when they heard me from afar; they
trembled if I but raised my head. Once I came upon them whispering
to each other in bed at night. I drove them out. They screamed and
fled out of the house from me. In their night shifts they ran into
the forest, and I, with two dogs following me, pursued them. Rain
began to pour, and at last they broke down and threw themselves on
the ground and begged for mercy. Most difficult of all it was to lead
them to Confession. But I was stronger than the Evil One within them,
and forced them to cleanse their souls. Bitter hours were the hours I
endured. But I had made a vow to Adeline in my heart.

“The boys became thoughtful, subdued, and silent. They went into
corners and wept. When Adeline returned I took them to Halbertsroda,
and she marvelled at the change in them. They flung themselves into
her arms, but they uttered no complaint against me, either then or
when they were left alone with her. I had told them that if they
were disobedient or stubborn, we would return to the hunting lodge.
One or two days a week were spent there under any circumstances.
Gradually they came to avoid their mother, and Adeline herself was more
indifferent to them. The softish, hectic, over-tender element in their
relations had disappeared.

“Adeline sought my companionship and conversation. She watched me, and
was condescending, weary, distracted in mind, and restless. She adorned
herself as though guests were coming, and combed her hair thrice
daily. In all respects she submitted to my regulations. There are
dulled, worm-eaten, smouldering souls that kneel before the raised axe
in another’s hand, and give only mockery to those who bend before them.
Often her loftiness and reserve overwhelmed me, and I thought that she
had no space for me in her mind. Then a look came into her eyes that
made me forget whence I came and what I was in her house. Everything
seemed possible with her. She was capable of setting fire to the house
by night, because she was bored, and because the cancer that ate at her
soul would cease its gnawing for no nobler ecstasy: she was capable
of standing from noon to night before her mirror to watch a deepening
furrow on her brow. Everything seemed possible. For is it not written:
What man knoweth what is in man except only the spirit of man that is
in him?

“My deep temptations began on an evening when, in the course of
conversation, she carelessly laid her hand over mine, and withdrew it
hastily. That gesture snatched from my sight the things about us. In
the space between one thought and the next I had become the slave of
visions and desires.

“She asked me to tell her about my life. I fell into that snare too,
and told her.

“Once in the twilight I met her in the hall. She stood still, and
looked at me piercingly. Then she laughed softly and moved away. I
reeled, and the sweat stood in beads on my forehead.

“My heart was heavy when I was alone. Visions appeared that set my
room in flames. My rosary and my missal were hidden from me, and I
could find neither. Always there rose the cry in me: Once only! Let me
taste that ecstasy but once! Then demons came and tormented me. All
the muscles and nerves and sinews of my body seemed lacerated. Do with
me as God wills, I whispered to the demons, for my heart is prepared.
During sleep a strange force hurled me from my bed, and unconsciously
I battered the walls with my head. One whole week I fasted upon bread
and water, but it did not avail. Once when I had sat down to read, a
huge ape stood before me and turned the leaves of my book. Every night
a seductive vision of Adeline came to my bed-side. She stood there and
spoke: ‘It is I, my beloved.’ Then I would rise and run senselessly
about. But she would follow me and whisper: ‘You shall be my master
and have all the good things of this world.’ But when I sought to
grasp that vision of her, it showed a sudden aversion, and she called
fluttering shadows to her aid. One was a notary with a pen and an
ink-well, another a locksmith with a red-hot hammer, there was a mason
with his trowel, an officer with naked sword, a woman with a painted
face.

“So terrible was my state, that I understood but slowly and gradually
the dreadful realities that took place about me. One morning Adeline
came into the room where I was teaching the boys, sat down, and
listened. She drew from her finger a ring that had in it a great,
lovely pearl, played with it thoughtfully, arose, went to the window to
watch the falling of the snow, and then left the room to go into the
garden. I could not breathe or see any longer. There was an intolerable
pressure on my chest, and I had to leave the room for a little to catch
my breath. When I returned I saw in the eyes of my pupils a look of
unwonted malevolence. I paid no attention to it. From time to time
the old rebelliousness flared up in them, but I let them be. They sat
before me half-crouching, and recited their catechism softly and with
glances full of fear.

“About ten minutes passed when Adeline returned. She said she had left
her ring on the table, and asked me whether I had seen it. She began
to search for it, and so did I. She called her maid and a footman,
who examined everything in the room; but the ring was gone. Adeline
and her servants looked at me strangely, for I stood there and could
not move. I felt at once and in every fibre that I was exposed to
their suspicion. They searched on the stairs and in the hall, in the
new fallen snow of the garden, and again in the room, since Adeline
insisted that she had taken the ring off there and forgotten it on the
table. And I confirmed this statement, although I had not actually
seen the ring on the table, since I had seen her and her gestures but
as things in a dream. All the words that were exchanged between her
and the servants seemed directed against me. I read suspicion in their
looks and changed colour, and called the boys, who had stolen away as
soon as they could, and questioned them. They suggested that their
rooms be searched, and looked at me with malignity. I begged Adeline
to have my room searched as well. She made a deprecating gesture, but
said, as though in self-justification, that she attached a peculiar
value to this ring and should hate to lose it.

“Meantime the manager of the estate, who happened to have spent that
night at Halbertsroda, entered. He passed me by without greeting,
but with a dark and hostile glance. Then it all came over me. I saw
myself delivered over to their suspicions without defence, and I said
to myself: Perhaps you have really stolen the ring. The fall from my
previous spiritual condition to this vulgar and ugly one was so sudden,
that I broke out into wild laughter, and insisted more urgently than
ever that my room and effects and even my person be searched. The
manager spoke softly to Adeline. She looked at me wanly and went out. I
emptied my pockets in the man’s presence. He followed me to my room. I
sat down by the window while he opened drawer after drawer in my chest
and opened my wardrobe. The footman, the maid, and the two boys stood
by the door. Suddenly the manager uttered a hollow cry and held up the
ring. I had known with the utmost certainty a moment before that he
would find the ring. I had read it in the faces of the boys. Therefore
I remained quietly seated while the others looked at one another and
followed the manager out. I locked my door and walked up and down, up
and down, for many, many hours.

“When the night was over, there was a solemn calm in my soul. I sent
a servant to ask Adeline whether she would receive me. She refused.
To justify myself in writing was a thing I scorned to do. I would but
degrade myself by asserting my innocence thus. My soul felt pure and
cold. I learned next day that the manager had long heard rumours of
the frightful cruelties I was said to inflict on the boys, who had,
moreover, accused their mother and myself of an adulterous intimacy.
Hence he had visited Halbertsroda secretly on several occasions, had
questioned the servants, and had, that very morning, caused the boys
to strip in his presence and had seen on their bodies the marks of the
stripes that they had received. Since, in addition, their entire state
of mind made him anxious, he sent a telegram to the Councillor, who
arrived during the night with an official of the police.

“I suspect that Adeline at once saw through the plot concerning the
ring, for it was not mentioned. The commissary turned to me and spoke
vaguely of serious consequences, but I made no attempt to explain or
excuse anything I had done. I left Halbertsroda that same night. I
did not see Adeline again. She was, I have been told, sent off to a
sanatorium. Three weeks later a little package came to me by post.
I opened it and found in it the ring with the pearl. In our yard is
a very ancient well. I went to that well and cast the ring into its
depths.

“And now you know what happened to me in that world of the higher
classes, in the house of the Councillor Ribbeck.”


XVI

They had to walk a while longer before they reached the gate of
the park of Christian’s Rest. As Voss was about to take his leave,
Christian said: “You’re probably tired. Why trouble to walk to the
village? Be my guest over night.”

“If it does not inconvenience you, I accept,” Voss answered.

They entered the house and passed into the brightly lit hall. Amadeus
Voss gazed about him in astonishment. They went up the stairs and into
the dining hall, which was furnished in the purest style of Louis XV.
Christian led his guest through other rooms into the one that was to be
his. And Amadeus Voss wondered more and more. “This is quite another
thing from Halbertsroda,” he murmured; “it is as a feast day compared
to every day.”

Silently they sat opposite each other at table. Then they went into the
library. A footman served the coffee on a silver platter. Voss leaned
against a column and looked upward. When the servant had gone, he said:
“Have you ever heard of the Telchinian pestilence? It is a disease
created by the envy of the Telchines, the hounds of Actæon who were
changed into men, and it destroys everything within its reach. A youth
named Euthilides saw with that eye of envy the reflection of his own
beauty in a spring, and his beauty faded.”

Christian looked silently at the floor.

“There is another legend of a Polish nobleman,” Amadeus continued.
“This nobleman lived alone in a white house by the Vistula river. All
his neighbours avoided him, for his envious glance brought them nothing
but misfortune. It killed their herds, set fire to their barns, and
made their children leprous. Once a beautiful maiden was pursued by
wolves and took refuge in the white house. He fell in love with her and
married her. But because the evil that was in him passed into her also,
he tore out the gleaming crystals of his eyes, and buried them near the
garden wall. He had now recovered. But the buried eyes gained new power
under the earth, and an old servitor who dug them up was slain by them.”

Sitting on a low stool, Christian had folded his arms over his knee,
and looked up at Voss.

“From time to time,” said Amadeus Voss, “one must expiate the lust of
the eye. Over in the village of Nettersheim a maid servant lies dying.
The poor thing is deserted by all the world. She lies in a shed by the
stables, and the peasants who think her merely lazy will not believe
that she is about to die. I have visited her more than once, in order
to expiate the lust of the eye.”

A long silence fell upon them. When the clock in the tall Gothic case
struck twelve, they went to their rooms.


XVII

In obedience to his father’s summons, Christian travelled to Würzburg.

Their greeting was most courteous. “I hope I have not interfered with
any plans of yours,” said Albrecht Wahnschaffe.

“I am at your disposal,” Christian said coolly.

They took a walk on the old ramparts but said little. The beautiful dog
Freia, who was the constant companion of Albrecht Wahnschaffe, trotted
along between them. It surprised the elder Wahnschaffe to observe on
Christian’s face the signs of inner change.

That evening, over their tea, he said with an admirably generous
gesture. “You’re to be congratulated, I understand, on a very unusual
acquisition. A wreath of legends surrounds this diamond. The incident
has caused quite a whirl of dust to fly and not a little amazement. Not
unjustly so, it seems to me, since you are neither a British Duke nor
an Indian Maharajah. Is the stone so very desirable?”

“It is marvellous,” Christian said. And suddenly the words of Voss
slipped into his mind: One must expiate the lust of the eye.

Albrecht Wahnschaffe nodded. “I don’t doubt it, and I understand such
passions, though, as a man of business, I must regret the tying up of
so much capital. It is an eccentricity; and the world is endangered
whenever the commoners grow eccentric. And so I should like to ask
you to reflect on this aspect of things: all the privileges which you
enjoy, all the easements of life, the possibility of satisfying your
whims and passions, the supremacy of your social station--all these
things rest on work. Need I add--on the work of your father?”

The dog Freia had strolled out from a corner of the room, and laid her
head caressingly on Christian’s knee. Albrecht Wahnschaffe, slightly
annoyed and jealous, gave her a smart slap on one flank.

He continued. “An exploitation of one’s capacity for work which reaches
the extent of mine involves, of course, the broadest self-denial in
all other matters. One becomes a ploughshare that tears up the earth
and rusts. Or one is like a burning substance, luminiferous but
self-consumed. Marriage, family, friendship, art, nature--these things
scarcely exist for me. I have lived like a miner in his shaft. And what
thanks do I get? Demagogues tell those whom they delude that I am a
vampire, who sucks the blood of the oppressed. These poisoners of our
public life either do not know or do not wish to know the shocks and
sufferings and renunciations that have been mine, and of which their
peaceful ‘wage-slave’ has no conception.”

Freia snuggled closer up to Christian, licked his hand, and her eyes
begged humbly for a look. The beast’s dumb tenderness soothed him. He
frowned, and said laconically: “If it is so, and you feel it so keenly,
why do you go on working?”

“There is such a thing as duty, my dear spoiled boy, such a thing as
loyalty to a cause,” Albrecht Wahnschaffe answered, and a gleam of
anger showed in his pale-blue eyes. “Every peasant clings to the bit of
earth into which he has put his toil. When I began to work, our country
was still a poor country; to-day it is rich. I shall not say that what
I have accomplished is considerable, when compared to the sum of our
national accomplishment, but it has counted. It is a symptom of our
rise, of our young might, of our economic welfare. We are one of the
very great nations now, and have a body as well as a countenance.”

“What you say is doubtless most true,” Christian answered. “Unhappily
I have no instinct for such matters; my personality is defective in
things of that kind.”

“A quarter of a century ago your fate would have been that of a
bread earner,” Albrecht Wahnschaffe continued, without reacting to
Christian’s words. “To-day you are a descendant and an heir. Your
generation looks upon a changed world and age. We older men have
fastened wings upon your shoulders, and you have forgotten how painful
it is to creep.”

Christian, in a sombre longing for the warmth of some body, took the
dog’s head between his hands, and with a grunt of gratitude she raised
herself up and laid her paws on his shoulders. With a smile, that
included his petting of the dog, he said: “No one refuses the good
things that fall into his lap. It is true I have never asked whence
everything comes and whither it tends. To be sure, there are other ways
of living; and I may yet embrace one of them some day. Then it will
be apparent whether one becomes another man, and what kind, when the
supports or the wings, as you put it, are gone.” His face had grown
serious.

Albrecht Wahnschaffe suddenly felt himself rather helpless before this
handsome, proud stranger who was his son. To hide his embarrassment,
he answered hastily: “A different way of living--that is just what I
mean. It was the conviction that a life which is nothing but a chain of
trifles must in the end become a burden, that made me suggest a career
to you that is worthier of your powers and gifts. How would you like
the profession of diplomacy? Wolfgang seems thoroughly satisfied with
the possibilities that he sees opening up before him. It is not too
late for you either. It will not be difficult to make up the time lost.
Your name outweighs any title of nobility. You would stay in a suitable
atmosphere; you have large means, the necessary personal qualities and
relations. Everything will adjust itself automatically.”

Christian shook his head. “You are mistaken, father,” he said, softly
but firmly. “I have no capacity for anything like that, and no taste
for it at all.”

“I suspected as much,” Albert Wahnschaffe said, in his liveliest
manner. “Let us not speak of it any more. My second proposal is far
more congenial to myself. I would encourage you to co-operate in the
activities of our firm. My plan is to create a representative position
for you in either our home or our foreign service. If you choose the
latter you may select your own field of activity--Japan, let us say,
or the United States. We would furnish you with credentials that would
make your position very independent. You would assume responsibilities
that are in no wise burdensome, and enjoy all the privileges of an
ambassador. All that is needed is your consent. I shall arrange all
details.”

Christian arose from his chair. “I beg you very earnestly, father, to
drop that subject,” he said. His expression was cold and his eyes cast
down.

Albrecht Wahnschaffe arose too. “Do not be rash, Christian,” he
admonished his son. “I shall not conceal the fact that a definitive
refusal on your part would wound me deeply. I have counted on you.” He
looked at Christian with a firm glance. But Christian was silent.

After a while he asked: “How long ago is it since you were at the
works?”

“It must be three or four years ago,” Christian answered.

“It was three years ago on Whitsuntide, if I remember rightly,”
Albrecht Wahnschaffe said, with his habitual touch of pride in his
memory, which was rarely at fault. “You had agreed on a pleasure trip
in the Harz mountains with your cousin, Theo Friesen, and Theo was
anxious to pay a flying visit to the factories. He had heard of our
new welfare movement for workingmen, and was interested in it. But you
scarcely stopped after all.”

“No, I persuaded Theo to go on. We had a long way ahead of us, and I
was anxious to get to our quarters.”

Christian remembered the whole incident now. Evening had come before
the car drove through the streets of the factory village. He had
yielded to his cousin’s wish, but suddenly his aversion for this world
of smoke and dust and sweat and iron had awakened. He had not wanted to
leave the car, and had ordered the driver to speed up.

Nevertheless he recalled the hellish music made up of beaten steel
and whirring wheels. He could still hear the thundering, whistling,
wheezing, screeching, hissing; he could still see the swift procession
of forges, cylinders, pumps, steam-hammers, furnaces, of all kinds;
the thousands of blackened faces, a race that seemed made of coal
in the breath of the fierce glow of white and crimson fires; misty
electric moons that quivered in space; vehicles like death barrows
swallowed up in the violet darkness; the workingmen’s homes, with their
appearance of comfort, and their reality of a bottomless dreariness;
the baths, libraries, club-houses, crêches, hospitals, infants’ homes,
ware-houses, churches, and cinemas. The stamp of force and servitude,
of all that is ugliest on earth, was bedizened and tinted in fair
colours here, and all menaces were throttled and fettered.

Young Friesen had exhausted himself with admiration, but Christian had
not breathed freely again until their car was out on the open road and
had left the flaring horror in its panic flight.

“And you have not been there since?” Albrecht Wahnschaffe asked.

“No, not since that day.”

For a while they stood opposite each other in silence. Albrecht
Wahnschaffe took Freia by her collar, and said with notable
self-control: “Take counsel with yourself. There is time. I shall
not urge you unduly, but rather wait. When you come to weigh the
circumstances, and test your own mind, you will realize that I have
your welfare at heart. Do not answer me now. When you have made a clear
decision--let me know what it is.”

“Have I your permission to retire?” Christian asked. His father nodded,
and he bowed and left the room.

Next morning he returned to Christian’s Rest.


XVIII

In a side street of the busiest quarter of Buenos Ayres, there stood
a house that belonged to the Gunderam family. The parents of Gottlieb
Gunderam had bought it when they came to the Argentine in the middle
of the nineteenth century. In those days its value had been small,
but the development of the city had made it a considerable property.
Gottfried Gunderam received tempting offers for it, not only from
private dealers, but from the municipality. The rickety house was to be
torn down, and to be replaced by a modern apartment house.

But Gottfried Gunderam turned a deaf ear to all offers. “The house in
which my mother died,” he declared, “shall not be sold to strangers so
long as the breath is in my body.”

This determination did not arise so much from filial piety, as from a
superstition that was powerful enough to silence even his greed. He
feared that his mother would arise from her grave and avenge herself
on him, if he permitted the family’s ancestral home to be sold and
destroyed. Wealth, good harvests, a great age, and general well-being
were, in his opinion, dependent on his action in this matter. He would
not even allow strangers to enter the house.

His sons and kinsmen mockingly called it the Escurial. Gottfried
Gunderam took no notice of their jeers, but he himself had, gradually
and quite seriously, slipped into the habit of calling the house the
Escurial.

One day, long before his voyage to Germany, Stephen had cleverly
taken advantage of his father in an hour when the old man was tipsy
and merry, and had extorted a promise that the Escurial was to be his
upon his marriage. When he came home with Letitia he counted upon the
fulfilment of this promise. He intended to establish himself as a
lawyer in Buenos Ayres, and restore the neglected house.

He reminded his father of the compact. The old man denied it bluntly.
He winked gravely. “Can you show me any record--black on white? Well,
then, what do you want? A fine lawyer you are to think that you can
enforce an agreement of which there is no record!”

Stephen did not reply. But from time to time--coldly, methodically,
calmly--he reminded the old man of his promise.

The old man said: “The woman you have married is not to my taste. She
doesn’t fit into our life. She reads and reads. It’s sickening. She’s
a milk-faced doll without sap. Let her be content with what she has. I
shan’t be such a fool as to plunge into expenditures on your account.
It would cost a pretty penny to make the Escurial habitable. And I have
no cash. Absolutely none.”

Stephen estimated the available capital of his father as amounting to
between four and five millions. “You owe me my patrimony,” he answered.

“I owe you a damned good thrashing!” the old man replied grimly.

“Is that your last word?”

The old man answered: “Far from it. I won’t speak my last word for a
dozen years. But I like peace at home, and so I’ll make a bargain with
you. Whenever your wife gives birth to a man-child, you shall have the
Escurial, and fifty thousand pesos to boot.”

“Give me the promise in writing! Black on white counts--as you yourself
said.”

The old man laughed a dry laugh. “Good!” he cried, and winked with both
eyes. “You’re improving. Glad to see that the money spent on your legal
studies wasn’t quite wasted.” With a sort of glee he sat down at his
desk, and made out the required document.

A few weeks later Stephen said to Letitia: “Let us drive to the city.
I want to show you the Escurial.”

The only living creature in that house was a mulatto woman ninety years
old. To rouse her one had to throw stones against the wooden shutters.
Then she appeared, bent almost double, half-blind, clothed in rags, a
yellow growth on her forehead.

The street, which had been laid out a century before, was a yard deeper
than the more recent ones; and Stephen and Letitia had to use a short
ladder to reach the door of the house. Within everything was mildewed
and rotten, the furniture and the floors. In the corners the spiders’
webs were like clouds, and fat hairy spiders sat in them peacefully.
The wall-paper was in rags, the window-panes were broken, and the
fire-places had caved in.

But in the room in which the mother of Gunderam had died, there stood a
beautiful inlaid table, an antique piece from a convent of Siena. The
mosaic showed two angels inclining palm-branches toward each other,
and between the two sat an eagle. Upon the table lay the dead woman’s
jewels. Brooches and chains, rings and ear-rings and bracelets, had
lain here dust-covered for many, many years. The reputation of the old
house as being haunted had protected them more effectually than barred
windows.

Letitia was frightened, and thought: “Am I to live here where ghosts
may appear at night to don their old splendour?”

But when Stephen explained his plans for rebuilding and redecorating,
she recovered her gaiety, and her imagination transformed these decayed
rooms into inviting chambers and dainty boudoirs, cool halls with tall
windows and airy, carpeted stairs.

“It depends quite simply on you whether we can have a happy and
beautiful home very soon,” Stephen declared. “I’m doing my share. I
wish I could say the same of you.”

Letitia looked away. She knew the condition which old Gunderam had
made.

Again and again she had to disappoint Stephen. The Escurial lay in its
deathlike sleep, and her husband’s face grew more and more sombre. He
sent her to church to pray; he strewed her bed with ground wall-nuts;
he made her drink a powder of bones dissolved in wine. He sent for an
old crone who was gifted in magic, and Letitia had to stand naked,
surrounded by seven tapers, and let the woman murmur over her body.
And she went to church and prayed, although she had no faith in her
praying and felt no devotion and knew nothing of God. Yet she shuddered
at the murmurs of the Italian witch, although when it was all over, she
laughed and made light of the whole thing.

In spirit she conceived the image of the child which her body denied
her. The image was of uncertain sex, but of flawless loveliness. It had
the soft eyes of a deer, the features of one of Raphael’s angels, and
the exquisite soul of an ode by Hölderlin. It was destined to great
things, and the dizzying curve of its fortune knew no decline. The
thought of this dream child filled her with vaguely beautiful emotions,
and she was amazed at Stephen’s anger and growing impatience. She was
amazed and was conscious of no guilt.

Stephen’s mother, who was known as Doña Barbara to every one, said to
her son: “I bore your father eight living creatures. Three are dead.
Four are strong men. We need not even count your sister Esmeralda. Why
is this woman barren? Chastise her, my son, beat her!”

Stephen gritted his teeth, and took up his ox-hide whip.


XIX

It was evening, and Christian went to the forester’s house. The way was
very familiar to him now. He did not analyze the inner compulsion that
drew him thither.

Amadeus Voss sat by his lamp and read in an old book. Through the
second door of the room the shadow of his mother slipped away.

After a while he asked: “Will you go with me to-morrow to Nettersheim?”

“What am I to do there?” Christian questioned in his turn.

Amadeus raised his face, and his spectacles glimmered. He murmured:
“She may be dead by this time.”

He drummed on his knees with his fingers. Since Christian said nothing,
he began to tell him the story of the woman Walpurga, who was in the
service of his uncle, the wealthy farmer Borsche.

“She was born in the village, a cottager’s daughter. At fifteen she
went to the city. She had heard of the fine life one leads there and
had great ambitions. She was in service here and there. Last she was in
the house of a merchant whose son seduced her; and of course, when it
was discovered, she was driven out. So it comes to pass that those who
are by nature the victims must bear a punishment in addition.

“She bore a child, but the child died. She fell deeper and deeper,
until she became a street-walker. She practised this calling in Bochum
and in Elberfeld. But the life wore on her, and she fell ill. One day
a great home-sickness came upon her. She mustered her last strength,
and returned to her native village. She was penniless and weak, but she
was anxious to earn her bread, no matter at what wage or through what
labour.

“But no one would hire her. Her parents were dead and she had no
relatives, so she became a public charge. She was made to feel it
grievously. One Sunday the minister inveighed against her from the
pulpit. He did not mention her name, but he spoke of vile lives and
sinks of iniquity, of visitations and punishments, and of how the anger
of the Lord was visible in an example that was before the eyes of all.
Thus she was branded and publicly delivered over to the scorn of all
people, and she determined to put an end to her life. One evening, as
Borsche was returning from his inn, he saw a woman lying in the road in
dreadful convulsions. It was Walpurga. No man was near. Borsche lifted
her on his broad back, and carried her to his farm. She confessed that
she had scraped the phosphorus from many matches and eaten it. The
farmer gave her milk as an antidote. She recovered, and was permitted
to stay on the farm.

“On some days she could work, and then she dragged herself to the
fields. On others she could not, and lay in a remote corner. The
men servants, of whom there were many, regarded her body as common
property. Resistance was useless. Not until Borsche learned this, and
blazed out in anger, did things get better. She was only twenty-three,
and despite her illness and the wretchedness of her life, she had
preserved much of her youthful good looks. Her cheeks had a natural
glow and her eyes were clear. So whenever she could not work, the other
maids fell upon her, and called her a malingering bawd.

“Two weeks ago I happened to be wandering in the neighbourhood of
Nettersheim, and stopped at Borsche’s house. I was well received there,
for the family think highly of me as a future priest. They talked about
Walpurga. The farmer told me her story, and asked me to have a look at
her and give my opinion as to whether she was really ill. I objected,
and asked why a physician had not seen her. He said that the doctor
from Heftrich had examined her and could find nothing wrong. So I went
to her. She lay in a shed, separated from the cows only by a wooden
partition. She was wrapped in an old horse-blanket, and a little straw
kept the chill of the earth from her body. Her healthy colour and her
normal form did not deceive me. I said to the farmer: ‘She’s like a
guttering candle.’ He and his wife seemed to believe me. But when I
demanded of them that they give the sick woman decent lodging and care,
they shrugged their shoulders, and said that it was as warm in the
stable as anywhere, and that there was no sense in taking trouble or
undergoing discomfort on account of a creature who had fallen so low.

“On the third day I saw her again, and I have seen her on every other
day since then. My thoughts could not get rid of her any more. In all
my life no human creature has so tugged at my heart. She could no
longer get up; the most malevolent had to admit that. I sat with her in
the evil smelling shed on a wooden bench near where she lay. Each time
I came she was happier to see me. I picked wild flowers on the way, and
she took them in her hands and held them against her breast. They told
her who I was, and gradually she put many questions to me. She wanted
to know whether there really was an eternal life and eternal bliss. She
wanted to know whether Christ had died on the cross for her too. She
was afraid of the torments of purgatory, and said if they were as bad
as the torments men could inflict she was sorry for the immortal part
of her. She meant neither to revile men nor to complain of them. She
merely wanted to know.

“And what answer could I give her? I assured her that Christ had taken
her cross upon Him too. Her other questions left me silent. One is so
dumb and desperate when a living heart thirsts after truth, and the
frozen Christ within would melt into a new day and a new sun. They are
even now in purgatory and ask when it will begin. Hidden in blackness,
they do not see the dark; consumed by flames, they are unaware of the
fire. Where is Satan’s true kingdom--here or elsewhere? And can that
elsewhere be upon any star more accursed than this? The poor man is
thrust from the wayside, the oppressed of the land creep into hiding;
from the cities come the moans of the dying, and the souls of those
who are wounded to death cry out. Yet God does not put an end to the
iniquity. And is it not written that the Lord said to Satan: ‘From
whence comest thou? And Satan answered the Lord, and said, From going
to and fro in the earth and from walking up and down in it.’

“She confessed her sins to me, and begged me to grant her absolution.
But nothing that seemed sinful to her seemed so to me. I saw the
desolateness and loneliness of the world. I saw the bleak rooms and the
barren walls, the streets by night with their flickering lamps, and
the men with no compassion in their eyes. That is what I saw and what
I thought of, and I took it upon my conscience to absolve her from all
guilt. I set her free and promised her Paradise. She smiled at me and
grasped my hand, and before I could prevent her she had kissed it. That
was yesterday.”

Amadeus was silent. “That was yesterday,” he repeated, after a long
and meditative pause. “I did not go to-day, out of fear of her dying.
Perhaps she is dead even now.”

“If you still want to go, I am ready,” said Christian timidly. “I’ll go
with you. It’s only an hour’s walk.”

“Then let us go,” said Amadeus, with a sigh of relief, and arose.


XX

An hour later they were in Borsche’s farm yard. The stable door was
open. The men servants and the maid servants stood in front of it. An
old man held a lantern high up, and they all stared into the shed. In
the dim and wavering light, their faces showed a mixture of reverence
and amazement. Within, on a pallet of straw, lay the body of Walpurga.
Its cheeks were rosy. Nothing in that countenance recalled death, but
only a peaceful sleep.

On the wooden bench a single candle was burning; but it was near
extinction.

Amadeus Voss passed through that group of men and women, and kneeled
at the dead woman’s feet. The old man who held the lantern whispered
something, and all the men and women kneeled down and folded their
hands.

A cow lowed. After that there was no sound save from the bells of the
unquiet cattle. The darkness of the stable, the face of the dead woman,
which was like a face in a painting, the faces of the kneeling people,
with their blunted foreheads and hard lips, in the yellow glimmer of
the light--all these things Christian beheld, and something melted in
his breast.

He himself watched it all from the darkness of the yard behind.

When Amadeus Voss joined Christian, the village carpenter came to
measure the dead woman for her coffin. They started on their homeward
way in silence.

Suddenly Christian stopped. It was near a tall mile-post. He grasped
the post with both hands, and bent his head far back, and gazed with
the utmost intensity into the drifting clouds of the night. Then he
heard Amadeus Voss say: “Is it possible? Can such things be?”

Christian turned to him.

“I have a strange feeling in your presence, Christian Wahnschaffe,”
Voss said in a repressed and toneless voice. And then he murmured to
himself: “Is it possible? Can the monstrous and incredible come to
pass?”

Christian did not answer, and they wandered on.


XXI

Crammon gave a dinner. Not in his own house; meetings of a certain
character were impossible there, on account of the innocent presence
of the two old maiden ladies, Miss Aglaia and Miss Constantine. The
disillusion would have been too saddening and final to the good ladies,
who were as convinced of the virtue of their lord and protector as they
were of the emperor’s majesty.

In former years it had indeed sometimes seemed to them that their
adored one did not always tread the paths of entire purity. They had
closed an eye. Now, however, the dignity and intellectual resonance of
his personality forbade any doubt.

Crammon had invited his guests to the private dining-room of a
well-known hotel, in which he was familiar and esteemed. The company
consisted of several young members of the nobility, to whom he was
under social obligations, and, as for ladies, there were three
beauties, entertaining, elegant, and yielding, in the precise degree
which the occasion required. Crammon called them his friends, but in
his treatment of them there was something languid and even vexed. He
gave them clearly to understand that he was only the business manager
of the feast, and that his heart was very far away.

No one, in fact, was present to whom he was not completely indifferent.
Best of all he liked the old pianist with long, grey locks, who
closed his eyes and smiled dreamily whenever he played a melancholy
or languishing piece, just as he had done twenty years ago, when
Crammon was still fired by the dreams and ambitions of youth. He gave
the old man sweets and cigarettes, and sometimes patted his shoulder
affectionately.

The table groaned under its burden of food and wine. Pepper was added
to the champagne to heighten every one’s thirst. There were cherries in
the fruit bowls, and the gentlemen found it amusing to drop the pits
down the semi-exposed bosoms of the ladies. The latter found it easier
and easier, as the evening advanced, to resist the law of gravitation,
and to display their charming shoes and the smooth silks and rustling
laces of their legs in astonishingly horizontal attitudes. The most
agile among them, a popular soubrette, climbed on the grand piano, and,
accompanied by the grey-haired musician, sang the latest hit of the
music halls.

The young men joined in the chorus.

Crammon applauded with just two fingers. “There is a sting in my soul,”
he whispered into the din. He got up and left the room.

In the corridor the head-waiter Ferdinand was leaning alone and
somewhat wearily against the frame of a mirror. A tender intimacy of
two decades bound Crammon to this man, who had never in his life been
indiscreet, in spite of the innumerable secrets he had overheard.

“Bad times, Ferdinand,” Crammon said. “The world is going to the
deuce.”

“One must take things as they are, Herr von Crammon,” that dignified
individual consoled him, and handed him the bill.

Crammon sighed. He gave directions that if his guests inquired after
him, they were to be told that he was indisposed and had gone home.

“There is a sting in my soul,” he said, when he found himself on the
street. He determined to travel again.

He yearned for his friend. It seemed to him that he had had no friend
but that one who had cast him off.

He yearned for Ariel. It seemed to him that he had possessed no woman,
because she had not yielded to him who was his very conception of
genius and beauty.

At the door of his house stood Miss Aglaia. She had heard him coming
and had hastened to meet him. It frightened Crammon, for the hour was
late.

“There is a lady in the drawing-room,” Miss Aglaia whispered. “She
arrived at eight, and has been waiting since then. She besought us so
movingly to let her stay that we had not the heart to refuse. She is a
distinguished lady, and she has a dear face----”

“Did she tell you her name?” Crammon asked, and the thunder-clouds
gathered on his brow.

“No, not exactly----”

“People who enter my dwelling are required to give their names,”
Crammon roared. “Is this a railway station or a public shelter? Go in
and ask her who she is. I shall wait here.”

In a few minutes Miss Aglaia returned and said in a compassionate tone:
“She’s fallen asleep in an armchair. But you can take a peep at her.
I’ve left the door ajar.”

On tip-toes Crammon passed through the hall, and peered into the
well-lit drawing-room. He recognized the sleeper at once. It was Elise
von Einsiedel. She slept with her head leaned back and inclining a
little to one side. Her face was pale, with blue circles under her
eyes, and her left arm hung down limply.

Crammon stood there in his hat and overcoat, and gazed at her with
sombre eyes. “Unhappy child!” he murmured.

He closed the door with all possible precaution. Then he drew Miss
Aglaia toward the door and said: “The presence of a strange lady makes
it unseemly, of course, for me to pass the night here. I shall find a
bed elsewhere. I hope you appreciate my attitude.”

Miss Aglaia was speechless over such purity and sternness. Crammon
continued: “As early as possible in the morning, pack my bags and
bring them to meet me in time to catch the express to Ostende. And let
Constantine come with you, so that I may say good-bye to her as well.
Let the strange lady stay here as long as she desires. Entertain her
courteously and fulfil all her wishes. She has a sorrow, and deserves
kindness. If she asks after me, tell her that urgent affairs require my
presence elsewhere.”

He went out. Sadly, and quite astonished, Miss Aglaia looked after him.
“Good-night, Aglaia,” he called out once more. Then the door closed
behind him.


XXII

During the last days of April Christian received a telegram from Eva
Sorel. The message read: “From the third to the twentieth of May, Eva
Sorel will be at the Hotel Adlon, Berlin, and feels quite sure that
Christian Wahnschaffe will meet her there.”

Christian read the message over and over. In his inner and in his outer
life all circumstances pointed to an approaching crisis. He knew that
this summons would be decisive in its influence upon his fate. Its
exact character and the extent of its power he could not predict.

For weeks there had been a restlessness in him that robbed him of sleep
during many long hours of the night. On certain days he had called
for his motor in order to drive to some near-by city. When the car had
covered half the distance, he ordered his chauffeur to turn back.

He had gone to Waldleiningen, and had patted his horses and played with
his dogs. But he had suddenly felt like a schoolboy who lies and plays
truant, and his pleasure in the animals had gone. At parting he had put
his arms about his favourite dog, a magnificent Great Dane, and as he
looked into the animal’s eyes it had seemed to Christian, still in his
character of a truant, that he wanted to say: “I must first go and pass
my examination.” And the dog seemed to answer: “I understand that. You
must go.”

Also the slender horse of Denis Lay had said, with a turn of its
excessively graceful neck: “I understand that. You must go.”

It was settled that the horse was to run in the races at Baden-Baden,
and the Irish jockey was full of confidence. But on the day of his
departure Christian was told that the animal had sickened again. He
thought: “I have loved it too insistently. Now it wants the caressing
hand, and is lonely without it.”

With the coming of spring guests from the cities had appeared almost
daily at Christian’s Rest. But he had rarely received any one. A single
guest he could not bear at all. If there were two they could address
each other and make his silence easier.

One day came Conrad von Westernach and Count Prosper Madruzzi, bringing
messages from Crammon. They were on their way to Holland. Christian
asked them to dine with him, but he was very laconic. Conrad von
Westernach remarked later, in his forthright fashion, to Madruzzi:
“That fellow has a damned queer smile. You never know whether he’s a
born fool or whether he’s laughing at you.”

“It’s true,” the count agreed; “you never know where you are with him.”


XXIII

Christian had given his valet orders to prepare for his journey. Then
he had gone to the green-houses to interview the gardeners. In the
meantime twilight had set in. It had rained all day, and the trees
were still dripping. But now the fresh greenery gleamed against the
afterglow, and the windows of the beautiful house were dipped in gold.

“Herr Voss is in the library,” an old footman announced.

Christian had begged Amadeus Voss to use the library quite freely,
whether he himself was at home or not. The servants had been
instructed. Voss had offered to catalogue the library, but as yet he
had made no beginning. He merely passed from book to book, and if one
interested him he read it and forgot the passage of time.

The afterglow fell into the library too. Voss had taken fifty or sixty
volumes from the shelves, and he was now arranging them in stacks on a
large oak table.

“Why do you do that, Amadeus?” Christian asked carelessly.

“If you give me your permission, I’d like to burn these,” Amadeus Voss
answered.

Christian was surprised. “Why?” he asked.

“Because I lust after an _auto-da-fé_. It is worthless and corrupt
stuff, the product of idle and slothful minds. Don’t you scent the
poison of it in the atmosphere?”

“No, I scent nothing,” said Christian, more absent-mindedly than ever.
“But burn them if it amuses you,” he answered.

Amadeus had been in the library since three o’clock that afternoon,
and he had had a remarkable experience there. In looking about among
the shelves he had come upon a bundle of letters. By some accident it
had probably fallen behind the books and been lost sight of. He had
read a few lines of the topmost letter, and from the first words there
breathed upon him the glow of an impassioned soul. Then he had yielded
to the temptation of untying the package. He had taken the letters into
a corner, and read them swiftly and with fevered eyes.

A few bore dates. The whole series had been written about two years
before. They were signed merely by the initial F. But in every word, in
every image, in every turn of speech there was such a fullness of love
and devotion and adoration and self-abnegation, and so wild and at the
same time so spiritual a stream of tenderness and pain, of happiness
and yearning, that Amadeus Voss seemed to glide from a world of shadows
and appearances into a far more real one. Yet in that, too, all was but
feigned and represented to lure and madden him.

And F.--this unknown, eloquent, radiant, profoundly moved and nameless
woman--where was she now? What had she done with her love? Pressed
flowers lay between certain pages. Was the hand that plucked them
withered as they? And what had he done with her love, he whom she had
wooed so humbly and who was so riotous a spendthrift of great gifts?
He had been only twenty. He had probably taken as a pastime all that
was the fate of this full heart, and had used it and trampled it in a
consciousness of wealth that neither counts nor reckons.

Deeper and deeper, as he read, a spear penetrated into the breast
of Amadeus. The Telchines gained power over him. He turned pale and
crimson. His fingers trembled, and his mouth shrivelled in dryness, and
his head seemed to be full of needles. Had Christian entered then, he
would have flung himself upon him in foaming hatred, to throttle or to
stab him. Here was the unattainable, the eternally closed door. And a
demon had hurled him down before it.

He sat long in dull brooding. Then he looked about furtively, and
dropped the letters into his pocket. And then there arose in him
the desire to destroy, to annihilate something. He chose books as
sacrifices, and awaited Christian’s coming with repressed excitement.

“It’s practically all contemporary trash,” he said drily, and pointed
to the books. “Stories like tangled thread, utterly confused, without
beginning or end. If you’ve read one page, you know a thousand. There
are descriptions of manners with a delight in what is common and mean.
The emotions riot like weeds, and the style is so noisy that you lose
all perception. Love, love, love! That’s one theme. And the other is
wretchedness! There are histories and memoirs, too. Sheer gossip! The
poems are empty rhymings by people with inflated egos. There’s popular
philosophy--self-righteous twaddle. A sincere parson’s talk were more
palatable. What is it for? Reading is a good thing, if a real spirit
absorbs me, and I forget and lose myself in it. But the unspiritual has
neither honesty nor imagination; he is a thief and a swindler.”

“Burn it, burn it!” Christian repeated, and sat down at the other side
of the room.

Amadeus went to the marble fire-place, which was so large that a man
could easily have lain down in it, and opened the gates of brass. Then
he carried the books there--one pile after another, and heaped them on
the flat stones. When he had thrown them all in, he set fire to the
pages of one book, and lowered his head and watched the flames spread.

“You know that I am going to leave Christian’s Rest,” Christian said,
turning to him. It had grown quite dark now.

Voss nodded.

“I don’t know for how long,” Christian continued. “It may be very long
before I return.”

Amadeus Voss said nothing.

“What are you going to do, Amadeus?” Christian asked him.

Voss shrugged his shoulders. Involuntarily he pressed his hand against
the inner pocket in which lay the letters of the unknown woman.

“It is dark and oppressive in the forester’s house,” said Christian.
“Won’t you come and live here? I’ll give the necessary orders at once.”

“Don’t make me a beggar with your alms, Christian Wahnschaffe,” Voss
answered. “If you were to give me the house, with all its forests and
gardens, you would but rob me, and leave me poorer by so much.”

“I don’t understand that,” said Christian.

Voss walked up and down. The carpet muffled his sturdy tread.

“You are far too passionate, Amadeus,” Christian said.

Amadeus stopped in front of a lectern that had been placed in a niche.
Upon it lay the great Bible that Christian had bought. It was open. The
flames of the burning books flared so brightly that he could read the
words. For a space he read in silence. Then he took the book, and going
nearer to the fire, sat down opposite Christian, and read aloud:

“Rejoice, O young man, in thy youth, and let thy heart cheer thee in
the days of thy youth, and walk in the ways of thine heart and in the
sight of thine eyes: but know thou that for all these things God will
bring thee into judgment.”

At the word, God, the almost unemphatic voice sounded like a bell.

“Remember now thy Creator in the days of thy youth, while the evil
days come not, nor the years draw nigh, when thou shalt say, I have
no pleasure in them; while the sun, or the light, or the moon, or the
stars be not darkened, nor the clouds return after the rain: In the day
when the keepers of the house shall tremble, and the strong men shall
bow themselves, and the grinders cease because they are few, and those
that look out of the windows be darkened, and the doors shall be shut
in the streets; when the sound of the grinding is low, and he shall
rise up at the voice of the bird, and all the daughters of music shall
be brought low; also when they shall be afraid of that which is high,
and fears shall be in the way, and the almond tree shall flourish, and
the grasshopper shall be a burden and desire shall fail: because man
goeth to his long home, and the mourners go about the street: or ever
the silver cord be loosed, or the golden bowl be broken, or the pitcher
be broken at the fountain, or the wheel broken at the cistern.”...

He stopped. Christian, who had seemed scarcely to listen, had arisen
and come nearer to the fire. Now he sat down on the floor, with his
legs crossed under him, and gazed with a serene wonder into the flames.

“How beautiful is fire!” he said softly.

Speechlessly Amadeus Voss regarded him. Then he spoke quite suddenly.
“Let me go with you, Christian Wahnschaffe.”

Christian did not take his eyes from the fire.

“Let me go with you,” Voss said more insistently. “It is possible that
you may need me: it is certain that without you I am lost. Darkness is
in me and a demon. You alone break the spell. I do not know why it is
thus, but it is. Let me go with you.”

Christian replied: “Very well, Amadeus, you shall stay with me. I want
some one to stay with me.”

Amadeus grew pale, and his lips quivered.

Christian said: “How beautiful is fire!”

And Amadeus murmured: “It devours uncleanness and remains clean.”



THE NAKED FEET


I

With her companion, Fräulein Stöhr, the Countess Brainitz travelled
about the world.

She had been the guest of an incredibly aged Princess Neukirch at
Berchtesgaden. But she grew to be immensely bored, and fled to
Venice, Ravenna, and Florence. Armed with a Baedeker, and accompanied
by a guide, she “did” the galleries, churches, basilicas, palaces,
sarcophagi, and monuments, and her tirelessness reduced Fräulein Stöhr
to despair.

She quarrelled with the gondoliers over their fare, with waiters over a
tip, with shopkeepers over the price of their wares. She thought every
coin a counterfeit, and in her terror of dirt and infection she touched
no door-knob or chair, no newspaper and no one’s hand. She washed
herself repeatedly, screeched uninterruptedly, and by her appetite
struck her companions at the table d’hôte with awe.

With rancour in her heart she left the land of miracles and of petty
fraud. She visited her nephews, the brothers Stojenthin, in Berlin.
They were charmed at her coming, and borrowed a thousand marks of her
over the oysters and champagne. Then she proceeded to Stargard, to be
with her sisters Hilde Stojenthin and Else von Febronius.

She was vastly amused at the middle-class ladies in Stargard, who
curtsied to her as to a queen. At their teas she lorded it over them
from the heights of a sofa covered with dotted calico. She entertained
her devoutly attentive audience with stories of the great world. At
times these anecdotes were of such a character that the judge’s widow
had to administer a warning pinch to the arm of her noble sister.

Frau von Febronius had been ailing since the beginning of winter.
Careless exposure on a sleigh drive had brought on an attack of
pneumonia. The consequences threatened to be grave. The countess,
who not only feared illness for herself but hated it in others, grew
restive and talked of leaving.

“When my dear husband saw his end approaching, he sent me to Mentone,”
she told Fräulein Stöhr. “Stupid and devoid of understanding as he
was--though not more so than most men--in this respect he showed a
praiseworthy delicacy of feeling. I was simply not made to bear the
sight of suffering. Charity is not among my gifts.”

Fräulein Stöhr assumed a pastoral expression and cast her eyes to
heaven. She knew her mistress sufficiently to realize that the anecdote
of the dying count and the expedition to Mentone was a product of the
imagination. She said: “Man should prepare himself in time for his
latter end, Madame.”

The countess was indignant. “My dear Stöhr, spare me your spiritual
wisdom! It suits only times of trouble. Pastoral consolations are not
to my taste. It is not your proper task to preach truths to me, but to
offer me agreeable illusions.”

One evening Frau von Febronius asked to see the countess. The latter
went. But terror made her pale. She put on a hat, swathed her face in a
veil and her hands in gloves. Sighing she sat down beside her sister’s
bed, and carefully measured the distance, so as to be out of reach of
the patient’s breath.

Frau von Febronius smiled indulgently. Her illness had smoothed the
lines of petty care and sorrow from her face, and, among her white
pillows, she looked strikingly like her daughter Letitia. “I’m sorry
to trouble you, Marion,” she began, “but I must talk to you. There’s
something that weighs on my mind, and I must confide in some one. The
fact in question should be told to one who knows me, and should not be
buried with me.”

“I beseech you, Elsie, my poor darling, don’t talk of graves and such
things,” the countess exclaimed in a whining voice. “My appetite will
be gone for a week. If you’ll only fling the medicine bottles out of
the window, and tell all quacks to go to the devil, you’ll be well by
day after to-morrow. And, for heaven’s sake, don’t make a confession.
It reminds one of quite dreadful things.”

But Frau von Febronius went on: “It’s no use, Marion. I must tell you
this. The reason I turn to you is because you’ve really been so very
good and kind to Letitia, and because Hilde, sensible and faithful as
she is, wouldn’t quite understand. Her notions are too conventional.”

In whispers she now related the story of Letitia’s birth. An illness of
his earlier years had deprived her husband of the hope of posterity;
but he had yearned for a son, a child. This yearning had finally
silenced all scruples and all contradictory emotions to such an extent
that he had chosen a congenial stranger to continue his race. He had
persuaded her, his wife, whom he loved above all things, after a long
struggle. Finally she had yielded to his unheard-of demand. But when
the child was born, a progressive melancholy had seized upon her
husband. It had become incurable, and under its control he had ruined
his estate and in the end himself. He had felt nothing of the happiness
he had expected. He had, on the contrary, always shown a contemptuous
dislike of Letitia, and had avoided her as far as possible.

“It doesn’t surprise me a bit,” the countess remarked. “You were
uncommonly naïve to be astonished. A strange child is a strange child,
no matter how it got into the nest. But it’s really like a fairy tale.
I confess I underestimated you. Such delightful sophistication! And who
is the child’s father? Who is responsible for the life of that darling
angel? He deserves great credit for his achievement.”

Frau von Febronius mentioned the name. The countess screamed, and
leaped up as though she had been stung. “Crammon? Bernard von Crammon?”
She clasped her hands in agony. “Is that true? Aren’t you dreaming?
Consider, my dear! It must be the fever. Oh, certainly, it’s sheer
delirium. Take a little water, I beg of you, and then think carefully,
and stop talking nonsense.”

Frau von Febronius gazed at her sister in utter amazement. “Do you know
him?” she asked.

The countess’ voice was bitter. “Do I know him? I do. And tell me one
more thing: Does this--this--creature know? Has he always known?”

“He knows. Two years ago he saw Letitia at our old home. Since that
time he has known. But you act as if he were the fiend incarnate,
Marion. Did you have a quarrel with him or what? You always exaggerate
so!”

Excitedly the countess walked up and down. “He knows it, the wretch!
He has always known it, the rogue! And such dissembling as he has
practised! Such hypocrisy! The wretched rogue, I’ll bring it home to
him! I’ll seek him out!” She turned to her sister. “Forgive me, Elsie,
for letting my temperament run away with me. You are right. His name
awakened an anger of some years’ standing. My blood boils, I confess.
He may have been a man of honour and a gentleman in his youth. He must
have been, or you would never have consented to such an adventure. But
I hesitate to say what he is to-day. He is still perfectly discreet;
you need have no anxiety on that score. But I assert that even
discretion has its limits. Where these are passed, decent people shake
their heads, and virtue looks like mere baseness. _Voilà._”

“All that you say is quite dark to me,” Frau von Febronius replied
wearily, “and I really haven’t any desire to fathom it. I wanted to
tell you this oppressive secret. Keep it to yourself. Never reveal it,
except to prevent some misfortune, or to render Letitia a service. I
don’t quite see how either purpose will ever be served by a revelation.
But it consoles me that one other human being, beside myself and that
man, knows the truth.”

The countess gazed thoughtfully at her sister. “Your life wasn’t
exactly a gay one, was it, Elsie?”

The sick woman answered: “No, hardly gay.”

During the following days she rallied a little. Then came a relapse
that left no room for hope. In the middle of March she died.

By this time the countess was already far away. Her goings and comings
were as purposeless as ever. But she nursed a favourite vision now.
Some day she would meet Crammon, confront him with her knowledge,
avenge herself upon him, challenge him and annihilate him, in a word,
enjoy a rich triumph. At times when she was alone, or even in the
presence of Miss Stöhr, whom it astonished, she would suddenly wrinkle
her childlike forehead, clench her little fists, and her shiny face
would turn red as a lobster, and her violet-blue eyes blaze as for
battle.


II

It was three o’clock in the morning when Felix Imhof left a party in
the Leopoldstrasse, where there had been gaming for high stakes. He had
won several thousand marks, and the gold coins clinked in the overcoat
pocket into which he had carelessly stuffed them.

He had had a good deal to drink, too. His head was a bit heavy. At his
first steps into the fresh air he reeled a little.

Nevertheless he was in no mood to go home. So he wandered into a
coffee-house that was frequented by artists. He thought he might still
find a few people with whom he could chat and argue. The day he had
passed was not yet full enough of life for him. He wanted it brimming.

In the room, which was blue with smoke, there were only two men, the
painter Weikhardt, who had recently returned from Paris, and another
painter, who looked rather ragged and stared dejectedly at the table.

Felix Imhof joined the two. He ordered cognac and served them, but,
to his annoyance, the conversation would not get started. He got up
and invited Weikhardt to walk with him. With contemptuous joviality
he turned to the other: “Well, you old paint-slinger, your lamp seems
about burned out!”

The man didn’t stir. Weikhardt shrugged his shoulders, and said softly:
“He has no money for bread and no place to sleep.”

Felix Imhof plunged his hand into his pocket, and threw several gold
coins on the table. The painter looked up. Then he gathered the gold.
“Hundred and sixty marks,” he said calmly. “Pay you back on the first.”

Imhof laughed resoundingly.

When they were in the street, Weikhardt said good-naturedly: “He
believes every word of it. If he didn’t absolutely believe it, he
wouldn’t have taken the money. There are still eleven days before the
first--time for a world of illusions.”

“It may be that he believes it,” Imhof replied, with an unsteady laugh,
“it may be. He even believes that he exists, and yet he’s nothing but
a melancholy corpse. O you painters, you painters!” he cried out into
the silent night. “You have no feeling for life. Paint life! You’re
still sitting by a spinning-wheel, instead of at some mighty wheel of
steel, propelled by a force of sixteen thousand horse-power. Paint my
age for me, my huge delight in being! Smell, taste, see, and grasp that
colossus! Make me feel that great rhythm, create my grandiose dreams.
Give me life--my life and its great affirmation!”

Weikhardt said drily: “I have heard that talk before--between midnight
and dawn. When the cock crows we all calm down again, and every man
pulls the cart to which fate has hitched him.”

Imhof stopped, and somewhat theatrically laid his hand on Weikhardt’s
shoulder. He gazed at him with his intensely black, bloodshot eyes. “I
give you a commission herewith, Weikhardt,” he said. “You have talent.
You’re the only one with a mind above your palette. Paint my portrait.
I don’t care what it costs--twenty, fifty thousand. Doesn’t matter.
Take your own time--two months, or two years. But show me--me--the
innermost me. Take this vulture’s nose, this Hapsburg lip, these
gorilla arms and spindle shanks, this coat and this chapeau claque,
and drag from it all the animating Idea. To hell with the accidents of
my phiz, which looks as though an unskilful potter had bungled it in
the making. Render my ambition, my restlessness, my inner tempo and
colourfulness, my great hunger and the time-spirit that is in me. But
you must hurry; for I am self-consumed. In a few years I shall have
burned out. My soul is tinder. Render this process with the divine
objectivity of art, and I’ll reward you like a Medici. But I must be
able to see the flame, the flaring up, the dying down, the quiver of
it! I want to see it, even if to make me see it you have to lash the
whole tradition since Raphael and Rubens into rags!”

“You are an audacious person,” Weikhardt said, in his dry way. “But
have patience with us, and restrain your admiration for your particular
century. I do not let the age overwhelm me to the point of folly. I do
not share the reverential awe of speed and machinery that has seized
upon many young men like a new form of epilepsy. I haven’t any attitude
of adoration toward seven-league boots, express trains, dreadnoughts,
and inflated impressionism. I seek my gods elsewhere. I don’t believe
I’m the painter you’re looking for. Where were you? You’ve been
travelling again?”

“I’m always on some road,” Felix Imhof replied. “It’s a crazy sort of
life. Let me tell you how I spent the last five days. Monday night I
went to Leipzig. Tuesday morning at nine I had a conference with some
literary people in regard to the founding of a new review. Splendid
fellows--keen critics and intellectual Jacobins, every one of them.
Then I went to an exhibition of majolicas. Bought some charming things.
At noon I left for Hamburg. On the train I read two manuscripts and
a drama, all by a young genius who’ll startle the world. That evening
attended a meeting of the directorate of the East African Development
Corporation. Festivities till late that night. Slept two hours, then
proceeded to Oldenburg to a reunion of the retired officers of my old
regiment. Talked, drank, and even danced, though the party was stag.
Six o’clock in the morning rushed to Quackenbruck, a shabby little
country town on the moors, where the officers had arranged for a little
horse race. My beast was beaten by a head. Drove to the station and
took a train for Berlin. Attended to business next morning in the
Ministry of Foreign Affairs, interviewed agents, witnessed a curious
operation in the clinic, made a flying-trip to Johannisthal, where
a new aeroplane was tried out; went to the Deutsches Theater that
evening, and saw a marvellous performance of ‘Peer Gynt.’ Drank the
night away with the actors. Next morning Dresden. Conference with two
American friends. Home to-day. Next week won’t be very different, nor
the one after that. I ought to sleep more; that’s the only thing.” He
waved his thick bamboo cane in air.

“It is enough to frighten any one,” said Weikhardt, who took more
comfort in the contrast between his own phlegm and his companion’s
excitement. “How about your wife? What does she say to your life? She
was pointed out to me recently. She doesn’t look as if she would let
herself be pushed aside.”

Imhof stopped again. He stood there, with his legs far apart and his
trunk bent forward, and rested on his cane. “My wife!” he said. “What
a sound that has! I have a wife. Ah, yes. I give you my word, my dear
man, I should have clean forgotten it to-night, if you hadn’t reminded
me. It’s not her fault, to be sure. She’s a born Wahnschaffe; that
means something! But somehow.... God knows what it is--the damned
rush and hurry, I suppose. You’re quite right. She’s not the sort
to be neglected or pushed to the wall. She creates her own spaces,
and within these”--he described great circles in the air with his
cane--“she dwells, cool to her fingertips, tense as a wire of steel.
A magnificent character--energetic, but with a strong sense for
decorative effects. She’s to be respected, my dear man.”

Weikhardt had no answer ready for this outburst. Its mixture of
boasting and irony, cynicism and ecstatic excitement disarmed and
wearied him at once. They had reached a side street, which led to the
Englischer Garten, and in which stood the painter’s little house. He
wanted to say good-night. But Imhof, who seemed still unwilling to be
alone, asked: “Are you working at anything?”

Weikhardt hesitated before answering. That was enough to make Imhof
accompany him. The sky grew grey with dawn.

Felix Imhof recited softly to himself:

    “Where the knights repose, and streaming
    Banners fold at last their gleaming,
    Towers rise to the way-farers,
    And the wanderers seek a spring;
    And the lovely water-bearers
    Lift a goblet to the dreaming
    Shadow of the fleeing king.”

Weikhardt, who would not yield to Imhof in a knowledge or love of the
poet Stefan George, continued the quotation in a caressing voice:

    “With a smile serene he watches,
    Yet flits on with shyer seeming,
    For beneath him fades the height,
    And he fears all mortal touches,
    And he almost dreads the light.”

They entered the studio. Weikhardt lit the lamp, and let its glow fall
upon a picture that was not quite completed. It was a Descent from the
Cross.

“Rather old-fashioned, isn’t it?” Weikhardt asked, with a sly smile. He
had grown pale.

Imhof looked. He was a connoisseur through and through. No other had
his eye. The painters knew it.

The picture, which reminded one of the visionary power as well as of
the brushwork of El Greco, was bizarre in composition, intense in
movement, and filled with an ecstatic passion. The forms of an old
master, through which the painter had expressed himself, were but an
appearance. The vision had been flung upon the canvas with a burning
splendour. The figures had nothing old-fashioned about them; there was
no _cliché_; they were like clouds, and the clouds like architecture.
There were no concrete things. There was a chaos, which drew meaning
and order only from the concentrated perceptions of the beholder.

Felix Imhof folded his hands. “To have such power,” he murmured. “Great
God, to have the power to project such things!”

Weikhardt lowered his head. He attributed little significance to these
words. A few days before he had stood in front of his canvas, and he
had imagined that a peasant was standing beside him--an old peasant or
any other simple man of the people. And it had seemed to him that this
peasant, this humble man, who knew nothing of art, had kneeled down to
pray. Not from piety, but because what he saw had in its own character
overwhelmed him.

Almost rudely Imhof turned to the painter and said: “The picture is
mine. Under all circumstances. Mine. I must have it. Good-night.” With
his top hat set at a crazy angle, and his sleepless, dissipated face,
he was a vision to frighten one.

At last he went home.

Next day Crammon informed him of his arrival in Munich. He had come
because Edgar Lorm was about to give a series of performances there.


III

Christian considered how he could convey money to Amadeus Voss without
humiliating him. Since it was agreed that they travel together, it was
necessary for Voss to have the proper outfit; and he possessed nothing
but what he had on.

Amadeus Voss understood the situation. The social abyss yawned between
them. Both men gazed helplessly into it, one on each shore.

In his own heart Voss mocked at the other’s weakness, and at the same
time loved him for his noble shame--loved him with that emotional self
that had been humiliated, estranged from the world, stamped on and
affronted from his youth on. He shuddered at the prospect of sitting
in the forester’s house again with perished hopes and empty hands, and
letting his soul bleed to death from the wounds of unattainable lures.
He brooded, regarding Christian almost with hatred. What will he do?
How will he conquer the difficulty?

Time passed. The matter was urgent.

On the last afternoon Christian said: “The hours crawl. Let us play
cards.” He took a pack of French cards from a drawer.

“I haven’t touched a card in my life,” Voss said.

“That doesn’t matter,” Christian replied. “All you need do is to tell
red from black. I’ll keep the bank. Bet on a colour. If you’ve bet on
red and I turn up red, you’ve won. How much will you risk? Let us start
with one taler.”

“Very well, here it is,” said Voss, and put the silver coin on the
table. Christian shuffled the cards and drew one. It was red.

“Risk your two talers now,” Christian advised. “Novices have luck.”

Voss won the two talers. The betting continued. Once or twice he lost.
But finally he had won thirty talers.

“Now you take the bank,” Christian proposed. He was secretly pleased
that his ruse was working so well.

He bet ten talers and lost. Then fifteen, then twenty, then thirty, and
lost again. He risked a hundred marks, two hundred, five hundred, more
and more, and still lost. Voss’s cheeks turned hectic red, then white
as chalk: his hands trembled, his teeth rattled. He was seized by a
terror that his luck would change, but he was incapable of speech or of
asking for an end of the game. The bank notes were piled up in front of
him. In half an hour he had won over four thousand marks.

Christian had previously marked the cards in a manner that no
inexperienced eye could detect. He knew exactly which colour Voss would
find. But the curious thing was that, though he forgot occasionally to
watch the markings, Voss still won.

Christian got up. “We’re in a hurry,” he said. “You must get ready for
our journey, Amadeus.”

Voss was overwhelmed by the change which had come over his life within
a few minutes. If a spark of suspicion glowed in his soul, he turned
away from it, and plunged into rich dreams.

The motor took them to Wiesbaden, and there, with Christian’s help,
Amadeus bought garments and linen, boots, hats, gloves, cravats, a
razor, a manicure set, and a trunk.

At ten o’clock that evening they sat in the sleeper. “Who am I now?”
asked Amadeus Voss. He looked about him with a curious and violent
glance, and pushed the blond hair from his forehead. “What do I
represent now? Give me an office and a title, Christian Wahnschaffe, in
order that I may know who I am.”

Christian watched the other’s excitement with quiet eyes. “Why should
you think yourself another to-night or changed from yesterday?” he
asked in surprise.


IV

Eva Sorel passed through the countries of Europe--a comet leaving
radiance in its wake.

Her day was thickly peopled. It needed the flexibility of an
experienced practitioner to test and grant the many-sided demands
upon her. Monsieur Chinard, her impresario, served admirably in this
capacity. Only Susan Rappard treated the man morosely. She called him
a Figaro _pris à la retraite_.

In addition, the dancer employed a courier and a secretary.

Several of her adorers had been following her from city to city for
months. They were Prince Wiguniewski, a middle-aged American, named
Bradshaw, the Marquis Vicente Tavera, of the Spanish legation at
Petrograd, Herr Distelberg, a Jewish manufacturer of Vienna, and Botho
von Thüngen, a very young Hanoverian, a student in his second year.

These, as well as others who drifted with the group from time to time,
neglected their callings, friends, and families. They needed the air
that Eva breathed in order to breathe themselves. They had the patience
of petitioners and the optimism of children. They were envious of
one another’s advantage, knowledge, and witticisms. Each noted with
malicious delight if another blundered. They vied zealously for the
friendship of Susan, and made her costly presents, in order that she
might tell them what her mistress had said and done, how she had slept,
in what mood she had awakened, and when she would receive.

Since Count Maidanoff had joined Eva’s circle they had all been
profoundly depressed. They knew, everybody knew, who was concealed
behind this pseudonym. Against him--mighty and greatly feared--no one
hoped to prevail.

Eva consoled them with a smile. They counted for nothing in her eyes.
“How are my chamberlains?” she asked Susan, “how do my time-killers
kill their time?”

But she was not quite as light and serene of soul as she had once been.


V

She had made the acquaintance of Count Maidanoff in Trouville. She
had been presented to him on the promenade, and a far-flung circle
of fashionables had looked on. Careful murmurs had blended with the
thunder of the sea.

She came home and grasped Susan by the shoulders. “Don’t let me go out
again,” she said, pale and breathing heavily. “I don’t want to look
into those eyes again. I must not meet that man any more.”

Susan exhausted herself promising this. She did not know who had
awakened such horror in her mistress. “Elle est un peu folle,” she
said to M. Labourdemont, the secretary, “mais ce grain de folie est le
meilleur de l’art.”

The next day Count Maidanoff announced his formal call, and had to be
received.

The conventional act of homage, to which he was entitled by his birth,
he repaid with a personal and sincere one.

His speech was heavy and slow. He seemed to despise the words, the use
of which caused him such exertion. Sometimes he stopped in the middle
of a sentence and frowned in annoyance. Between his eyebrows there were
two straight, deep lines that made his face permanently sombre. His
smile began with an upward curl of the lips, and quivered down into his
thin, colourless beard, like the effect of a muscular paralysis.

He went straight and without circumlocution toward his purpose. It
was commonly the office of his creatures to clear the road toward his
amatory adventures. By doing the wooing himself in this instance he
desired to single out its object by an act of especial graciousness.

The cool timidity of the dancer had pleased him at first. Fear was to
him the most appealing quality in men. But Eva’s repressed chill in the
face of his courteous proposals confused him. His eyes became empty,
he looked bored, and asked for permission to light a cigarette.

He talked of Paris, of a singer at the Grand Opera there. Then he
became silent, and sat there like some one who has all eternity ahead
of him. When he arose and took his leave, he looked as though he were
really asleep.

With arms crossed Eva walked about the room till evening. During the
night she picked up books which she did not read, thought of things
that were indifferent to her, called Susan only to torment her, wrote
a letter to Ivan Becker and tore it up again. Finally, in spite of
the driving rain, she wrapped herself in a cloak and went out on the
terrace.

Maidanoff repeated his visit. At the inevitable point Eva conveyed
to him with great delicacy that his expectations were doomed to
disappointment. He looked at her with slothful, oblique glances, and
condescended to smile. What nonsense, his morose frown seemed thereupon
to say.

Suddenly he opened his eyes very wide. The effect was uncanny. Eva bent
her head forward in expectation, and spread out her fingers.

He said: “You have the most beautiful hands I have ever seen. To have
seen them is to desire to know their touch.”

Three hours later she left Trouville, accompanied by Susan and by M.
Labourdemont, and travelled to Brussels, where Ivan Becker was staying.


VI

Becker lived in the suburbs, in a lonely house that stood in a
neglected garden. He received her in a tumbled room that was as big as
a public hall. Two candles burned on the table.

He looked emaciated, and moved about restlessly, even after he had
bidden Eva welcome.

She told him with some haste of her engagement in Russia, which she was
about to fulfil, and asked whether he had any commissions to give her.
He said that he had not.

“The Grand Duke was attentive to me,” she said, and looked at him
expectantly.

He nodded. After a little he sat down and said: “I must tell you a
dream I had; or, rather, a hallucination, for I lay with my eyes wide
open. Listen!

“About a richly laid board there sat five or six young women. They were
in evening dress, with very deep décolletage, and laughed wildly and
drank champagne. With frivolous plays on words and seductive gestures,
they turned to one who sat at the head of the table. But that one had
no form: he was like a lump of dough or clay. The footmen trembled
when they approached him, and the women grew pale under their rouge
when he addressed them. In the middle of the gleaming cloth there lay,
unnoticed by any one, a corpse. It was covered with fruits, and from
its breast, between the peaches and the grapes, projected the handle of
a dagger. Blood trickled through the joints of the table and tapped in
dull drops on the carpet.

“The meal came to an end. All were in a wildly exuberant mood. Then
that formless one arose, grasped one of the women, drew her close to
him, and demanded music. And while the thunderous music resounded, that
lump expanded and grew, and a skull appeared on it, and eyes within
that skull, and these eyes blazed in a measureless avidity. The woman
that he held became paler and paler, and sought to free herself from
his embrace. But long, thin arms grew out of his trunk. And with these
he pressed her so silently and so cruelly that she began to moan and
turn blue. And her body snapped in two in the middle. Lifeless she lay
in his arms, and nothing seemed left of her but her dress. Then the
corpse, that lay with pierced breast amid the fruit and sweets, raised
its head, and said with closed eyes: ‘Give her back to me.’

“Suddenly many people streamed into that room--peasants and factory
workers, soldiers and ragged women, Jews and Jewesses. An old man with
a white beard said to the formless one: ‘Give me back my daughter.’
Others who stood behind screamed frantically: ‘Give us our daughters,
our brides, our sisters.’ Then peasants pressed forward, and bent to
the earth their melancholy faces, and said: ‘Give us our lands and
our forests.’ Over all rose the piercing voices of mothers: ‘Give us
our sons, our sons.’ The formless one receded step by step into empty
space. But even as he receded he assumed a more clearly defined shape.
The face, the hands, and the garments were brown as though encrusted
with rust or dried slime. The features of the face gave not the least
notion of that being’s character, and precisely this circumstance
heightened the despair of all beyond endurance. They cried without
ceasing: ‘Our brothers! Our sons! Our sisters! Our lands! Our forests,
O thou accursed unto all eternity!’”

Eva said no word.

Ivan Becker rested his head upon his hand. “One thing is certain. He
has caused so many tears to be shed, that were they gathered into one
lake, that lake were deeper than the Kremlin is tall; the blood that he
has caused to flow would be a sea in which all Moscow could be drowned.”

He walked to and fro a few times. Then he sat down again and continued:
“He is the creator and instigator of an incomparable reign of terror.
Our living souls are his victims. Wherever there is a living soul among
us, it becomes his prey. Six thousand intellectuals were deported
during the past year. Where he sets his foot, there is death. Ruins
and fields full of murdered men mark his path. These expressions are
not to be taken metaphorically but quite, quite literally. It was
he who created the organization of the united nobility, which holds
the country in subjection, and is a modern instrument of torture on
the hugest scale. The pogroms, the murderous Finnish expedition, the
torturing of the imprisoned, the atrocities of the Black Hundreds--all
these are his work. He wastes untold millions from the public treasury;
he pardons the guilty and condemns the innocent. He throttles the
spirit of man and extinguishes all light. He is all-powerful. He is
God’s living adversary. I bow before him.”

Eva looked up in astonishment. But Becker did not observe her.

“There is no one who knows him. No one is able to see through him. I
believe he is satiated. Nothing affects him any longer except some
stimulus of the epidermis. The story is told that sometimes he has two
beautiful naked women fight in his presence. They have daggers and must
lacerate each other. One must bow down before that.”

“I do not understand,” Eva whispered wide-eyed. “Why bow?”

Becker shook his head warningly, and his monotonous voice filled the
room once more. “He has found everything between heaven and earth to
be for sale--friendship, love, the patience of a people, justice, the
Church, peace and war. First he commands or uses force; that goes
without saying. What these cannot conquer he buys. It seems, to be
sure, that pressure and force can accomplish things that would defy
and wreck ordinary mortals. While hunting bears in the Caucasus his
greatest favourite, Prince Szilaghin, fell ill. His fever was high and
he was carried into the hut of some Circassians. Szilaghin, by the way,
is a creature of incredible corruption--only twenty years old and of
astonishing though effeminate beauty. To win a bet he once disguised
himself as a cocotte, and spent a night in the streets and amusement
resorts of Petrograd. In the morning he brought back a handful of
jewels, including a magnificent bracelet of emeralds, that had been
given him as tributes to his mere beauty. It was he who fell ill in
the mountains. A mounted messenger was sent to the nearest village,
and dragged back with him an old, ignorant country doctor. The Grand
Duke pointed to his favourite writhing in delirium, and said to the old
man: ‘If he dies, you die too.’ Every hour the physician administered
a draught to the sick man. In the intervals he kneeled trembling
by the bed and prayed. As fate would have it, Szilaghin recovered
consciousness toward morning, and gradually became well. The Grand Duke
was convinced that the inexorable alternative which he had offered
the old physician had released mysterious forces in him and worked
something like a miracle. Thus he does not feel nature as a barrier to
his power.”

A swift vividness came into Eva’s features. She got up and walked to
the window and opened it. A storm was shaking the trees. The ragged
clouds in the sky, feebly illuminated by moonlight and arching the
darkness, were like a picture of Ruysdael. Without turning she said:
“You say no one can penetrate him. There is nothing to penetrate. There
is an abyss, dark and open.”

“It may be that you are right and that he is like an abyss,” Ivan
Becker answered softly, “but who will have the courage to descend into
it?”

Another silence fell upon them. “Speak, Ivan, speak out at last the
thought in your mind!” Eva cried out into the night. And every fibre of
her, from the tips of her hair to the hem of her gown, was tense with
listening.

But Becker did not answer. Only a terrible pallor came over his face.

Eva turned around. “Shall I throw myself into his arms in order to
create a new condition in the world?” she asked proudly and calmly.
“Shall I increase his opinion of the things that can be bought among
men by the measure of my worth? Or do you think that I could persuade
him to exchange the scaffold for the confessional and the hangman’s axe
for a flute?”

“I have not spoken of such a thing; I shall not speak of it,” said Ivan
Michailovitch with solemnly raised hand.

“A woman can do many things,” Eva continued. “She can give herself
away, she can throw herself away, she can sell herself, she can conceal
indifference and deny her hatred. But against horror she is powerless;
that tears the heart in two. Show me a way; make me insensitive to the
horror of it; and I shall chain your tiger.”

“I know of no way,” answered Ivan Michailovitch. “I know none, for
horror is upon me too. May God, the Eternal, enlighten you.”

The loneliness of the room, of the house, of the storm-ploughed garden,
became as the thunder of falling boulders.


VII

Her friends awaited developments in suspense. None expected her to
offer Maidanoff any serious resistance. When she seemed to hold out,
her subtlety was admired. Paris predicted a radiant future for her.
Much public curiosity centred upon her, and many newspaper columns were
devoted to her.

When she arrived in Russia it was clear that the authorities and
officials had received special instructions. No queen could have been
treated with more subtle courtesy. Palatial rooms in a hotel were in
readiness and adorned. A slavish humility surrounded her.

When the Grand Duke called, she begged him to rescind the orders
that made her his debtor. He devoured her words with a frosty and
lurking expression, but remained inactive. She was indignant at this
slothfulness of a rigid will, this deaf ear that listened so greedily.

His contempt of mankind had something devastating in it. His slow eyes
seemed to say: Man, thou slimy worm, grovel and die!

In his presence Eva felt her thoughts to be so loud at times that she
feared he would perceive them.

She ventured to oppose and judge him. A young girl, Vera Cheskov, had
shot the governor of Petrograd. Eva had the courage to praise that
deed. The Grand Duke’s answer was smooth, and he left quite unruffled.
She challenged him more vigorously. Her infinitely expressive body
vibrated in rhythms of bitterness and outrage. She melted in grief,
rage, and sympathy.

He watched her as one would watch a noble beast at its graceful antics
and said: “You are extraordinary, Madame. I cannot tell what wish of
yours I would leave ungranted for the reward of winning your love.”
He said that in a deep voice, which was hoarse. He had also a higher
voice, which had a grinding sound like that of rusty hinges.

Eva’s shoulders quivered. His iron self-sufficiency reflected no image
of her or her influence. Against it all forces were shattered.

Twice she saw him change countenance and give a start. The first time
was when she told him of her German descent. An inbred hatred against
all Germans and everything German filled him. An evil mockery glared in
his face. He determined not to believe her and dropped the subject.

And the second time was when she spoke of Ivan Michailovitch Becker.
She could not help it; she had to bring that name to the light. It was
her symbol and talisman.

A glance like a whip’s lash leaped out of those slothful eyes. The
two deep grooves between the eyebrows stretched like the antennæ of
an insect. A diagonal groove appeared and formed with the others a
menacing cross. The face became ashen.

Susan was impatient. She urged her on and lured her on. “Why do you
hesitate?” she said to her mistress one evening. “So near the peak one
cannot go back. Remember our dreams in Toledo! We thought they were
insolent then. Reality puts us to shame. Take what is given you. Never
will your sweet, little dancing feet win a greater prize.”

Eva walked in a circle about the rug. “Be quiet,” she said thoughtfully
and threateningly, “You don’t know what you are advising me to do.”

Crouching near the fire-place, Susan’s lightless, plum-like eyes
followed her mistress. “Are you afraid?” she asked with a frown.

“I believe I am afraid,” Eva replied.

“Do you remember the sculptor whom we visited in Meudon last winter?
He showed us his work, and you two talked art. He said: ‘I mustn’t be
afraid of the marble; the marble must be afraid of me.’ You almost
kissed him in gratitude for those words. Don’t be afraid now. You are
the stronger.”

Eva stood still, and sighed: “Cette maladie, qu’on appelle la sagesse!”

Then Susan went to the piano-forte, and with her fluttering angularity
of movement began to play a Polonaise of Chopin. Eva listened for a
while. Then she went up to Susan from behind, tapped her shoulder, and
said, as the playing ceased, with a dark, strange cooing in her voice:

“If it must be, I shall first live one summer of love, the like of
which has not been seen on earth. Do not speak, Susan. Play on, and do
not speak.”

Susan looked up, and shook her puzzled head.


VIII

On the day of Eva’s last appearance in Petrograd, a well laid high
explosive mine blew up the central building of the Agricultural
Exposition.

The plot had been aimed at the person of the Grand Duke. His visit had
been expected, the order in which he would inspect the buildings had
been carefully mapped out. A slight maladjustment in the machinery of
his car delayed him and his train a few minutes beyond the precisely
fixed hour.

At the very moment when he put his foot on the first step of the
building, a terrific crash resounded. The sky disappeared behind
fume and fragments. Several manufacturers and bureaucrats, who had
officiously hurried ahead, as well as ten or twelve workingmen, were
killed. The air pressure smashed the window panes in all the houses
within a mile of the spot.

For a while the Grand Duke stood quite still. Without curiosity
or fear, but with an indescribably sombre look, he surveyed the
devastation. When he turned to go, the great crowds who had streamed
thither melted back silently at his approach. They left him a broad
path through which his abnormally long legs, accompanied by the
clinking of his sword, strode with the steps of a sower.

For her final performance Eva had selected the rôle of the fettered
and then liberated Echo, in the pantomime called The Awakening of Pan.
It had always created enthusiasm; but this time she celebrated an
unparalleled triumph.

She danced a dance of freedom and redemption, that affected with
complete immediacy the nerves of the thronging audiences, and released
the tensions of the day of their lives. There was a present and
significant eloquence in the barbaric defiance, the fiery terror of the
pursued. Then came her sudden rallying, her heroic determination, her
grief over a first defeat, her toying with the torch of vengeance, her
jubilant welcome of a rising dawn.

The curtain dropped, and the twenty-five hundred people sat as though
turned to stone. Innumerable glances sought the box of the Grand Duke
and found those slothful, unseeing eyes of his. They saw the slightness
and disproportionate length of his body, the sinewy, bird-like neck
above the round collar of his uniform, the thin beard, the bumpy
forehead, and felt the atmosphere that rolled silently out from him and
dwelled in his track--the atmosphere of a million-atomed death. And in
the midst of these were those slothful eyes.

Then the applause broke out. Distinguished ladies contorted their
bodies, toothless old men yelled like boys, sophisticated experts of
the theatre climbed on their seats and waved. When Eva appeared the
noise died down. For ten seconds nothing was heard but the sound of
breathing and the rustle of garments.

She looked into that gleaming sea of faces. The folds of her white
Greek garment were still as marble. Then the storm of applause burst
out anew. Over the balustrade of the gallery a girl bent and stretched
out her arms, and cried with a sob in her voice, that rose above all
the plaudits: “You have understood us, little soul!”

Eva did not understand the Russian words. But it was not necessary. She
looked up, and their sense was clear to her.


IX

At midnight she appeared, as she had consented to do, in the palace of
Prince Fyodor Szilaghin.

So soon as she was seen, a respectful murmur and then a silence
surrounded her. Bearers of the most ancient names were assembled,
the most beautiful women of society and of the court, and the
representatives of foreign powers. Several gentlemen had already formed
a group about her, when Fyodor Szilaghin approached, kissed her hand
reverently, and drew her skilfully from the group.

She passed through several rooms at his side. He did his best to
fascinate her and succeeded in holding her attention.

There was not a touch of banality about him. His gestures and words
were calculated to produce a desired effect with the utmost coolness
and subtlety. When he spoke he lowered his eyes a little. The ease and
fullness of speech that is characteristic of all Russians had something
iridescent in his case. An arrogant and almost cynical consciousness
of the fact that he was handsome, witty, aloof, mysterious, and much
desired never left him. His eyebrows had been touched with kohl, his
lips with rouge. The dull blackness of his hair threw into striking
relief the transparent pallor of his beardless face.

“I find it most remarkable, Madame,” he said in a voice of unfathomable
falseness, “that your art has not to us Slavs the oversophistication
that is characteristic of most Western artists. It is identical with
nature. It would be instructive to know the paths by which, from so
different a direction, you reached the very laws and forms on which
our national dances as well as our modern orchestral innovations are
based. Undoubtedly you are acquainted with both.”

“I am,” Eva answered, “and what I have seen is most uncommon. It has
power and character and enthusiasm.”

“Enthusiasm and perhaps something more--wild ecstasy,” said the prince,
with a significant smile. “Without that there is no great creation in
the world. Do you not believe that Christ shared such ecstasy? As for
me, I cannot be satisfied with the commonly accepted figure of a gentle
and gently harmonious Christ.”

“It is a new point of view. It is worth thinking about,” Eva said with
kindly tolerance.

“However that may be,” Szilaghin went on, “among us all things are
still in the process of becoming--the dance as well as religion. I
do not hesitate to name these two in one breath. They are related as
a red rose is to a white. When I say that we are still becoming, I
mean that we have yet discovered no limits either of good or evil. A
Russian is capable of committing the most cruel murder, and of shedding
tears, within the next hour, at the sound of a melancholy song. He is
capable of all wildness, excess, and horror, but also of magnanimity
and self-abnegation. No transformation is swifter or more terrible
than his, from hate to love, love to hate, happiness to despair,
faithfulness to treachery, fear to temerity. If you trust him and yield
yourself to him, you will find him pliant, high-souled, and infinitely
tender. Disappoint and maltreat him--he will plunge into darkness
and be lost in the darkness. He can give, give, give, without end or
reflection, to the point of fanatical selflessness. Not until he is
hurled to the uttermost depths of hopelessness, does the beast in him
awaken and crash into destruction all that is about him.” The prince
suddenly stood still. “Is it indiscreet to ask, Madame, where you will
pass the month of May? I am told you intend to go to the sea-shore.” He
had said these words in a changed tone, and regarded Eva expectantly.

The question came to her like an attack from ambush.

Insensibly they had left the rooms destined for the guests and passed
into the extensive conservatories. Labyrinthine paths, threading
innumerable flowers and shrubs, led in all directions. A dim light
reigned, and where they stood in a somewhat theatrical isolation,
thousands of ghostly orchids exhaled a breathless fragrance.

Skilfully and equivocally chosen as they were, the sense and purport of
Szilaghin’s words were very clear to Eva. Yet she was tempted to oppose
her own flexibility to his eel-like smoothness of mind, despite the
hidden threat of the situation. She assumed a smile, as impenetrable as
Szilaghin’s forehead and large pupils, and answered: “Yes; I am going
to Heyst. I must rest. Life in this land of hidden madmen has wearied
me. It is too bad that I must be deprived, dear Prince, of a mentor and
sage like yourself.”

Suddenly Szilaghin dropped on one knee, and said softly: “My master
and friend beseeches you through me for the favour of being near
you wherever you may elect to go. He insists on no exact time, but
awaits your summons. I know neither the degree nor the cause of your
hesitation, dear lady, but what pledge do you demand, what surety,
for the sincerity of a feeling that avoids no test and stops at no
sacrifice?”

“Please rise, prince,” Eva commanded him. She stepped back a pace and
stretched out her arms in a delicate gesture of unwilling intimacy.
“You are a spendthrift of yourself at this moment. Please rise.”

“Not until you assure me that I shall be the bearer of good news. Your
decision is a grave one. Clouds are gathering and awaiting a wind that
may disperse them. Processions are on the roads praying to avert an
evil fate. I am but a single, but a chance messenger. May I rise now?”

Eva folded her arms across her bosom, and retreated to the very wall of
hanging flowers. She became aware of the mighty and naked seriousness
of fate. “Rise,” she said, with lowered head, and twice did fire and
pallor alternate on her cheeks.

Szilaghin arose and smiled, swiftly breathing. Again, in silent
reverence, he carried her hand to his lips. Then he led her, subtly
chatting as before, back among the other guests.

It was twelve hours after this that Christian received the telegram
which called him to Berlin.


X

Edgar Lorm played to crowded houses in Munich. His popularity was such
that he had to prolong his stay.

It pleased Crammon enormously and puffed him up. He walked about as
though he were the sole nurse of all this glory.

One day he was at a tea given by a literary lady. In a corner arose
laughter that was obviously directed at him. He was amused when he
discovered that the whispering group gathered there believed firmly
that he was copying Lorm’s impersonation of the Misanthrope.

Felix Imhof writhed in laughter when he heard the story. “There’s
something very attractive in the notion to people who don’t really know
you,” he said to Crammon. “It’s far more likely that it’s the other way
around, and that Lorm created his impersonation by copying you.”

This interpretation was very flattering. Crammon smiled in appreciation
of it. Unconsciously he deepened the lines of misanthropy in his chubby
ecclesiastical face. When Lorm had his picture taken as Alceste,
Crammon took up his stand behind the camera, and gazed steadily at the
ripe statuesqueness of the actor’s appearance.

It was his intention to learn. The rôle which had been assigned him
in the play of the actor’s life--the play that lasted from nine
o’clock every morning until eleven at night--began to arouse his
dissatisfaction. He desired it to be less episodic. It seemed to him
that Lorm, the director of this particular play, should be persuaded
to change the cast. He told Lorm so quite frankly. For the actor was
no longer to him, as in the days of his youth, the crown and glory of
human existence and the vessel of noblest emotions, but a means to an
end. Nowadays one was forced to learn of Lorm, to conceal one’s true
feelings impenetrably, to gather all one’s energy for the moment of
one’s cue, to be thrifty of one’s self, bravely to wear a credible
mask, and thus to assure each situation of a happy ending.

So Crammon said: “I’ve always had rather pleasant relations with my
partners. I can truly say that I’m an obliging colleague and have
always stolen away into the background when it was their turn to have
their monologues or great scenes in the centre of the stage. But two of
them, the young lover and the heroine, have undoubtedly abused my good
nature. They’ve gradually shoved me out of the play entirely. To their
own hurt, too. The action promised to be splendid. Since I’ve been
shoved into the wings, it threatens to be lost in the sand. It annoys
me.”

Edgar Lorm smiled. “It seems to me rather that the playwright is at
fault than those two,” he answered. “And no doubt it’s a mistake in
construction. No experienced man of the theatre would dispense with a
character like yourself.”

“Prosit,” said Crammon, and lifted his glass. They were sitting late in
the Ratskeller.

“One must await developments,” Lorm continued. The whole charade
amused him immensely. “In the works of good authors you sometimes
find unexpected turns of the action. You mustn’t scold till the final
curtain.”

Crammon murmured morosely. “It’s taking a long time. Some day soon I’m
going to mount the stage and find out in which act we are. I may make
an extempore insertion.”

“For what particular line have you been engaged anyhow?” Lorm
inquired. “Man of the world, character parts, or heavy father?”

Crammon shrugged his shoulders. The two men looked seriously at each
other. A pleasant mood gleamed about the actor’s narrow lips. “How long
is it since we’ve seen each other, old boy?” he said, and threw his
arm affectionately over Crammon’s shoulder. “It must be years. Until
recently I had a secretary who, whenever a letter came from you, would
lay it on my pillow at night. He meant that action to express something
like this: Look, Lorm, people aren’t the filthy scamps you always call
them. Well, he was an idealist who had been brought up on chicory,
potatoes, and herring. You find that sort once in a while. As for you,
my dear Crammon, you’ve put on flesh. You’re comfortable and compact in
that nice tight skin of yours. I’m still lean and feed on my own blood.”

“My fat is only a stage property,” said Crammon sadly. “The inner me is
untouched.”


XI

Whenever Lorm played, Judith Imhof was in the theatre. But she went
neither with her husband nor with Crammon. They broke in upon her mood.
She cared very little for Crammon at any time. Unless he was very
jocular, he seemed to her insufferable.

She sat in the stalls, and in the entr’actes waved graciously and
calmly to Felix and Crammon in their box. She was careless of the
amazement of her acquaintances. If any one had the temerity to ask
why she sat alone, she answered, “Imhof is annoyed when another is
not pleased with something that arouses his enthusiasm. So we go on
different paths.”

Inevitably the curious person would ask next: “Then you don’t care for
Lorm?” Whereupon she would reply: “Not greatly. He forces me to take a
certain interest; but I resent that. I think he’s terribly overrated.”

One day a lady of her acquaintance asked her whether she was happy in
her marriage. “I don’t know,” she answered, and laughed. “I haven’t any
exact conception of what people mean by happiness.” Her friend then
asked her why she had married. “Very simply,” she replied, “because
being a young girl got to be such an undelightful situation that I
sought to escape from it as soon as possible.” The lady wanted to know
whether she didn’t, then, love her husband. “My dear woman,” Judith
said, “love! There’s nothing so mischievous as the loose way in which
people use that word. Most people, I believe, pretend quite shamelessly
when they talk about it, and defend it simply because they don’t want
to admit that they’ve been taken in. It’s exactly like the king’s
new clothes in the old fable. Every one acts mightily important and
enthusiastic, and won’t admit that the poor king is naked to the winds.”

Another time she was asked whether she didn’t yearn to have a child. “A
child!” she cried out. “Horrors! Shall I bring forth more food for the
worms?”

Once, in company, the conversation turned to the question of one’s
sensitiveness to pain. Judith asserted that she could bear any bodily
torment without moving a muscle. She was not believed. She procured a
long, golden needle, and bade one of the gentlemen pierce her whole
arm with it. When he refused in horror, she asked another of stronger
nerves who obeyed her. And really she did not twitch a muscle. The
blood gathered in a little pool. She smiled.

Felix Imhof could weep at the least excuse. When he had a sick headache
he wept. She despised this in him.

The actor took hold of her. She resisted in vain. The spell he cast
over her grew ever firmer, more indissoluble. She brooded over it. Was
it his transformations that attracted her so?

Although he was forty, his body was as elegant and flexible as polished
steel. And like the ringing of steel was his voice. The words were
sparks. Under his tread the wooden stage became a palæstra. Nothing
clung or whined or crept. Everything was tension, progression, verve,
the rhythm of storms. There was no inner weight or weariness. Bugles
soared. She agreed with Felix when he said: “There is more of the true
content of our age in this man than in all the papers, editorials,
pamphlets, and plethoric three-deckers that the press has spewed forth
within the past twenty years. He has crowned the living word and made
it our king.”

She was impatient to make the personal acquaintance of Lorm. Crammon
became the intermediary, and brought the actor to her house. She
was amazed at the homeliness of the man’s face. She resented his
insignificant, tilted nose and his mediocre forehead. But the spell was
not broken. She desired to overlook these details and succeeded. They
represented but another transformation of that self which she believed
to be so infinitely varied.

He revealed himself as an epicure, with remnants of that greed which
marks the man who has risen from humble things. The delights of the
table induced in him outbursts of noisy merriment. Over the oysters and
the champagne he discussed his worst enemies with benevolence.

He was so changeable of mood that it was exhausting to associate with
him. No one opposed him, and this lack of opposition had produced an
empty space about him that had almost the guise of loneliness. He
himself took it for the solitariness of the soul, and cherished it with
a proud pain.

He discoursed only in monologues. He listened only to himself. But
he did all that with the innocence of a savage. When others spoke he
disappeared in an inner absorption, his eyes assumed a stony look. The
part of him that remained conscious was undeviatingly courteous, but
this courtesy often had an automatic air. When he came to speak again,
he delighted his hearers by his wit, his paradoxes, and his masterly
rendition of anecdotes.

He avoided conversation with women. Beauty and coquetry made no
impression on him. When women became enthusiastic over him, his
expression was one of merely courteous attention, and his thoughts
were contemptuous. He had no adventures, and his name occurred in no
racy stories. Once out of the theatre, he lived the life of a private
gentleman of simple habits.

With cool but delicate perceptivity Judith examined the conformation of
his character. She who was utterly without swift aspiration, whose dry
nature perceived only the utilitarian, only the expedient, who had been
stifled in mere forms from her girlhood, and esteemed nothing in others
but the external, garments, jewels, display, title, name--she was like
one possessed and charged with an electric fluid within three days. She
was fascinated primarily by external things: his eye, his voice, his
fame. But there was one deeper thing: the illusion of his art.

She knew what she was doing. Her steps were scrupulously calculated.

One day Lorm complained of the disorganization in his life, the
frightful waste of his substance. It was at table, and he was answered
by empty phrases. But Judith, when she succeeded in having him to
herself later, took up the subject again. She persuaded him to describe
the persons whom he held responsible, and expressed doubts of their
trustworthiness. She disapproved of arrangements that he had made, gave
him advice that he found excellent, and reproached him with the neglect
of which he confessed himself guilty. “I wade in money and suffocate in
debt,” he sighed. “In twenty years I’ll be an old man and a poor devil.”

Her practical insight filled him with naïve admiration. He said to her:
“I’ve been told once in a while that there are such women in the world
as you, but I never believed in their existence. All I’ve ever seen
were full of empty exactions and florid emotions.”

“You’re unjust,” she replied and smiled. “Every woman has some field in
which she has character and firmness, but the world pays no attention.
Then, too, our relation to the world is usually a false one.”

“That is a wise remark,” said Lorm in a satisfied voice. He was a miser
of praise.

From now on he loved to have her draw him into talk concerning his
little needs and worries. She examined him in detail, and he was glad
to submit. He brought her the bills rendered him by his tradespeople.
“They capitalize your inexperience, and cheat you,” was Judith’s
judgment of the situation. It made him feel ashamed.

“Have you been lending money?” she asked. It appeared that he had. For
years and years he had loaned considerable sums to numerous parasites.
Judith shrugged her shoulders. “You might just as well have thrown the
money away.”

Lorm answered: “It’s such a bother when they come and beg, and their
faces are so unappetizing. I give them what they ask just to be rid of
them.”

In this wise their conversations moved wholly within the circle of the
prosaic things of daily life. But it was precisely this that Edgar
Lorm had missed and needed. It was as new and as moving to him, as the
discovery of a rapt and ecstatic soul to a bourgeois becoming aware of
poetry and passion.

Judith had a dream. She lay quite naked beside a slippery, icy fish.
And she lay with it from choice, and snuggled close to its cold body.
But suddenly she began to beat it, for its cool, damp, slippery scales,
which had a gleam of silver and were opaline along its back, suddenly
inspired in her a witch-like fury. She beat and beat the creature,
until she lost consciousness and awoke exhausted.

An excursion into the valley of the Isar was arranged. Crammon went,
and Felix, a young friend of the latter, Lorm and Judith. They took
their coffee in the garden of an inn, and on the way back, which led
through woods, they went in couples, Lorm and Judith being the last.
“I’ve lost my gold cigarette case,” Lorm announced suddenly, examining
his pocket, “I’ve got to go back the last part of the way. I know I had
it when we were in the village.” It was an object precious in itself,
and to which he attached a great value because it had been given him by
a king who had been devoted to him in an enthusiastic friendship in his
youth, and so it was irreplaceable.

Judith nodded. “I’ll wait here,” she said, “I’m afraid I’m too tired to
cover the distance three times.”

He walked back and left Judith standing there, leaning her head against
a tree and reflecting. Her forehead wrinkled and her eyes assumed a
piercing look. It was silent in the wood; no breeze stirred, no bird
cried, no animal rustled in the bushes. Time passed. Driven not at
all by impatience, but by her thoughts, which were both violent and
decisive, she finally left her place, and walked in the direction from
which Lorm would have to come. When she had been walking for a while,
she saw something golden gleaming in the moss. It was the cigarette
case, which she picked up calmly.

Lorm came back sorely vexed. He was silent, and as he walked beside
her, she quietly presented the case on her flat hand. He made a gesture
of joyous surprise, and she had to tell him how she had found it.

For a while he seemed to be struggling with himself. Suddenly he said:
“How much easier life would be with you.”

Judith answered with a smile: “You talk of it as of something
unattainable.”

“I believe it to be so,” he murmured, with lowered head.

“If you’re thinking of my marriage,” Judith said, still smiling, “I
consider your expression exaggerated. The way out would be simple.”

“I wasn’t thinking of your marriage, but of your wealth.”

“Will you tell me your meaning more clearly.”

“At once.” He looked about him, and went up to a tree. “Do you see
that little beetle? Look how busily he works to climb the height
before him. He has probably worked his way up a considerable distance
to-day. No doubt he started before dawn. When he’s on top, he will have
accomplished something. But if I take him between my fingers now and
place him at the top, then the very path which his own labour has dug
becomes a thing of no value to him. That’s the way it is with beetles
and also with men.”

Judith considered. “Comparisons must halt. That’s their prerogative,
you know.” She spoke with gentle mockery. “I don’t understand why one
should reject another, simply because that other doesn’t come with
empty hands. It’s a funny notion.”

“Between a hand that is empty, and one that commands immeasurable
treasures, there is a fatal difference,” Lorm said with deep
earnestness. “I have worked my way up from poverty. You have no
faintest notion of the meaning of that word. All that I am and have, I
owe to the immediate exertions of my body and my brains. By your birth
you have been accustomed all your life to buy the bodies and the brains
of others. And though you had a thousand times more instinct and vision
for practical things and for the necessities of a sane life than you
have, yet you do not and could not comprehend the profoundly moral and
rightly revered relation of accomplishment to reward. Your adventitious
advantages have constantly made it possible for you to ignore this
relation, and to substitute for it an arbitrary will. To me your wealth
would be paralysis, a mockery and a spectre.”

He looked at her with head thrown back.

“And so you think our case hopeless?” Judith asked, pale and defiant.

“Since I cannot and dare not expect you to abandon your millions and
share the fate of a play-actor, it does indeed seem hopeless.”

Judith’s face was quite colourless. “Let us go,” she said; “the others
will remark our absence, and I dislike being gossiped about.”

Swiftly and silently they walked on. They came to a clearing and saw
beneath a black rampart of clouds the throbbing, crimson disc of the
sun. Judith stared into it with raging fury. For the first time her
will had encountered a still stronger will. It was rage that filled her
eyes with tears, rage that wrung from her discordant laughter. When
Lorm looked at her in pained surprise, she turned away and bit her lip.

“I’m capable of doing it,” she said to herself in her rage. And the
impulse hardened into a stubborn determination: “I will! I will!”


XII

When Christian arrived in Berlin with Amadeus Voss he found, quite as
he had expected, many people and a great tumult about Eva. He could
scarcely get to her. “I am tired, Eidolon,” she cried out, when she
caught sight of him. “Take me away from everything.”

And again, when she had escaped the oppressive host of admirers, she
said: “How good it is that you are here, Eidolon. I have waited for you
with an ache in my heart. We’ll leave to-morrow.”

But the journey was postponed from day to day. They planned to live
alone and in retirement at the Dutch watering place that was their
immediate goal, but Christian had already met a dozen people who had
ordered accommodations there, and so he doubted the seriousness of
Eva’s intentions. People had become indispensable to her. When she was
silent she wanted, at least, to hear the voices of others; when she was
quiet she wanted movement about her.

When he stood before her the fragrance of her body penetrated him like
a great fear. His blood flowed in such violent waves that his pulses
lost the rhythm of their beating.

He had forgotten her face, the inimitable veracity of her gestures,
her power of feeling and inspiring ecstasy, her whole powerful,
delicate, flowerlike, radiant being. Everything seemed to yield to her,
even the elements. When she appeared in the street, the sun shone more
purely and the air was more temperate; and thus the wild turmoil about
her was transformed into a steady and obedient tide.

Susan said to Christian: “We are to dance here, and have offers. But we
don’t like the Prussians. They seem an arid folk, who save their money
for soldiers and barracks. I haven’t seen a real face. All men and all
women look alike. They may be worthy, no doubt they are; but they seem
machine-made.”

“Eva herself is a German,” Christian rebuked the woman’s spiteful words.

“Bah, if a genius is cast forth from heaven and tumbles on the earth,
it is blind and cannot choose its place. Where is Herr von Crammon?”
she interrupted herself. “Why doesn’t he come to see us? And whom have
you brought in his stead?” She poked out her chin toward Amadeus Voss,
who stood timidly in a corner, and whose large spectacles made him look
like an owl. “Who is that?”

Who is that? The same question appeared in the astonished faces of
Wiguniewski and of the Marquis of Tavera. Amadeus was new to the world
with a vengeance. The fixed expression on his features had something
so silly at times, that Christian was ashamed of him and the others
laughed.

Voss wandered about the streets, pushed himself into crowds, surveyed
the exhibits behind the plate-glass windows of shops, stared into
coffee-houses, bought newspapers and pamphlets, but found no way of
calming his soul. All he could see was the face of the dancer, and the
gestures with which she cut a fruit or greeted a friend or bowed or sat
down in a chair or arose or smelled a flower, or the motions of her
lids and lips and neck and shoulders and hips and legs. And he found
all these things in her provocative and affected, and yet they had
bitten into his brain as acid bites into metal.

One evening he entered Christian’s room, and his face was the colour of
dust.

“Who really is Eva Sorel?” he asked, with a bitter rancour. “Where does
she come from? To whom does she belong? What are we doing here with
her? Tell me something about her. Enlighten me.” He threw himself into
a chair, and stared at Christian.

When Christian, unprepared for this tempest of questions, made no
answer, he went on: “You’ve put me into a new skin, but the old Adam
writhes in it still. Is this a masquerade? If so, tell me at least what
the masks represent. I seem to be disguised too, but badly. I expect
you to improve my disguise.”

“You aren’t disguised any worse than the others,” Christian said, with
a soothing smile.

Voss rested his head on his two hands. “So she’s a dancer, a dancer,”
he murmured thoughtfully. “To my way of feeling there has always been
something lewd about that word and what it means. How can it help
arousing images that bring the blush to one’s cheek?” Suddenly he
looked up, and asked with a piercing glance: “Is she your mistress?”

The blood left Christian’s face. “I think I understand what disturbs
you so,” he said. “But now that you’ve gone with me, you must bear with
me. I don’t know how long we shall stay with this crowd, and I can’t
myself tell exactly why we are here. But you must not ask me about Eva
Sorel. We must not discuss her either for praise or blame.”

Voss was silenced.


XIII

Christian, Amadeus, Bradshaw, Tavera, and Wiguniewski went by motor.
Eva used the train.

But this way of travelling agreed with her as ill as any other. All
night she lay sleepless in her crumpled silks, her head buried among
pillows. Susan crouched by her, giving her perfume or a book or a
glass of cold lemonade. There was a prickling in her limbs that would
not let her rest, a weight on her bosom, an alternation of thought and
fancy, of willing and the weariness of willing in her mind. The hum of
the wheels on the rails cut into her nerves; the sable landscape, as
it glided by, irritated her like a delusion that forever changed and
melted. Malignity seemed to lurk in the fields; treacherous forests
seemed to block the way; she saw haunted houses and terror-stricken men.

“What a torturer time is!” she whispered. “Oh, that it stood before me,
and I could have it whipped.”

Susan bent nearer, and gazed at her attentively.

Suddenly she whispered tenderly: “What do you expect of him? What is
the purpose of this new game? He’s the most banal of them all. I never
heard him make a polished or a witty remark. Does he realize what you
are? Not in his wildest dreams. His head is empty. Your art means about
as much to him as the acrobatics of a circus dancer to some dreary
shop-keeper. Nations are at your feet, and he grants you a supercilious
smile. You have given the world a new kind of delight, and this German
know-it-all is untouched and unchanged by it.”

Eva said: “If the North Sea is too sinister, we must seek a coast in
the South.”

Susan grew excited: “One would like to yell into his ears: ‘Get on
your knees! Pray!’ But he wouldn’t be shaken any more than the pillar
of Vendôme. Is he ever shaken by anything? I described to him how we
were adored in Russia, the ecstasy, the festivities, the outbursts of
enthusiasm. He acted as if he were hearing a moderately interesting
bit of daily news. I told him about the Grand Duke. No, don’t frown.
I had to, or I would have choked. I described that chained barbarian,
that iron soul dissolved! It’s certainly uncommon; it would make any
heart beat faster. I tried to make him visualize the situation: fifty
millions of trembling slaves and all, through his power, at your
bidding. No poet could have been more impressive than I was. If you had
heard me trying to penetrate his mind, you would have been astonished
at my talent for sewing golden threads on sack cloth. It was all in
vain. His breath came as regularly as the ticking of a clock. Once
or twice he seemed to be startled. But it was due to a breeze or a
mosquito.”

“I wonder whether the gowns from Paris have arrived at Heyst,” Eva
said. The long oval of her face seemed to grow a trifle longer; her
lips curled a little, and her teeth showed like pallid, freshly peeled
almonds.

“Why did you refuse yourself to him?” Susan went on. “What we possess
is part of our past, but a joy put off is a burden. Men are to be the
rungs of your ladder--no more. Let them give you magical nights, but
send them packing when the cock crows. How has he deserved a higher
office? You’ve yielded to a whim, and made a grinning idol of him. Why
did you summon him? I’m afraid you’re going to commit a folly.”

Eva did not answer. The tip of her tongue appeared between her lips,
and she closed her eyes cunningly. Susan thought she understood those
gestures, and said: “It’s true, he has the marvellous diamond for which
you cried. But you have but to command, and they’ll trim your very
shoes with such baubles.”

“When did you ever see me cry for a diamond?” Eva, asked indifferently.
She raised herself up, and in her transparent, wavering, blossomy
wrappings seemed like a spirit emerging from the dimness. “When did you
ever see me cry for a diamond?” she asked again, and touched Susan’s
shoulder.

“You told me so yourself.”

“Have you no better proof?” Eva laughed, and her laughter was her most
sensuous form of expression, as her smile was her most spiritual.

Susan folded her hands and said resignedly: “Volvedme del otro lado,
que de esto ya estoy tostado!” It is a Spanish ejaculation, and means:
Lay me on the other side, for I have been toasted enough on this.


XIV

The house that Eva had taken was not very far from the beach. It was an
old manor, which William of Orange had built, and which had belonged to
the late Duchess of Leuchtenberg until a few years ago.

The rooms, built of mighty blocks of stone, soothed Eva. By day and
night she heard the long-drawn thunder of the waves. Whenever she
picked up a book, she dropped it again soon and listened.

She walked through those rooms, full of ancient furniture and dark
portraits, glad to possess herself, and to await without torment him
who came to her. She greeted him with half-closed eyes, and with the
smile of one who has yielded herself wholly.

Susan practised on a piano with muted strings. When she had finished
her task, she slunk away and remained hidden.

Christian and Amadeus Voss had taken lodgings in a neighbouring
villa--Voss on the ground floor, Christian above. Since Christian
neither asked questions nor detained him, Voss went out in the morning
and returned in the evening or even late at night. He did not say where
he had been, or what he had seen or experienced.

At breakfast on the third morning, he said to Christian: “It’s a
thankless task to unchain a fellow like me. I breathe a different
breath and sleep a different sleep. Somewhere my soul is ranging about,
and I’m chasing it. I’ve got to catch it first, before I know how
things are with me.”

Christian did not look up. “We’re invited to dine with Eva Sorel
to-night,” he said.

Voss bowed ironically. “That invitation looks damnably like charity,”
he said harshly. “I feel the resistance of those people to me, and
their strangeness, in my very bones. What a superfluous comedy! What
shall I do there? Nearly all of them talk French. I’m a provincial, a
villager, and ridiculous. And that’s worse than being a murderer or
thief. I may make up my mind to commit arson or murder, so as not to
be ridiculous any more.” He opened his mouth as though to laugh, but
uttered no sound.

“I’m surprised, Amadeus, that your thoughts always cling to that
one point,” Christian said. “Do you really believe it to be of such
decisive importance? No one cares whether you’re poor or rich. Since
you appear in my company, no one questions your equality, or would be
so vulgar as to question it. The feelings that you express originate
in yourself, and you seem to take a kind of perverse joy in them. You
like to torment yourself, and then revenge yourself on others. I hope
you won’t take my frankness amiss.”

Amadeus Voss grinned. “Sometimes, Christian Wahnschaffe, I’d like to
pat your head, as though I were your teacher, and say: You did that
very well. Yes, it was wonderfully well done. And yet your little arrow
went astray. To hit me, you must take better aim. It is true that the
morbidness is deep in my soul, far too deep to be eradicated by a
few inexpensive aphorisms. When this Russian prince or this Spanish
legate shake hands with me, I feel as though I had forged cheques and
would be discovered in a minute. When this lady passes by me, with her
indescribable fragrance and the rustling of her garments, I grow dizzy,
as though I dangled high over an abyss, and my whole soul writhes in
its own humiliation and slavishness. It writhes and writhes, and I
can’t help it. I was born that way. This is not my world, and cannot
become mine. The under dogs must bleed to death, for the upper dogs
consider that the order of the world. I belong to that lower kind.
My place is with those who have the odour of decayed flesh, whom all
avoid, who go about with an eternally festering wound. The law of my
being ranges me with them. I have no power to change that, nor has any
pleasant agreement. This is not my world, Wahnschaffe; and if you don’t
want me to lose my reason and do some mischief, you had better take me
out of it so soon as possible, or else send me away.”

Christian passed the tips of his fingers over his forehead. “Have
patience, Amadeus. I believe it is not my world any longer. Give me but
a little more time in which to straighten out my own thoughts.”

Voss’s eyes clung to Christian’s hands and lips. The words had been
quietly, almost coolly uttered, yet there was a deep conflict in
them and an expression that had power over Voss. “I cannot imagine a
man leaving this woman, if once he has her favour,” he said, with a
hovering malice on his lips, “unless she withdraws her favour.”

Christian could not restrain a gesture of aversion. “We’ll meet
to-night then,” he said, and arose.

An hour later Amadeus Voss saw him and Eva on the beach. He was coming
down the dunes, and saw them on the flat sands by the foam of the
waves. He stopped, shaded his eyes with his hands, and gazed out over
the ocean as though watching for a sail. The other two did not see him.
They walked along in a rhythmic unity, as of bodies that have tested
the harmony of their vibrations. After a while they, too, stopped and
stood close together, and were defined like two dark, slender shafts
against the iron grey of air and water.

Voss threw himself into the sparse, stiff grass, and buried his
forehead in the moist sand. Thus he lay many hours.

Evening came. Its great event was to be the appearance of Eva with the
diamond Ignifer in her hair. She wore it in an exquisitely wrought
setting of platinum, and it shone above her head, radiant and solitary,
like a ghostly flame.

She felt its presence in every throb of her heart. It was a part of
her, at once her justification and her crown. It was no longer an
adornment but a blazing and convincing symbol of herself.

For a while there was an almost awestruck silence. The lovely Beatrix
Vanleer, a Belgian sculptress, cried out in her astonishment and
admiration.

The smile of gentle intoxication faded from Eva’s face, and her eyes
turned far in their sockets, and she saw Amadeus Voss, whose face was
of a bluish pallor.

His mouth was half open like an imbecile’s, his head thrust brutally
forward, his hanging arms twitched. He approached slowly, with eyes
staring at the ineffable glow of the jewel. Those who stood on either
side of him were frightened and made way. Eva turned her face aside,
and stepped back two paces. Susan emerged beside her, and laid
protective arms about her. At the same moment Christian went up to
Voss, grasped his hand, and drew the quite obedient man aside.

Christian’s attitude and expression had something that calmed
every one. As though nothing had happened, a vivid and twittering
conversation arose.

Voss and Christian stood on the balcony of stone. Voss drank the salt
sea air deep into his lungs. He asked hoarsely: “Was that Ignifer?”

Christian nodded. He listened to the sea. The waves thundered like
falling fragments of rock.

“I have grasped the whole secret of your race,” Amadeus murmured, and
the convulsion in his face melted under the influence of Christian’s
presence. “I have understood both man and woman. In this diamond are
frozen your tears and your shudderings, your voluptuousness and your
darkness too. It is a bribe and an accursed delusion, a terrible
fetish! How keenly aware am I now of your days and nights, Wahnschaffe,
of all that is between you and her, since I have seen the gleam of this
mineral which the Lord created out of the slime, even as He created
me and you and her. That stone is without pain--earthly, and utterly
without pain, burned pure and merciless. My God, my God, and think of
me, of me!”

Christian did not understand this outburst, but it shook him to
the soul. Its power swept aside the vexation which Voss’s shameless
eloquence had aroused. He listened to the sea.

Voss pulled himself together. He went up to the balustrade, and said
with unnatural self-control, “You counselled patience to-day. What was
your purpose? It sounded as equivocal and as general as all you say to
me. It is convenient to talk of patience. It is a luxury like any other
luxury at your command, only less costly. There is no word, however,
worthier of hatred or contempt. It is always false. Closely looked
upon, it means cowardice and sloth. What have you in mind?”

Christian did not answer. Or, rather, he assumed having answered; and
after a long while, and out of deep meditation, he asked: “Do you
believe that it is of any use?”

“I don’t understand,” said Voss, and looked at him helplessly. “Use? To
what end or how?”

Christian, however, did not enlighten him further.

Voss wanted to go home, but Christian begged him to stay, and so they
went in and joined the others at dinner.


XV

When the dinner was over, the company returned to the drawing-room. The
conversation began in French, but in deference to Mr. Bradshaw, who did
not understand that language, changed to German.

The American directed the conversation toward the dying races of the
New World, and the tragedy of their disappearance. Eva encouraged him,
and he told of an experience he had had among the Navaho Indians.

The Navaho tribe had offered the longest resistance to Christianity
and to its civilization. To subdue them the United States Government
forbade the practice of the immemorial Yabe Chi dance, the most
solemn ritual of their cult. The commissioner who was to convey this
order, and on whose staff Mr. Bradshaw had been, yielded to the
passionate entreaty of the tribal chief, and gave permission for a
final celebration of the dance. At midnight, by the light of campfires
and of pine torches, the brilliantly feathered and tattooed dancers
and singers appeared. The singers sang songs which told of the fates
of three heroes, who had been captured by a hostile tribe and freed by
the god Ya. He taught them to ride the lightning; they fled into the
cave of the Grizzly Bear, and thence into the realm of butterflies.
The dances gave a plastic representation of these adventures. While
the craggy mountains re-echoed the songs, and the contorted dances in
the tawny glow rose to an ecstasy of despair, a terrific storm broke.
Cascades of water poured from the sky and filled the dried river-beds
with roaring torrents; the fires were extinguished; the medicine men
prayed with uplifted arms; the dancers and singers, certain now that
they had incurred the anger of their god, whose sacred ceremony they
had consented to betray, hurled themselves in their wild pain into the
turbulent waters, which carried their bodies far down into the plain.

When Mr. Bradshaw had ended, Eva said: “The gods are vengeful; even the
gentlest will defend their seats.”

“That is a heathen view,” said Amadeus, in a sharp and challenging
voice. “There are no gods. There are idols, to be sure, and these must
be broken.” He looked defiantly about him, and added in a dragging
tone: “For the Lord saith, no man can look upon me and live.”

Smiles met his outburst. Tavera had not understood, and turned to
Wiguniewski, who whispered an explanation in French. Then the Spaniard
smiled too, compassionately and maliciously.

Voss arose with a tormented look on his face. The merriment in those
faces was like a bodily chastisement to him. From behind his glittering
eye-glasses he directed a venomous glance toward Eva, and said in
troubled tones: “In the same context of Scripture the Lord bids Israel
hurl aside its adornments that He may see what He will do with them.
The meaning is clear.”

“He cannot expiate the lust of the eye,” Christian thought, and avoided
Eva’s glance.

Amadeus Voss left the company and the house. On the street he ran
as though pursued, clasping his hands to his temples. He had pushed
his derby hat far back. When he reached his room, he opened his box
and drew out a package of letters. They were the stolen letters of
the unknown woman F. He sat down by his lamp, and read with tense
absorption and a burning forehead. It was not the first night that he
had passed thus.

When Eva was alone with Christian, she asked: “Why did you bring that
man with you?”

He laughed, and lifted her up in his arms, and carried her through many
flights of rooms and out of light into darkness.

“The sea cries!” her lips said at his ear.

He prayed that all sounds might die out of the world except the thunder
of the sea and that young voice at his ear. He prayed that those two
might silence the disquiet that overcame him in her very embraces and
made him, at the end of every ecstasy, yearn for its renewal.

That slender, passionate body throbbed toward him. Yet he heard the
lamentation of an alien voice: What shall we do?

“Why did you bring this man?” Eva asked him far in the night, between
sleep and sleep. “I cannot bear him. There is always sweat on his
forehead. He comes from a sinister world.”

There was a bluish twilight in the room that came from the blue flame
of a blue lamp, and a bluish darkness lay beyond the windows.

“Why don’t you answer me?” she urged, and raised herself, showing the
pale face amid its wilderness of brown hair.

He had no answer for her. He feared the insufficiency of any
explanation, as well as the replies that she would find.

“What is the meaning of it all? What ails you, dearest?” Eva drew him
toward her, and clung to him, and kissed his eyes thirstily.

“I’ll ask him to avoid your presence,” said Christian. And suddenly he
saw himself and Voss in the farm yard of Nettersheim, saw the kneeling
men and maid servants, the old rusty lantern, the dead woman, and the
carpenter who was measuring her for her coffin.

“Tell me what he means to you,” whispered Eva. “It seems to me suddenly
as though you were gone. Where are you really? Tell me, dear friend.”

“You should have let me love you in those old days in Paris,” said
Christian gently, and softly rested his cheek against her bosom, “in
those days when Crammon and I came to you.”

“Speak, only speak,” Eva breathed, seeking to hide the fright in her
heart.

Her eyes gleamed, and her skin was like luminous white satin. In the
darkness her face had a spiritualized thinness; the restrained charm of
her gestures mastered the hour, and her smile was deep and intricate of
meaning, and everything about her was play and mirroring and raptness
and unexpected magic. Christian looked upon her.

“Do you remember words that you once spoke to me?” he asked. “You said:
‘Love is an art like poetry or music, and he who does not understand
that, finds no grace in love’s sight.’ Were not those your words?”

“Yes, they were. Speak to me, my darling!”

He held her in his arms, and the life of her body, its warmth, its
blood that was conscious of him, and its vibration that was toward
him, made speech a little easier. “You see,” he said thoughtfully, and
caressed her hand, “I have only enjoyed women. Nothing more. I have
been ignorant of that love which is an art. It was so easy. They adored
me, and I took no pains. They put no hindrances on my path, and so
my foot passed over them. Not one demanded a fulfilment of me. They
were happy enough if I was but contented. But you, Eva, you’re not
satisfied with me. You look at me searchingly and watch me; and your
vigil continues even at those moments when one floats beyond thought
and knowledge. And it is because you are not satisfied with me. Or is
that an error, a deception?”

“It is so very late,” said Eva, and, leaning her head back upon the
pillows, she closed her eyes. She listened to the perished echo of her
own voice, and the oppression of her heart almost robbed her of breath.


XVI

It was in another night. They had been jesting and telling each other
amusing stories, and at last they had grown weary.

Suddenly in the darkness outside of the window Christian had a vision
of his father and of the dog Freia; and his father had the tread of a
lonely man. Never had Christian seen loneliness so visibly embodied.
The dog was his only companion. He had sought for another friend, but
there had been none to go with him.

“How is that possible?” Christian thought.

His senses were lost in a strange drowsiness, even while he held Eva’s
beautiful body, which was as smooth and cool as ivory. And in this
drowsiness visions emerged of his brother, his sister, his mother, and
about each of them was that great loneliness and desolation.

“How is that possible?” Christian thought. “Their lives are thronged
with people.”

But he answered himself, and said: “Is not your own life likewise
thronged with people to suffocation, and do you not also feel that same
loneliness and desolateness?”

Now a dark object seemed to descend upon him. It was a coat--a wet,
dripping coat. And at the same moment some one called out to him:
“Arise, Christian, arise!” But he could not arise, for those ivory arms
held him fast.

Suddenly he became aware of Letitia. She uttered but one word: “Why?”
It seemed to him, while he slept, if indeed he slept, that he should
have chosen Letitia, who lived but for her dreams, her yearnings and
imaginings, and who had been sacrificed with her dreams to the vulgar
world of reality. It seemed to him as though Letitia, pointing to Eva,
were saying: “What do you seek of her? She knows nothing of you, but
weaves at the web of her own life. She is ambitious, and can give you
no help in your suffering; and it is only to forget and deaden the pain
of your soul that you are wasting yourself upon her.”

Christian was astonished to find Letitia so wise. He was almost
inclined to smile at her wisdom. But he knew now clearly that he
was suffering. It was a suffering of an unfathomable nature, which
grew from hour to hour and from day to day, like the spreading of a
gangrened wound.

His head rested on the shoulder of his beloved; her little breasts rose
from the violet shadows and had trembling contours. He felt her beauty
with every nerve, and her strangeness and exquisite lightness. He felt
that he loved her with all his thoughts and with every fibre of his
flesh, and that, despite it all, he could find no help in her.

And again a voice cried: “Arise, Christian, arise!” But he could not
arise. For he loved this woman, and feared life without her.

The dawn was breaking when Eva turned her face to him again: “Where are
you?” she asked. “What are you gazing at?”

He answered: “I am with you.”

“To the last stirrings of your thought?”

“I don’t know. Who knows the last recesses of his mind?”

“I want you wholly. With every breath. And something of you escapes.”

“And you,” Christian asked evasively, “are you utterly with me?”

She answered passionately, and with an imperious smile, as she drew
closer to him: “You are more mine than I am yours.”

“Why?”

“Does it frighten you? Are you miserly in your love? Yes, you are more
mine. I have broken the spell that held you and melted your soul of
stone.”

“Melted my soul...?” Christian asked in amazement.

“I have, my darling. Don’t you know that I’m a sorceress? I have power
over the fish in the sea, the horse on the sod, the vulture in the
air, and the invisible deities that are spoken of in the books of the
Persians. I can make of you what I would, and you must yield.”

“That is true,” Christian admitted.

“But your soul does not look at me,” Eva cried, and flung her arms
about him, “it is an alien soul, dark, hostile, unknown.”

“Perhaps you’re misusing the power you have over me, and my soul
resists.”

“It is to obey--that is all.”

“Perhaps it is not wholly sure of you.”

“I can give your soul only the assurance of the hour that is.”

“What are you planning?”

“Don’t ask me! Hold me fast with your thoughts. Don’t let me go for a
moment, or we are lost to each other. Cling to me with all your might.”

Christian answered: “It seems to me as though I ought to know what you
mean. But I don’t want to know it. Because you see, you ... I ... all
this ... it’s too insignificant.” He shook his head in a troubled way.
“Too insignificant.”

“What, what do you mean by that?” Eva cried in fright, and clung to
his right hand with both hers. Tensely she looked into his face.

“Too insignificant,” Christian repeated stubbornly, as though he could
find no other words.

Then he reflected on all he had said and heard with his accustomed
scepticism and toughmindedness, and arose and bade his friend
good-night.


XVII

Edgar Lorm was playing in Karlsruhe. On a certain evening he had
increased the tempo of his playing, and given vent to his disgust with
his rôle, the piece, his colleagues, and his audience so obviously that
there had been hissing after the last act.

“I’m a poor imbecile,” he said to his colleagues at their supper in a
restaurant. “Every play actor is a poor imbecile.” He looked at them
all contemptuously, and smacked his lips.

“We must have had more inner harmony in the days when we were suspected
of stealing shirts from the housewife’s line and children were
frightened at our name. Don’t you think so? Or maybe you’re quite
comfortable in your stables.”

His companions observed a respectful silence. Wasn’t he the famous man
who filled the houses, and whom both managers and critics flattered?

Dust was whirling in the streets, the dust of summer, as he returned to
his hotel. How desolate I feel, he thought, and shook himself. Yet his
step was free and firm as a young huntsman’s.

When he had received his key and turned toward the lift, Judith Imhof
suddenly stood before him. He started, and then drew back.

“I am ready to be poor,” she said, almost without moving her lips.

“Are you here on business, dear lady?” Lorm asked in a clear, cold
voice. “Undoubtedly you are expecting your husband----?”

“I am expecting no one but you, and I am alone,” answered Judith, and
her eyes blazed.

He considered the situation with a wrinkled face that made him look old
and homely. Then with a gesture he invited her to follow him, and they
entered the empty reading room. A single electric lamp burned above the
table covered with newspapers. They sat down in two leather armchairs.
Judith toyed nervously with her gold mesh-bag. She wore a travelling
frock, and her face was tired.

Lorm began the conversation. “First of all: Is there any folly in your
mind that can still be prevented?”

“None,” Judith answered in a frosty tone. “If the condition you made
was only a trick to scare me off, and you are cowardly enough to
repudiate it at the moment of its fulfilment, then, of course, I have
been self-deceived, and my business here is at an end. Don’t soothe me
with well-meant speeches. The matter was too serious to me for that.”

“That is sharply and bitterly said, Judith, but terribly impetuous,”
Lorm said, with quiet irony. “I’m an old hand at living, and far from
young, and a good bit too experienced to fly into the passion of a
Romeo at even the most precious offers and surprises of a woman.
Suppose we discuss what you’ve done like two friends, and you postpone
for a bit any final judgment of my behaviour.”

Judith told him that she had written her father, and requested him to
make some other disposition of the annual income which he had settled
on her at the time of her marriage, since she had determined to get a
divorce from Felix Imhof, and to marry a man who had made this step
a definite condition of their union. At the same time she had made
a legal declaration of her renunciation before a notary, which she
had brought to show Lorm, and intended thereupon to send on to her
father. All this she told him very calmly. Felix had known nothing
of her intentions at the time of her departure. She had left a note
for him in the care of his valet. “Explanations are vain under such
circumstances,” she said. “To tell a man whom one is leaving why one
is leaving him is as foolish as turning back the hands of the clock in
the hope of really bringing back hours that are dead. He knows where I
am and what I want. That’s enough. Anyhow, it’s not the sort of thing
he comprehends, and there are so many affairs in his busy life that one
more or less will make little difference.”

Lorm sat quietly, his head bent forward, his chin resting on the
mother-of-pearl handle of his stick. His carefully combed hair, which
was brown and still rather thick, gleamed in the light. His brows were
knit. In the lines about his nose, and his wearied actor’s mouth, there
was a deep joylessness.

A waiter appeared at the door and vanished again.

“You don’t know what you’re letting yourself in for, Judith,” Lorm
said, and tapped the floor lightly with his feet.

“Then tell me about it, so that I can adjust myself.”

“I’m an actor,” he said almost threateningly.

“I know it.”

He laid his stick on the table, and folded his hands. “I’m an actor,”
he repeated, and his face assumed the appearance of a mask. “My
profession involves my representing human nature at its moments of
extreme expressiveness. The fascination of the process consists in the
artificial concentration of passion, its immediate projection, and the
assigning to it of consequences that reality rarely or never affords.
And so it naturally happens--and this deception is the fatal law of
the actor’s life--that my person, this Edgar Lorm who faces you here,
is surrounded by a frame that suits him about as well as a Gothic
cathedral window would suit a miniature. A further consequence is that
I lack all power of adjustment to any ordered social life, and all my
attempts to bring myself in harmony with such a life have been pitiable
failures. I struggle and dance in a social vacuum. My art is beaten
foam.

“I’ve been told of people who have a divided personality. Well, mine
is doubled, quadrupled. The real me is extinct. I detest the whole
business; I practise my profession because I haven’t any other. I’d
like to be a librarian in the service of a king or a rich man who
didn’t bother me, or own a farm in some Swiss valley. I’m not talking
about the accidental miseries of the theatre, disgusting and repulsive
as they are--the masquerading, the lies and vanities. And I don’t
want you to believe either that I’m uttering the average lament of
the spoiled mime, which is made up of inordinate self-esteem and of
coquettish fishing for flattering contradiction.

“My suffering lies a little deeper. Its cause is, if you will try to
understand me, the spoken word. It has caused a process within me that
has poisoned my being and destroyed my soul. What word, you may ask?
The words that pass between man and man, husband and wife, friend and
friend, myself and others. Language, which you utter quite naturally,
has in my case passed through all the gamuts of expression and all the
temperatures of the mind. You use it as a peasant uses his scythe, the
tailor his needle, the soldier his weapon. To me it is a property and
a ghost, a mollusk and an echo, a thing of a thousand transformations,
but lacking outline and kernel. I cry out words, whisper them, stammer
them, moan, flute, distend them, and fill the meaningless with meaning,
and am depressed to the earth by the sublime. And I’ve been doing that
for five and twenty years. It has worn me thin; it has split my gums
and hollowed out my chest.

“Hence all words, sincere as they may be on others’ lips, are untrue
on mine, untrue to me. They tyrannise over me and torment me, flicker
through the walls, recall to me my powerlessness and unrewarded
sacrifices, and change me into a helpless puppet. Can I ever, without
being ashamed to the very marrow, say: I love? How many meanings
have not those words! How many have I been forced to give them! If I
utter them I practise merely the old trick of my trade, and make the
pasteboard device upon my head look like a golden crown. Consider me
closely and you will see the meaning of literal despair. Words have
been my undoing. It sounds queer, I know; but it is true. It may be
that the actor is the absolute example of hopeless despair.”

Judith looked at him rather emptily. “I don’t suppose that we’ll
torture each other much with words,” she said, merely to say something.

But Edgar Lorm gave to this saying a subtle interpretation, and
nodded gratefully. “What an infinitely desirable condition that would
be,” he answered, in his stateliest manner; “because, you see, words
and emotions are like brothers and sisters. The thing that I detest
saying is mouldy and flat to me in the realm of feeling too. One
should be silent as fate. It may be that I am spoiled for any real
experience--drained dry. I have damned little confidence in myself, and
nothing but pity for any hand stretched out to save me. However that
may be,” he ended, and arose with elastic swiftness, “I am willing to
try.”

He held out his hand as to a comrade. Charmed by the vividness and
knightly grace of his gesture, Judith took his hand and smiled.

“Where are you stopping?” he asked.

“In this hotel.”

Chatting quite naturally he accompanied her to the door of her room.


XVIII

On the next afternoon Felix Imhof suddenly appeared at the hotel. He
sent up his card to Judith, and waited in the hall. He walked up and
down, swinging his little cane, carelessly whistling through his thick
lips, his brain burdened with affairs, speculations, stock quotations,
a hundred obligations and appointments. But whenever he passed the
tall windows, he threw a curious and merry glance out into the street,
where two boys were having a fight.

But now and then his face grew dark, and a quiver passed over it.

The page returned, and bade him come up.

Judith was surprised to see him. He began to talk eagerly at once. “I
have business in Liverpool, and wanted to see you once more before
leaving. A crowd of people came, who all had some business with you.
Invitations came for you, and telephone calls; your dressmaker turned
up, and letters, and I was, of course, quite helpless. I can’t very
well receive people with the agreeable information that my wife has
just taken French leave of me. There are a thousand things; you have to
disentangle them, or the confusion will be endless.”

They talked for a while of the indifferent things which, according to
him, had brought him here. Then he added: “I had an audience with the
Prince Regent this forenoon. He bestowed a knighthood on me yesterday.”

Judith’s face flushed, and she had the expression of one who, in a
state of hypnosis, recalls his waking consciousness.

Felix tapped against his faultlessly creased trousers with his stick.
“I beg your pardon for venturing any criticism,” he said, “but I can’t
help observing that the whole matter might have been better managed.
To run off with that degree of suddenness--well, it wasn’t quite the
proper thing, a little beneath us, not quite fair.”

Judith shrugged her shoulders. “Things that are inevitable might as
well be done quickly. And I don’t see that your equanimity is at all
impaired.”

“Equanimity! Nonsense! Doesn’t enter the question.” He stood, as was
his habit, with legs stretched far apart, rocking to and fro a little,
and regarding his gleaming boots. “What has equanimity to do with it?
We’re cultivated people. I’m neither a tiger nor a Philistine. Nihil
humanum a me alienum, et cetera. You simply don’t know me. And it
doesn’t astonish me, for what chance have we ever had to cultivate
each other’s acquaintance? Marriage gave us no opportunity. We should
retrieve our lost occasions. It is this wish that I should like to take
with me into my renewed bachelorhood. You must promise not to avoid me
as rigorously in the future as you did during the eight months of our
married life.”

“If it will give you any pleasure, I promise gladly,” Judith answered
good-humouredly.

With that they parted.

An hour later Felix Imhof sat in the train. With protruding eyes
he stared at the passing landscape until darkness fell. He desired
conversation, argument, the relief of some projection of his inner
self. With wrinkled brow he watched the strangers about him who knew
nothing of him or his inner wealth, of his great, rolling ideas, or his
far-reaching plans.

At Düsseldorf he left the train. He had made up his mind to do so at
the last possible moment. He checked his luggage, and huddled in his
coat, walked, a tall, lean figure, through the midnight of the dark and
ancient streets.

He stopped in front of one of the oldest houses. In this house he had
passed his youth. All the windows were dark. “Hello, boy!” he shouted
toward the window behind which he had once slept. The walls echoed his
voice. “O nameless boy,” he said, “where do you come from?” He was
accustomed to say of himself often: “I am of obscure origin like Caspar
Hauser.”

But no secret weighed upon him, not even that of his own unknown
descent. He was a man of his decade--stripped of mystery, open to all
the winds.

He entered a house, which he remembered from his student days. In a
large room, lined with greasy mirrors, there were fifteen or twenty
half-dressed girls. In his hat and coat he sat down at the piano and
played with the false energy of the dilettante.

“Girls,” he said, “I’ve got a mad rage in me!” The girls played tricks
on him as he sat there. They hung a crimson shawl over his shoulders
and danced.

“I’m in a rage, girls,” he repeated. “It’s got to be drowned out.” He
ordered champagne by the pailful.

The doors were locked. The girls screeched with delight.

“Do something to relieve my misery, girls,” he commanded, bade half a
dozen stand in a row and open their mouths. Then he rolled up hundred
mark notes like cigarettes, and stuck them between the girls’ teeth.
They almost smothered him with their caresses.

And he drank and drank until he lost consciousness.


XIX

Christian could not be without Eva. If he left her for the shortest
period, the world about him grew dark.

Yet all their relations had the pathos of farewells. If he walked
beside her, it seemed to be for the last time. Every touch of their
hands, every meeting of their eyes had the dark glow and pain of the
irrevocable.

His love for her was in harmony with this condition. It was clinging,
giving, patient, at times even obedient.

It showed its nature in the way he held her cloak for her, gave her a
glass that her lips were to touch, supported her when she was weary,
waited for her if she was later than he at some appointed spot.

She felt that often and questioned him; but he had no answer. He might
have conveyed his sensation of an eternal farewell, but he could not
have told her what was to follow it. And it became very clear to him,
that not a farewell from her alone was involved, but a farewell from
everything in the world that had hitherto been clear and pleasant and
indispensable to him. Beyond that fact he understood nothing; he had
no plans and did not make any.

He was so void of any desire or demand that Eva yielded recklessly to
a hundred wishes, and was angry when none remained unfulfilled. She
wanted to see the real ocean. He rented a yacht, and they cruised on
the Atlantic for two weeks. She had a longing for Paris, and he took
her there in his car. They had dinner at Foyot in the Rue de Tournon,
where they had invited friends--writers, painters, musicians. On the
following day they returned. They heard of a castle in Normandy which
was said to be like a dream of the early Middle Age. She desired to see
it by moonlight; so they set out while the moon was full and cloudless
nights were expected. Then the cathedral at Rouen lured her; next the
famous roses of a certain Baron Zerkaulen near Ghent; then an excursion
into the forest of Ardennes, or a sunset over the Zuyder Zee, or a ride
in the park at Richmond, or a Rembrandt at The Hague, or a festive
procession in Antwerp.

“Do you never get tired?” Christian asked one day, with that unquiet
smile of his that seemed a trifle insincere.

Eva answered: “The world is big and youth is brief. Beauty yearns
toward me, exists for me, and droops when I am gone. Since Ignifer is
mine, my hunger seems insatiable. It is radiant over my earth, and
makes all my paths easy. You see, dear, what you have done.”

“Beware of Ignifer,” said Christian, with that same, apparently
secretive smile.

Eva’s lids drooped heavily. “Fyodor Szilaghin has arrived,” she said.

“There are so many,” Christian answered, “I can’t possibly know them
all.”

“You see none, but they all see you,” said Eva. “They all wonder at you
and ask: Who is that slender, distinguished man with very white teeth
and blue eyes? Do you not hear their whispering? They make me vain of
you.”

“What do they know of me? Let them be.”

“Women grow pale when you approach. Yesterday on the promenade there
was a flower-seller, a Flemish girl. She looked after you, and then she
began to sing. Did you not hear?”

“No. What was the song she sang?”

Eva covered her eyes with her hands, and sang softly and with an
expression on her lips that was half pain and half archness:

    “‘Où sont nos amoureuses?
    Elles sont au tombeau,
    Dans un séjour plus beau
    Elles sont heureuses.
    Elles sont près des anges
    Au fond du ciel bleu,
    Où elles chantent les louanges
    De la Mère de Dieu.’

“It touched my very soul, and for a minute I hated you. Ah, how much
beauty of feeling streams from human hearts, and finds no vessel to
receive it!”

Suddenly she arose, and said with a burning glance: “Fyodor Szilaghin
is here.”

Christian went to the window. “It is raining,” he said.

Thereupon Eva left the room, singing with a sob in her throat:

    “Où sont nos amoureuses?
    Elles sont au tombeau.”

That evening they were walking down the beach. “I met Mlle. Gamaleja,”
Eva told him. “Fyodor Szilaghin introduced her to me. She is a Tartar
and his mistress. Her beauty is like that of a venomous serpent, and as
strange as the landscape of a wild dream. There was a silent challenge
in her attitude to me, and a silent combat arose between us. We talked
about the diary of Marie Bashkirtseff. She said that such creatures
should be strangled at birth. But I see from your expression, dear man,
that you have never heard of Marie Bashkirtseff. Well, she was one of
those women who are born a century before their time and wither away
like flowers in February.”

Christian did not answer. He could not help thinking of the faces of
the dead fishermen which he had seen the night before.

“Mlle. Gamaleja was in London recently and brought me a message from
the Grand Duke,” Eva continued; “he’ll be here in another week.”

Christian was still silent. Twelve women and nineteen children had
stood about the dead men. They had all been scantily clad and absorbed
in their icy grief.

They walked up the beach and moved farther away from the tumult of the
waves. Eva said: “Why don’t you laugh? Have you forgotten how?” The
question was like a cry.

Christian said nothing. “To-morrow,” she remarked swiftly, and caught
her veil which was fluttering in the breeze, “to-morrow there’s a
village fair at Dudzeele. Come with me to Dudzeele. Pulcinello will be
there. We will laugh, Christian, laugh!”

“Last night there was a storm here,” Christian began at last. “You
know that, for we were long among the dunes up there. Toward morning
I walked toward the beach again, because I couldn’t sleep. Just as I
arrived they were carrying away the bloated corpses of the fishermen.
Three boats went to pieces during the night; it was quite near Molo,
but there was no chance for help. They carried seven men away to the
morgue. Some people, all humble folk, went along, and so did I. There
in that death chamber a single lantern was burning, and when they put
down the drenched bodies, puddles gathered on the floor. Coats had
been spread over the faces of the dead men; and of the women I saw but
a single one shed tears. She was as ugly as a rotten tree-trunk; but
when she wept all her ugliness was gone. Why should I laugh, Eva? Why
should I laugh? I must think of the fishermen who earn their bread day
after day out on the sea. Why should I laugh? And why to-day?”

With both hands Eva pressed her veil against her cheeks.

In that tone of his, which was never rudely emphatic, Christian
continued: “Yesterday at the bar Wiguniewski and Botho Thüngen showed
me a man of about fifty, a former star at the opera, who had been
famous and made money in his day. The day before he had broken down
on the street--from starvation. But in his pocket, they found twenty
francs. When he was asked why, having the money, he had not satisfied
his hunger, he answered that the money was an advance given him toward
travelling expenses. He had been engaged to sing at a cabaret in Havre.
It had taken him months to find this employment. But the fare to Havre
is thirty-five francs, and for six days he had made frantic efforts to
scrape together the additional fifteen francs. He had resisted every
temptation to touch the twenty francs, for he knew that if he took but
a single centime his life would be finally wrecked. But on this day the
date of the beginning of his engagement had lapsed, and he returned the
twenty francs to the agent. They pointed this man out to me. Leaning on
his arms, he sat before an empty cup. I meant to sit down by him, but
he went away. Why should I laugh, Eva, when there are such things to
think about? Don’t ask me to-day of all days that I should laugh.”

Eva said nothing. But when they were at home, she flung herself in his
arms, as though beside herself, and said: “I must kiss you.”

And she kissed him and bit his lip so hard that drops of blood appeared.

“Go now,” she said with a commanding gesture, “go! But don’t forget
that to-morrow we shall visit the fair at Dudzeele.”


XX

They drove to the fair and made their way through the crowds to the
little puppet-show. The benches were filled with children; the grown
people stood in a semi-circle. From the harbour floated the odours
of machine oil, leather, and salt herring; in the air resounded the
discords of all kinds of music and of the criers’ voices.

Christian made a path for Eva; half-surprised and half-morosely the
people yielded. Eva followed the play with cheerful intensity. She had
loved such scenes from childhood, and now they brought back to her with
a poignant and melancholy glow the years of her obscure wanderings.

The Pulcinello, who played the rôle of an outwitted cheat, was forced
to confess that no cunning could withstand the magic of the good
fairies. His simplicity was too obvious, and his downfall too well
deserved to awaken compassion. The rain of blows which were his final
portion constituted a satisfying victory of good morals.

Eva applauded, and was as delighted as a child. “Doesn’t it make you
laugh, Christian?” she asked.

And Christian laughed, not at the follies of the rogue, but because
Eva’s laughter was so infectious.

When the curtain had fallen upon the tiny stage, they followed the
stream of people from one amusement to another. A little line of
followers was formed in their wake; a whispering passed from mouth to
mouth and each pointed out Eva to the other. Several young girls seemed
especially stubborn in their desire to follow the exquisitely dressed
lady. Eva wore a hat adorned with small roses and a cloak of silk as
blue as the sea in sunshine.

One of the maidens had gathered a bunch of lilacs, and in front of an
inn she gave the flowers to Eva with a dainty courtesy. Eva thanked
her, and held the flowers to her face. Five or six of the girls formed
a circle about her, and took each others’ hands and danced and trilled
a melody of wild delight.

“Now I am caught,” Eva cried merrily to Christian, who had remained
outside of the circle and had to endure the mocking glances of the
girls.

“Yes, now you are caught,” he answered, and sought to put himself in
tune with the mood of the merrymakers.

On the steps of the inn stood a drunken fellow, who watched the scene
before him with inexplicable fury. First he exhausted himself in wild
abuse, and when no one took notice of him, he seemed overcome by a
sort of madness. He picked up a stone from the ground, and hurled it
at the group. The girls cried out and dodged. The stone, as large as a
man’s fist, narrowly missed the arm of the girl who had presented the
flowers, and in its fall hit both of Eva’s feet.

She grew pale and compressed her lips. Several men rushed up to the
drunken brute, who staggered into the inn. Christian had also run in
that direction; but he turned back, thinking it more important to take
care of Eva. The girls surrounded her, sympathized and questioned.

“Can you walk?” he asked. She said yes with a determined little air,
but limped when she tried. He caught her up in his arms, and carried
her to the car, which was waiting nearby. The girls followed and waved
farewell with their kerchiefs. Hoarse cries sounded from the inn.

“Pulcinello grew quite mad,” Eva said. She smiled and suppressed all
signs of pain. “It is nothing, darling,” she whispered after a while,
“it will pass. Don’t be alarmed.” They drove with racing speed.

Half an hour later she was resting in an armchair in the villa.
Christian was kneeling before her, and held her naked feet in his hands.

Susan had been quite terror stricken, when she had whisked off her
mistress’s shoes and stockings, and saw to her horror the red bruises
made by the stone. She had stammered out contradictory counsels, had
summoned the servants, and excitedly cried out for a physician. At last
Eva had asked her to be quiet and to leave the room.

“The pain’s almost gone,” said Eva, and nestled her little feet
luxuriously into Christian’s cool hands. A maid brought in a ewer of
water and linen cloths for cold bandages.

Christian held and regarded those two naked feet, exquisite organs
that were comparable to the hands of a great painter or to the wings
of a bird that soars far and high. And while he was taking delight in
their form, the clearly defined net of muscles, the lyrical loveliness
of the curves, the rosy toes with their translucent nails, an inner
monitor arose in him and seemed to say: “You are kneeling, Christian,
you are kneeling.” Silently, and not without a certain consternation,
he had whispered back: “Yes, I am kneeling, and why should I not?” His
eyes met Eva’s, and the gleam of delight in hers heightened his inner
discomfort.

Eva said: “Your hands are dear physicians, and it is wonderful to have
you kneel before me, sweet friend.”

“What is there wonderful about it?” Christian asked hesitantly.

The twilight had fallen. Through the gently waving curtains the evening
star shone in.

Eva shook her head. “I love it. That’s all.” Her hair fell open and
rippled down her shoulders. “I love it,” she repeated, and laid her
hands on his head, pressing it toward her knees. “I love it.”

“But you are kneeling!” Christian heard that voice again. And suddenly
he saw a water jug with a broken handle, and a crooked window rimmed
with snow, and a single boot crusted with mud, and a rope dangling
from a beam, and an oil lamp with a sooty chimney. He saw these lowly,
poverty-stricken things.

“Have you kneeled to many as though you adored them?” Eva asked.

He did not answer, but her naked feet grew heavy in his hands. The
sensuous perception which they communicated to him through their
warmth, their smoothness, their instinctive flexibility vanished
suddenly, and gave way to a feeling in which fear and shame and
mournfulness were blended. These human organs, these dancing feet,
these limbs of the woman he loved, these rarest and most precious
things on earth seemed suddenly ugly and repulsive to him, and those
lowly and poverty-stricken objects--the jug with the broken handle, the
crooked window with its rim of snow, the muddy boot, the dangling rope,
the sooty lamp, these suddenly seemed to him beautiful and worthy of
reverence.

“Tell me, have you kneeled to many?” he heard Eva’s voice, with its
almost frightened tenderness. And it seemed to him that Ivan Becker
gave answer in his stead and said: “That you kneeled down before
her--that was it, and that alone. All else was hateful and bitter; but
that you kneeled down beside her--ah, that was it!”

He breathed deeply, with closed eyes, and became pale. And he relived,
more closely and truly than ever, that hour of fate. He felt the breath
of Becker’s kiss upon his forehead, and understood its meaning. He
understood the feverish transformations of an evil conscience that had
caused him to identify himself with that jug, that window, that boot
and rope and lamp, only to flee, only to gain time. And he understood
now that despite his change from form to form, he had well seen and
heard the beggar, the woman, Ivan Michailovitch, the sick, half-naked
children, but that his whole soul had gathered itself together in the
effort to guard himself against them for but a little while, before
they would hurl themselves upon him with all their torment, despair,
madness, cruelty, like wild dogs upon a piece of meat.

His respite had come to an end. With an expression of haste and
firmness at once he arose. “Let me go, Eva,” he said, “send me away. It
is better that you send me away than that I wrench myself loose, nerve
by nerve, inch by inch. I cannot stay with you nor live for you.” Yet
in this very moment his love for her gathered within him like a storm
of flames, and he would have torn the heart from his breast to have
unsaid the irrevocable words.

She sprang up swiftly as an arrow. Then she stood very still, with both
hands in her hair.

He walked to the window. He saw the whole space of heaven before
him, the evening star and the unresting sea. And he knew that it was
all illusion, this great peace, this glittering star, this gently
phosphorescent deep, that it was but a garment and a painted curtain by
which the soul must not let itself be quieted. Behind it were terror
and horror and unfathomable pain. He understood, he understood at last.

He understood those thousands and thousands on the shore of the Thames
and their sombre silence. He understood the shipman’s daughter, whose
violated body had lain on coarse linen. He understood Adda Castillo
and her will to destruction. He understood Jean Cardillac’s melancholy
seeking for help, and his sorrow over his wife and child. He understood
that ancient rake who cried out behind the gates of his cloister:
“What shall I do? My Lord and Saviour, what shall I do?” He understood
Dietrich, the deaf and dumb lad who had drowned himself, and Becker’s
words concerning his dripping coat, and Franz Lothar’s horror at the
intertwined bodies of the Hungarian men and maids, and the panting
hunger of Amadeus Voss and his saying concerning the silver cord and
the pitcher broken at the fountain. He understood the stony grief of
the fishermen’s wives, and the opera singer who had twenty francs in
his pocket.

He understood. He understood.

“Christian!” Eva cried out in a tone as though she were peering into
the darkness.

“The night has come upon us,” Christian said, and trembled.

“Christian!” she cried.

Suddenly he became aware of Amadeus Voss, who emerged out there from
among the dark trees, and who seemed to have awaited him, for he made
signs to him at the window. With a hasty good-night Christian left the
room.

Eva looked after him and did not move.

A little later, forgetting the ache in her feet, she went into her
dressing-room, opened her jewel case, took Ignifer out, and regarded
the stone long and with brooding seriousness.

Then she put it into her hair, and went to the mirror--cool in body,
pale of face, quiet-eyed. She folded her arms, lost in this vision of
herself.


XXI

Christian and Amadeus walked across the dam toward Duinbergen.

“I have a confession to make to you, Wahnschaffe,” Amadeus Voss began.
“I’ve been gambling, playing roulette, over at Ostende.”

“I’ve heard about it,” said Christian absent-mindedly. “And, of course,
you lost?”

“The devil appeared to me,” said Amadeus, in hollow tones.

“How much did you lose?” Christian asked.

“Maybe you think it was some refined modern devil, a hallucination, or
a product of the poetic fancy,” Amadeus continued in his breathless
and strangely hostile way. “Oh, no, it was a regular, old-fashioned
devil with a goat’s beard and great claws. And he spoke to me: ‘Take
of their superfluity; clothe your sensitiveness in armour; let them
not intimidate you, nor the breath of their insolently beautiful world
drive you into the cloudy closets of your torment.’ And with his
cunning fingers he guided the little, jumping ball for me. The light of
the lamps seemed to cry, the rouge fell from the cheeks of the women,
the spittle of poisonous greed ran down the beards of the men. I won,
Christian Wahnschaffe, I won! Ten thousand, twelve thousand--I hardly
remember how much. The thousand franc notes looked like tatters of a
faded flag. There were gleaming halls, stairs, gardens, white tables,
champagne coolers, platters of oysters; and I breathed deep and lived
and was like a lord. Strange men congratulated me, honoured me with
their company, ate with me--experienced people, spick and span and
respectable. In the Hotel de la Plage my goat-footed devil finally
became transformed into a worthy symbol. He became a spider that had a
huge egg between its feet and sucked insatiably.”

“I believe you ought to go to bed and have a long sleep,” said
Christian drily. “How much did you lose in the end?”

“I have lost sleep,” Amadeus admitted. “How much I lost? About fourteen
thousand. Prince Wiguniewski advanced the money; he thought you’d
return it. He’s a very distinguished person, I must say. Not a muscle
in his face moves when he’s courteous; nothing betrays the fact that he
scents the proletarian in me.”

“I’ll straighten out the affair with him,” said Christian.

“It is not enough, Wahnschaffe,” Amadeus answered, and his voice shook,
“it is not enough!”

“Why isn’t it enough?”

“Because I must go on gambling and win the money back. I can’t remain
your debtor.”

“You will only increase your indebtedness, Amadeus. But I won’t prevent
you, if you’ll make up your mind to name a limit.”

Amadeus laughed hoarsely. “I knew you’d be magnanimous, Christian
Wahnschaffe. Plunge the thorn deeper into my wound. Go on!”

“I don’t understand you, Amadeus,” Christian said calmly. “Ask as much
money of me as you please. To be sure, I’d prefer to have you ask it
for another purpose.”

“How magnanimous again, how magnanimous!” Amadeus jeered. “But suppose
that naming a limit is just what I won’t do? Suppose I want to strip
off my beggar’s shame and become frankly a robber? Would you cast me
off in that case?”

“I don’t know what I should do,” Christian answered. “Perhaps I should
try to convince you that you are not acting justly.”

These sober and simple words made a visible impression on Amadeus
Voss. He lowered his head and, after a while, he said: “It crushes the
heart--that interval between the hopping of the little ball and the
decision of the judge. The faded bank notes rustle up, or a round roll
of gold is driven up on a shovel. I invented a system. I divided eight
letters into groups of three and five. Once I won seventeen hundred
with my system, another time three thousand. You mustn’t leave me in
the lurch, Wahnschaffe. I have a soul, too. Three and five--that’s my
problem. I’ll break the bank. I’ll break the bank thrice--ten times! It
is possible, and therefore it can be done. Can three and five withstand
a cloudburst of gold? Would Danaë repel Perseus, or would she demand
that he bring her first the head of the Gorgon Medusa?”

He fell silent very suddenly. Christian had laid an arm about his
shoulder, and this familiar caress was so new and unexpected that
Amadeus breathed deep as a child in its sleep. “Think of what has
happened, Amadeus,” said Christian. “Do think of the words you said to
me: ‘It is possible that you need me; it is certain that without you I
am lost.’ Have you forgotten so soon, dear friend?”

Amadeus started. He stood still and grasped Christian’s hands: “For the
love of God ... no one has ever spoken to me thus ... no one!”

“You will not forget it then, Amadeus?” Christian said softly.

A weakness overcame Amadeus Voss. He looked about him with unquiet
eyes, and saw a low post to which the ships’ hawsers were made fast.
He sat down on it, and buried his face in his hands. Then he spoke
through his hands: “Look you, dear brother, I am a beaten dog; that
and nothing else. I feel as though I had leaned too long against a
cold, hard, tinted church wall. The chill has remained in my very
marrow, and I struggle because I don’t want that feeling to enslave
me. Often I think I should like to love a woman. I cannot live without
love; and yet I live on without it, day after day. Always without love!
The accursed wall is so cold. I cannot and would not and must not live
without love. I am only human, and I must know woman’s love, or I shall
freeze to death or be turned to stone or utterly destroyed. Yet I am
a Christian, and it is hard for a Christian who bears a certain image
in his heart to give himself up to woman. Help me to find a woman,
brother, I beseech you.”

Christian looked out upon the dark sea. “How can I help him?” he
thought, and felt all the coldness of the world and the confusion of
mortal things.

While he stood and reflected he heard from afar across the dunes a cry,
first dulled by the distance, then nearer and clearer, and then farther
away again. It was such a cry as a man might utter, at his utmost need,
in the very face of death. Amadeus Voss also lifted his head to listen.
They looked at each other.

“We must go,” said Christian.

They hurried in the direction of the cry, but the dunes and the beach
were equally desolate. Thrice again they heard the cry in the same
fashion, approaching and receding, but their seeking and listening and
hurrying were in vain. When they were about to return Voss said: “It
was not human. It came from something in nature. It was a spirit cry.
Such things happen oftener than men believe. It summons us somewhere.
One of us two has received a summons.”

“It may be,” said Christian, smiling. His sense for reality could
accept such an interpretation of things only in jest.


XXII

On his way to Scotland Crammon stopped over for a day in Frankfort. He
informed Christian’s mother of his presence, and she begged him with
friendly urgency to come to her.

It was the end of June. They had tea on a balcony wreathed in fresh
green. Frau Wahnschaffe had ordered no other callers to be admitted.
For a while the conversation trickled along indifferently, and
there were long pauses. She wanted Crammon to give her some news of
Christian, from whom she had not heard since he had left Christian’s
Rest. But first, since Crammon was a confidant and a witness in the
suit, it was necessary to mention Judith’s divorce and approaching
remarriage to Edgar Lorm, and Frau Wahnschaffe’s pride rebelled at
touching on things that could, nevertheless, not be silently passed
over.

She sought a starting point in vain. Crammon, outwardly smooth, but
really in a malicious and woodenly stubborn mood, recognized her
difficulty, but would do nothing to help her.

“Why do you stay at a hotel, Herr von Crammon?” she asked. “We have a
right to you and it isn’t nice of you to neglect us.”

“Don’t grudge an old tramp his freedom, dear lady,” Crammon answered,
“and anyhow it would give me a heartache to have to leave this magic
castle after just a day.”

Frau Wahnschaffe nibbled at a biscuit. “Anything is better than a
hotel,” she said. “It’s always a bit depressing, and not least so when
it’s most luxurious. And it isn’t really nice. You are next door to
quite unknown people. And the noises! But, after all, what distinction
in life is there left to-day? It’s no longer in fashion.” She sighed.
Now she thought she had found the conversational bridge she needed, and
gave herself a jolt. “What do you think of Judith?” she said in a dull,
even voice. “A lamentable mistake. I thought her marriage to Imhof
far from appropriate and regretted it. But this! I can hardly look
my acquaintances in the face. I always feared the child’s inordinate
ambitions, her utter lack of restraint. Now she throws herself at the
head of an actor. And to add to the painful complications, there is
her bizarre renunciation of her fortune. Incomprehensible! There’s
some secret behind that, Herr von Crammon. Does she realize clearly
what it will mean to live on a more or less limited salary? It’s
incomprehensible.”

“You need have no anxiety,” Crammon assured her. “Edgar Lorm has a
princely income and is a great artist.”

“Ah, artists!” Frau Wahnschaffe interrupted him, with a touch of
impatience and a contemptuous gesture. “That means little. One pays
them; occasionally one pays them well. But they are uncertain people,
always on the knife’s edge. It’s customary now to make a great deal
of them, even in our circles. I’ve never understood that. Judith
will have to pay terribly for her folly, and Wahnschaffe and I are
suffering a bitter disappointment.” She sighed, and looked at Crammon
surreptitiously before she asked with apparent indifference, “Did you
hear from Christian recently?”

Crammon said that he had not.

“We have been without news of him for two months,” Frau Wahnschaffe
added. Another shy glance at Crammon told her that he could not give
her the information she sought. He was not sufficiently master of
himself at this moment to conceal the cause of his long and secret
sorrow.

A peacock proudly passed the balcony, spread the gleaming magnificence
of his feathers in the sunlight, and uttered a repulsive cry.

“I’ve been told that he’s travelling with the son of the forester,”
said Crammon, and pulled up his eyebrows so high that his face looked
like the gargoyle of a mediæval devil. “Where he has gone to, I can
only suppose; but I have no right to express such suppositions. I hope
our paths will cross. We parted in perfect friendship. It is possible
that we shall find each other again on the same basis.”

“I have heard of the forester’s son,” Frau Wahnschaffe murmured. “It’s
strange, after all. Is it a very recent friendship?”

“Yes, most recent. I have no explanation to offer. There’s nothing
about a forester’s son that should cause one any anxiety in itself; but
one should like to know the character of the attraction.”

“Sometimes hideous thoughts come to me,” said Frau Wahnschaffe softly,
and the skin about her nose turned grey. Abruptly she bent forward, and
in her usually empty eyes there arose so sombre and frightened a glow,
that Crammon suddenly changed his entire opinion of this woman’s real
nature.

“Herr von Crammon,” she began, in a hoarse and almost croaking voice,
“you are Christian’s friend; at least, you caused me to believe so.
Then act the part of a friend. Go to him; I expect it of you; don’t
delay.”

“I shall do all that is in my power,” Crammon answered. “It was my
intention to look him up in any event. First I’m going to Dumbarton
for ten days. Then I shall seek him out. I shall certainly find him,
and I don’t believe that there is any ground for real anxiety. I still
believe that Christian is under the protection of some special deity;
but I admit that it’s just as well to see from time to time whether the
angel in question is fulfilling his duties properly.”

“You will write me whatever happens,” Frau Wahnschaffe said, and
Crammon gave his promise. She nodded to him when he took his leave. The
glow in her eyes had died out, and when she was alone she sank into
dull brooding.

Crammon spent the evening with acquaintances in the city. He
returned to the hotel late, and sat awhile in the lobby, immovable,
unapproachable, nourishing his misanthropy on the aspect of the
passersby. Then he examined the little directory on which the names
of the guests appeared. “What are these people doing here?” he asked
himself. “How important that looks: ‘Max Ostertag (retired banker) and
wife.’ Why Ostertag of all things? Why Max? Why: and wife?”

Embittered he went up to his room. Embittered and world-weary he
wandered up and down the long corridor. In front of each door, both to
the right and to the left, stood two pairs of boots--one pair of men’s
and one pair of women’s. In this pairing of the boots he saw a boastful
and shameless exhibitionism of marital intimacies; for the shape and
make of the boots assured him of the legal and officially blameless
status of their owners. He seemed to see in those boots a morose
evidence of overlong, stale unions, a vulgar breadth of tread caused by
the weight of money, a commonness of mind, a self-righteous Pharisaism.

He couldn’t resist the foolish temptation of creating confusion among
the boots of these Philistines. He looked about carefully, took a pair
of men’s boots, and joined them to a pair of women’s boots at another
door. And he continued until the original companionship of the boots
was utterly destroyed. Then he went to bed with a pleasant sensation,
comparable to that of a writer of farces who has succeeded in creating
an improbable and scarcely extricable confusion amid the puppets of his
plot.

In the morning he was awakened by the noise of violent and angry
disputes in the hall. He raised his head, listened with satisfaction,
smiled slothfully, stretched himself, yawned, and enjoyed the
quarrelling voices as devoutly as though they were music.


XXIII

When on the day after his nocturnal wandering Christian came to see
Eva, he was astonished to find her surrounded by a crowd of Russians,
Englishmen, Frenchmen, and Belgians. Until this day she had withdrawn
herself from society entirely, or else had received only at hours
previously agreed upon between Christian and herself. This unexpected
change suddenly made a mere guest of him, and pushed him from the
centre to the circumference of the circle.

The conversation turned on the arrival of Count Maidanoff, and there
was a general exchange of speculation, both in regard to the duration
and the purpose of his visit. A political setting of the stage had
been feigned with conscious hypocrisy. There was to be a visit to the
king, and ministerial conferences. He had first stopped at the Hotel
Lettoral in Knocke, but had soon moved to the large and magnificent
Villa Herzynia, which his favourite and friend, Prince Szilaghin, had
rented.

Szilaghin appeared soon after Christian. Wiguniewski, obviously under
orders, introduced the two men.

“I’m going to have a few friends with me to-morrow night,” Szilaghin
said, with the peculiar courtesy of a great comedian. “I trust you will
do me the honour of joining us.” Coldly he examined Christian, whose
nerves grew painfully taut under that glance. He bowed and determined
not to go.

Eva was in the room that gave on the balcony, and was posing for the
sculptress, Beatrix Vanleer. The latter sat with a block of paper and
made sketches. Meantime Eva chatted with several gentlemen. She held
out her hand for Christian to kiss, and ignored his questioning gaze.

In her cinnamon dress, with her hair high on her head and a diadem of
ivory, she seemed extraordinarily strange to him. Her face had the
appearance of delicate enamel. About her chin there was a hostile air.
Gentle vibrations about the muscles at her temples seemed to portend an
inner storm. But these perceptions were fleeting. What Christian felt
about her was primarily a paralyzing coldness.

When Mlle. Vanleer had finished for the day, Eva walked up and down
talking to a certain young Princess Helfersdorff. She led her to the
balcony, which was bathed in the sunlight, and then into her boudoir,
where she liked to be when she read or rested from her exercises.
Christian followed the two women, and felt, for the first time in his
life, that he was being humiliated. But it did not depress him as
profoundly as, an hour ago, the mere thought of such an experience
would have done.

The Marquis Tavera joined him. Standing on the threshold of the
boudoir, they talked of indifferent things. Christian heard Eva tell
the young princess that she expected to go to Hamburg within a week.
The North German Lloyd was planning a great festivity on the occasion
of the launching of a magnificent ship, and she had been asked to
dance. “I’m really delighted at the prospect,” she added cheerfully.
“I’m little more than a name to most Germans yet. Now they’ll be able
to see me and tell me what I amount to and where I belong.”

The young lady looked at the dancer with enthusiasm. Christian thought:
“I must speak to her at once.” In every word of Eva’s he felt an
arrow of hostility or scorn aimed at him. He left Tavera, and entered
the room. The decisiveness of his movement forced Eva to look at
him. She smiled in surprise. A scarcely perceptible shrug marked her
astonishment and censure.

Tavera had turned to the princess, and when these two moved toward the
door, Eva seemed inclined to follow them. A gesture of Christian, which
she saw on glancing back, determined her to wait. Christian closed the
door, and Eva’s expression of amazement became intense. But he felt
that this was but acting. He slipped into a sudden embarrassment, and
could find no words.

Eva walked up and down, touching some object here and there. “Well?”
she asked, and looked at him coldly.

“This Szilaghin is an insufferable creature,” Christian murmured, with
lowered eyes. “I remember I once saw a mani-coloured marine animal
in an aquarium. It was very beautiful and also extremely horrible. I
couldn’t get rid of its image. I wanted constantly to go back to it,
and yet felt constantly an ugly horror of it.”

“O la, la!” said Eva. Nothing else. And in this soft exclamation there
was contempt, impatience, and curiosity. Then she stood before him. “I
am not fond of being caged,” she said in a hard voice. “I am not fond
of being caught and isolated from my guests to be told trivial things.
You must forgive me, but it doesn’t interest me what impression Prince
Szilaghin makes on you. Or, to be quite truthful, it interests me no
longer.”

Christian looked at her dumbly. It seemed to him that he was being
chastised, beaten, and he turned very pale. The feeling of humiliation
grew like a fever. “He invited me to his house to-morrow,” he
stammered, “and I merely wanted to tell you that I’m not going.”

“You must go,” Eva replied swiftly. “I beg of you to go.” Avoiding the
astonished question in his eyes, she added: “Maidanoff will be there.
I wish you to see him.”

“For what reason?”

“You are to know what I grasp at, what I do, whither I go. Can you read
faces? I dare say not. Nevertheless, come!”

“What have you determined on?” he asked, awkwardly and shyly.

She gave her body a little, impatient shake. “Nothing that was not
settled long ago,” she answered, with a glassy coolness in her voice.
“Did you think that I would drag on our lovely, wild May into a
melancholy November? You might have spared us both your frankness of
last night. The dream was over no moment sooner for you than for me.
You should have known that. And if you did not know it, you should have
feigned that knowledge. A gentleman of faultless taste does not throw
down his cards while his partner is preparing to make a last bet. You
do not deserve the honourable farewell that I gave you. I should have
led you about, chained, like those stupid little beasts who are always
whining for permission to ruin themselves for my sake. They call this
thing their passion. It is a fire like any other; but I would not use
it to kindle a lamp, if I needed light to unlace my shoes.”

She had crossed her arms and laughed softly, and moved toward the door.

“You have misunderstood me,” said Christian overwhelmed. “You
misunderstand me wholly.” He raised his hands and barred her way. “Do
you not understand? If I had words.... But I love you so! I cannot
imagine life without you. And yet (how shall I put it into words?) I
feel like a man who owes colossal sums and is constantly dunned and
tormented, and does not know wherewith to pay nor whom. Do try to
understand! I was hasty, foolish. But I thought that you might help me.”

It was the cry of a soul in need. But Eva did not or would not heed it.
She had built of her love a soaring arch. She thought it had fallen,
and no abyss seemed deep enough for its ruins to be hurled. She had
neither ears now nor eyes. She had decided her fate even now; and
though it frightened her, to recede was contrary to her pride and her
very blood. A sovereign gesture silenced Christian. “Enough!” she said.
“Of all the ugly things between two people, nothing is uglier than an
explanation that involves the emotions. I have no understanding for
hypochondria, and epilogues bore me. As for your creditors, see that
you seek them out and pay them. It is troublesome to keep house with
unpaid bills.”

She went from the room.

Christian stood very still. Slowly he lowered his head, and hid his
face in his hands.


XXIV

Next day Christian received a telegram from Crammon, in which the
latter announced his arrival for the middle of the following week.
He gazed meditatively at the slip of paper, and had to reconstruct an
image of Crammon from memory, feature by feature. But it escaped him
again at once.

At Fyodor Szilaghin’s he found about twenty people. There were eight
or ten Russians, including Wiguniewski. Then there were the brothers
Maelbeek, young Belgian aristocrats, a French naval captain, Tavera,
Bradshaw, the Princess Helfersdorff and her mother (a very common
looking person), Beatrix Vanleer, and Sinaide Gamaleja.

Christian arrived a little later than the others, and Szilaghin was
half-sitting, half-lying on a _chaise-longue_. A young wolf crouched on
his knees, and on the arm of the _chaise-longue_ sat a green parrot. He
smiled and excused himself for not arising, pointing to the animals as
though they held him fast.

From Wiguniewski’s anecdotes Christian knew of Szilaghin’s fondness
for such trickery. At Oxford he had once gone boating alone and at
night with an eagle chained to his skiff; at Rome he had once rented
a palace, and given a ball to the dregs of the city’s life--beggars,
cripples, prostitutes, and pimps. The boastfulness of such things was
obvious. But as Christian stood there and saw him with those animals,
the impression he received was not only one of frantic high spirits,
but also one of despair. A retroactive oppression crept over him.

The lighting of the rooms was strikingly dim and scattered. A
thunderstorm was approaching, and the windows were all open on
account of the sultry heat; and every flicker of lightning flashed an
unexpected brightness into the rooms.

At the invitation of several guests, Sinaide Gamaleja sat down with a
lute under a cluster of long-stemmed roses, and began to sing a Russian
song. Over her shoulders lay a gold-embroidered shawl, and her hair
was held by a band of diamonds. Her figure was fragile. She had broad
cheekbones, a wide mouth, and dully-glowing, heavy-lidded eyes.

The greyish-yellow wolf on Szilaghin’s knees raised his head, and
blinked sleepily at the singer. The melody had awakened in him a dream
of his native steppes. But the parrot stirred too, and, croaking an
unintelligible word, he preened himself and displayed the gorgeous
plumage of his throat. Szilaghin raised a finger and bade the bird
be silent; obediently it hid its beak in the feathers which a breeze
lifted. A voluble old Russian kept talking to Szilaghin. The latter
overheard him contemptuously, and joined in the singing of the song’s
second stanza.

His voice was melodious--a deep, dark baritone. But to Christian there
seemed something corrupt in its music, as corrupt as the half-shut,
angry, melancholy eyes with their contempt of mankind; as corrupt as
the well-chiselled, waxen face, that could pass for eighteen, yet
harboured all the experiences of an evil old age; as corrupt as the
long, pale, sinuous, nerveless hand or the sweetish, weary, clever
smile.

The Maelbeeks, Wiguniewski, the Captain, and Tavera had settled down to
a game of baccarat in the adjoining room. In the pauses of the singing,
one could hear the click of gold and the tap of the cards on the table.
These strange noises excited the parrot; he forgot the command of his
master, and uttered a discordant cry. Sinaide Gamaleja threw the animal
a furious glance, and for a moment her hand twitched on the strings.

At that moment Szilaghin arose, grasped the bird’s feet with one
hand, its head with the other, and twisted the head of the screaming,
agonizedly fluttering animal around and around as on an axis. Then he
tossed the green, dead thing aside with an expression of disgust, and
calmly intoned the third stanza of the song.

A flame of satisfaction appeared in Sinaide Gamaleja’s eyes. The old
Russian, who had visited his endless babble on the sculptress, fell
suddenly silent. The wolf yawned, and, as though to confirm the fact of
his own obedience, snuggled his chin against his master’s arm.

Christian looked down at the dead bird, whose tattered plumage gleamed
in the lightning that flashed across the floor like a fantastic
emerald. Suddenly the dead animal became to him the seal and symbol of
all the corruption, vanity, unveracity, bedizenment, and danger of all
he saw and felt. He looked at Szilaghin, at Sinaide, at the chattering
dotard, at the gamesters, and turned away. There was an acridness in
his throat and a burning in his eyes. He approached the window. The
foliage rustled out there, and the thunder pealed. And the question
arose within him: Whence does all this evil come? Whence does it come,
and why is it so hard to separate oneself from it?

The night, the rain, and the storm drove him forth, lured him out. He
ached to lose himself in the darkness, far from men. He was afraid for
the first time in his life that he would shed tears. Never, in all
his conscious memory, had he wept. His whole body was shaken by an
emotional tumult such as he had never known, and he repressed it only
by using his utmost energy. Just as he was about to touch the knob of
the door, a lackey opened it, and Maidanoff and Eva appeared on the
threshold. Christian stood quite still; but every vestige of colour
left his face.

A vivid stir went through the company. Szilaghin jumped up to welcome
these two. Maidanoff’s weather-beaten leanness contrasted in a striking
and sombre fashion with Eva’s flower-like symmetry of form. She wore a
garment diaphanous as breathing; it was held to her shoulders by ropes
of pearls. Her skin had a faintly golden glow; her throat and arms and
bosom pulsed with life.

The vision absorbed Christian. He stared at her. His name was spoken,
with other names that were new to Maidanoff; and still he stared at
that unfathomable and fatal image. His heart, in its sudden, monstrous
loneliness, turned to ice; he felt both wild and stricken with
dumbness; the tension of his soul became unendurable. Curious glances
sought him out. He failed to move at the proper moment, and the moan
that arose from the confusion of his utter grief had made a thing of
mockery and scorn of him, before he fled past barren walls and stupid
lackeys into the open.

The rain came down in torrents. He did not call his car, but walked
along the road.


XXV

After losing twenty-eight thousand francs, the amount that he had
gradually borrowed from Mr. Bradshaw and Prince Wiguniewski, Amadeus
Voss got up from the gaming table, and staggered into the open. He had
a dim notion that he would seek out Christian, to tell him that he
would be able to settle the debt within twenty-four hours.

He went to the telegraph office, and sent a message to Christian. Then
he stood beneath a chestnut tree in bloom, and muttered: “Brother,
brother.”

A woman came along the road, and he joined her. But suddenly he burst
out into wild laughter, turned down a side street, and went on alone.

He walked and walked for six endless hours. At two o’clock in the
morning he was in Heyst. His brain seemed to have become an insensitive
lump, incapable of light or reason.

Masses of dark grey clouds that floated in the sky assumed to him the
aspect of women’s bodies. The clouds, which the hot night drove toward
the north, were like cloaks over the forms he desired. He felt an
obscure yearning for all the love in all the lands in which he had no
part.

At the garden-gate of the villa he stopped and stared up at Christian’s
windows. They were open and showed light. “Brother,” he muttered again,
“brother!” Christian appeared at the window. The sight of him filled
Voss with a sudden, overwhelming hatred. “Take care, Wahnschaffe!” he
cried.

Christian left the window, and soon appeared at the gate. Amadeus
awaited him with clenched fists. But when Christian approached, he
turned and fled down the street, and Christian looked after him. Then
his steps became slower, and Christian followed.

After Voss had wandered about aimlessly for a time, he felt a torturing
thirst. He happened to pass a sailors’ tavern, considered for a moment,
and entered. He ordered grog, but did not touch the glass. Five or six
men sat at various tables. Three slept; the eyes of the others had a
drunken stare. The tavern keeper, an obese fellow with a criminal face,
sat behind the bar, and watched this elegantly attired guest, whose
face was so pale and so disturbed. He concluded that the late comer
was in a mood of despair, and beckoned to the bar-maid, a dark-haired,
dirty Walloon, to sit down by him.

Impudently she did so, and started to talk. He did not understand
her. She gave a coarse laugh, and put a hand on his knee. Behind her
thin and ragged bodice her breasts stirred like animals. She had a
primitive, animal odour. He turned dizzy. Then a lust to murder stirred
in him.

He drew from his pocket all the money he had left. There were seventy
francs--three gold and five silver coins. “The magic numbers,” he
muttered, and grew a shade paler, “three and five!”

The Walloon woman turned greedy and caressing eyes upon the coins. The
tavern keeper, scenting business, dragged his bulk forward.

“Strip off your clothes, and it’s yours!” said Amadeus Voss.

She looked at him stupidly. The tavern keeper understood German and
translated the words. She laughed shrilly, and pointed toward the door.
Amadeus shook his head. “No; now; here!” He was stubborn. The girl
turned to her employer, and the two consulted in whispers. Her gestures
made it evident that she cared little for the presence of the drunken
or snoring men. She disappeared behind a brown partition that had
once been yellow. The tavern keeper gathered the money on the table,
waddled from window to window to see that the red hangings covered all
the panes, and then stood guard at the door.

Amadeus sat there as though steeped in seething water. A few minutes
passed. Then the Walloon woman appeared from behind the partition.
The sailors looked up. One arose and gesticulated; one uttered a wild
laugh. The woman stood with lowered eyes--stubborn, careless, rubbing
one foot with the other. She was rather fat, quite without charm, and
the lines of her body had been destroyed.

But to Amadeus Voss she was like a supernatural vision, and he gazed
upon her as though his whole soul was in that gaze. His arms reached
out, and his fingers became claws, and his lips twitched. The fishermen
and the tavern keeper no longer saw the woman. They saw him. They felt
fear. So unwonted was the sight that they did not observe the opening
of the door. The tavern keeper’s whistled warning came too late.
Christian, who entered, still saw the naked woman as she hurried toward
the partition.

He approached Amadeus. But the latter took no notice of him. He stared
spell-bound at the spot where the woman had stood.

Christian laid a hand upon his shoulder. Amadeus roused himself from
his absorption, turned slow, questioning eyes upon his friend, and
strangely uttered with his quivering lips these words: “Est Deus in
nobis; agitante calescimus illo.”

Then he broke down, his forehead dropped on the table, and a shudder
shook his body.

The tavern keeper muttered morosely.

“Come, Amadeus,” said Christian very quietly.

The drunken fishermen and sailors stared.

Amadeus arose, and groped like a blind man for Christian’s hand.

“Come, Amadeus,” Christian repeated, and his voice seemed to make a
deep impression on Voss, for he followed him without hesitation. The
tavern keeper and the sailors accompanied them into the street.

The tavern keeper said to the men with him: “Those are what you call
gentlemen. Look how they behave! It shows you why the world is ruled so
ill.”

“The dawn is breaking,” said one of the fishermen, and pointed to a
purple streak in the eastern heaven.

Christian and Amadeus likewise stared at the purple seam of the east,
and Amadeus spoke again: “Est Deus in nobis; agitante calescimus illo.”



KAREN ENGELSCHALL


I

On the appointed hour of the appointed day Crammon arrived. He had
prepared himself to stay and to be festive; but he was disappointed.
Eva and her train were on the point of leaving. Maidanoff had proceeded
to Paris, whither Eva was to follow him.

Crammon had been informed of this new friendship of his idol. All other
news came to him too, and so he was aware that a quarrel had arisen
between Christian and Eva. He was the more astonished to see Christian
determined to follow Eva to Hamburg.

They had exchanged but a few words, when the transformation in
Christian struck him. He laid his hand on the young man’s shoulder, and
asked sympathetically: “Have you nothing to confide?”

He spent the evening with Wiguniewski. “It isn’t possible,” he said;
“you’re mistaken. Or else the world is topsy-turvy and I can no longer
tell a man from a woman.”

“I had no special liking for Wahnschaffe from the start,” Wiguniewski
confessed. “He’s too impenetrable, mysterious, spoiled, cold, and, if
you will, too German. Nevertheless I knew from the first that he was
the very man for Eva Sorel. You couldn’t see the two together without
a sense of delight--the sort of delight that a beautiful composition
gives you, or anything that is spiritually fitting and harmonious.”

Crammon nodded. “He has a strange power over women,” he said. “I’ve
just had another instance which is the more remarkable as it developed
from a mere sight of his picture. At the Ashburnhams’ in Yorkshire,
where I’ve been staying, I made the acquaintance of a Viennese girl,
a banker’s daughter, rather ugly, to be frank, but with a peculiar
little sting and charm and wit of her own. Not a bad figure, though
rather--shall we say scanty? Yes. Her name is Johanna Schöntag, though
that matters little. I called her nothing but Rumpelstilzkin. That
fitted her like a glove. God knows how she got there. Her sister, a
russet-haired person who looks as though she’d jumped out of a Rubens,
is married to an attaché of some minor legation, Roumanian or Bulgarian
or something like that. The big capitalists fit their daughters into
society that way. Well, anyhow, this Rumpelstilzkin and I agreed to
amuse each other in the murky boredom of Lord and Lady Ashburnham’s
house. So one day I showed the girl a miniature of Christian which
Gaston Villiers painted for me in Paris. She looked at the picture
and her merry face grew grave, absorbed, and she handed it back to
me silently. A couple of days later she asked to see it again, and
it had the same effect on her. She asked me about the man, and I, of
course, became very eloquent, and happened to remark, too, that I
expected to meet Christian here. She insisted at once that she must
meet him, and that I must plan to have her do so. Remember she’s rather
unapproachable as a rule, fastidious, turning up her nose--her worst
feature by the way--at things that please most people. The request was
unexpected and rather a nuisance. One mustn’t, as you know, bring the
wrong people together and land one’s self in difficulties. So I said
at once: ‘The Almighty forbid!’ I admonished her gently to change her
mind, and painted the danger in its darkest hues. She laughed at me,
and asked me whether I’d grown strait-laced; then she at once developed
a most cunning plan. She had time enough. She wasn’t expected home
till the first of November, which gave her seven weeks. So she would
announce her intention of studying the Dutch galleries, the pursuit of
culture being always respectable. She had a companion and chaperone,
as it was, and her sister, who was broad-minded in such matters, could
be taken into her confidence. Her energy and astuteness made me feel
weak, and forced me into the conspiracy. Well, she arrived yesterday.
She’s at the Hotel de la Plage, a little scared, like a bird that’s
dropped out of its nest, a little dissatisfied with herself, vexed by
little attacks of morality; and I, for my part, don’t know what to do
with her. I bethought me too late that Christian isn’t to be caught by
such tricks, and now I’ve got to make it clear to the girl. All this is
by the way, prince--a sort of footnote to your discourse, which I did
not intend to interrupt.”

Wiguniewski had listened with very slight sympathy. He began again:
“These past months, as I’ve said, have given us all an unforgettable
experience. We have seen two free personalities achieving a higher form
of union than any of the legitimized ones. But suddenly this noble
spectacle turns into a shabby farce; and it is his fault. For such a
union has its organic and natural close. A man of subtle sensitiveness
knows that, and adjusts himself accordingly. Instead of that, he
actually lets it get to the point of painful scenes. He seeks meetings
that humiliate him and make him absurd. When she is out he waits in her
rooms for her return, and endures her passing him by with a careless
nod. Once he sat waiting all night and stared into a book. He lets the
Rappard woman treat him insolently, and doesn’t seem to mind that the
fruits and flowers he sends daily are regularly refused. What is it?
What does it mean?”

“It points to some sorrow, and assuredly to a great sorrow for me,”
Crammon sighed. “It’s incomprehensible.”

“She entertained at dinner day before yesterday,” Wiguniewski
continued. “As though to mock him he was placed at the lower end of
the table. I didn’t even know the people who sat by him. It seems to
arouse a strange cruelty in her that he doesn’t refuse to bear these
humiliations; he, on the other hand, seems to find some inexplicable
lure in his suffering. He sat down that evening in silence. Afterwards
a curious thing happened. Groups had been formed after dinner. He
stood a few feet from Eva and gazed at her steadily. His face had a
brooding look as he observed her. She wore Ignifer, which is his gift,
and looked like Diana with a burning star above her forehead.”

“That’s excellently well put, prince,” Crammon exclaimed.

“The conversation touched upon many subjects without getting too
shallow. You know her admirable way of checking and disciplining talk.
Finally there arose a discussion of Flemish literature, and some one
spoke of Verhaeren. She quoted some verses of a poem of his called
‘Joy.’ The sense was somewhat as follows: My being is in everything
that lives about me; meadows and roads and trees, springs and shadows,
you become me, since I have felt you wholly. There was a murmur of
appreciation. She went to a shelf and took down a volume of Verhaeren’s
poems. She turned the pages, found the poem she sought, and suddenly
turned to Wahnschaffe. She gave him the book with a gesture of command;
he was to read the poem. He hesitated for a moment, then he obeyed.
The effect of the reading was both absurd and painful. He read like a
schoolboy, low, stammering, and as though the content were beyond his
comprehension. He felt the absurdity and painfulness of the incident
himself, for his colour changed as the ecstatic stanzas came from
his lips like an indifferent paragraph in a newspaper; and when he
had finished the reading, he laid the book aside, and left without a
glance at any one. But Eva turned to us, and said as though nothing
had happened: ‘The verses are wonderful, aren’t they?’ Yet her lips
trembled with fury. But what was her purpose? Did she want to prove to
us his inability to feel things that are beautiful and delicate? Did
she want to put him to shame, to punish him and publicly expose the
poverty of his nature? Or was it only an impatient whim, the annoyance
at his dumb watchfulness and his searching glances? Mlle. Vanleer said
later: ‘If he had read the verses like a divine poet, she would have
forgiven him.’ ‘Forgiven him what?’ I asked. She smiled, and answered:
‘Her own faithlessness.’ There may be something in that. At all events,
you should get him out of this situation, Herr von Crammon.”

“I shall do all in my power,” said Crammon, and the lines of care about
his mouth grew deeper. He wiped his forehead. “Of course I don’t know
how far my influence goes. It would be empty boastfulness to guarantee
anything. I’ve been told too that he frequents all sorts of impossible
dives with impossible people. I could weep when I think of it. He was
the flower of modern manhood, the pride of my lengthening years, the
salt of the earth! Unfortunately he had, even when I left him, certain
attacks of mental confusion, but I put those down to the account of
that suspicious fellow, Ivan Becker.”

“Don’t speak of him! Don’t speak of Becker!” Wiguniewski interrupted
sharply. “Not at least in that manner, I must beg and insist.”

Crammon opened his eyes very wide, and the tip of his tongue became
visible, like a red snail peering out of its shell. He choked down his
discomfort and shrugged his shoulders.

Wiguniewski said: “At all events you’ve given me an indication. I never
considered such a possibility. It throws a new light on many things.
It’s true, by the way, that Wahnschaffe associates with questionable
people. The queerest of them all is Amadeus Voss, a hypocrite and a
gambler. One must not couple such persons with Ivan Becker. Becker
may have set him upon a certain road. If we assume that, a number of
incidents become clear. But anything really baneful comes from Voss.
Save your friend from him!”

“I haven’t seen the fellow yet,” Crammon murmured. “What you tell me,
Prince, doesn’t take me quite unawares. Nevertheless, I’m grateful. But
let that scoundrel beware! May I never drink another drop of honest
wine, if he escape me! Let me never again glance at a tempting bosom,
if I don’t grind this infamous cur to pulp. So help me!”

Wiguniewski arose, and left Crammon to plan his revenge.


II

The morning sun of late September was gilding sea and land, when
Crammon entered Christian’s room. Christian was sitting at his curved
writing table. The bright blue tapestries on the walls gleamed; chairs
and tables were covered by a hundred confused objects. Everything
pointed to the occupant’s departure.

“Don’t let me disturb you, dear boy; I have time enough,” said Crammon.
He swept some things from a chair, sat down, and lit his pipe.

But Christian put down his pen. “I don’t know what’s the matter with
me,” he said angrily, without looking at Crammon, “I can’t get two
coherent sentences down on paper. However carefully I think it out,
by the time it’s written it sounds stiff and silly. Have you the same
experience?”

Crammon answered: “There are those who have the trick. It takes,
primarily, a certain impudence. You must never stop to ask: Is that
correct? Is it true? Is it well-founded? Scribble ahead, that’s all.
Be effective, no matter at what cost. The cleverest writers are often
the most stupid fellows. But to whom are you writing? Is the haste so
great? Letters can usually be put off.”

“Not this time. It is a question of haste,” Christian answered. “I have
a letter from Stettner and I can’t make out his drift. He tells me that
he’s quitting the service and leaving for America. Before he goes he
wants to see me once more. He takes ship at Hamburg on October 15. Now
it fortunately happens that I’ll be in Hamburg on that date, and I want
to let him know.”

“I don’t see any difficulty there,” Crammon said seriously. “All you
need say is: I’ll be at such a place on such a day, and expect or hope,
et cetera. Yours faithfully or sincerely or cordially, et cetera. So
he’s going to quit? Why? And run off to America? Something rotten in
the state of Denmark?”

“He was challenged to a duel, it appears, and refused the challenge.
That’s the only reason he gives. He adds that matters shaped themselves
so that he is forced to seek a new life in the New World. It touches me
closely; I was always fond of him. I must see him.”

“I’d be curious too to know what really happened,” said Crammon.
“Stettner didn’t strike me as a chap who’d lightly run away and risk
his honour. He was an exemplary officer. I’m afraid it’s a dreary
business. But I observe that it gives you a pretext for going to
Hamburg.”

Christian started. “Why a pretext?” He was a little embarrassed. “I
need no pretext.”

Crammon bent his head far forward, and laid his chin on the ivory
handle of his stick. His pipe remained artfully poised in one corner
of his mouth, and did not move as he spoke. “You don’t mean to assert,
my dearest boy, that your conscience doesn’t require some additional
motive for the trip,” he began, like a father confessor who is about to
use subtle arguments to force a confession from a stubborn malefactor,
“and you’re not going to try to make a fool of an old boon-companion
and brother of your soul. One owes something to a friend. You should
not forget under whose auspices and promises you entered the great
world, nor what securities _he_ offered--securities of the heart
and mind--who was the author and master of your radiant entry. Even
Socrates, that rogue and revolutionary, recalled such obligations on
his death bed. There was a story about a cock--some sort of a cock,
I believe. Maybe the story doesn’t fit the case at all. No matter. I
always thought the ancients rather odious. What does matter is that I
don’t like your condition, and that others who love you don’t like it.
It rends my very heart to see you pilloried, while people who can’t
tell a stud-horse from a donkey shrug their shoulders at you. It’s not
to be endured. I’d rather we’d quarrel and exchange shots at a distance
of five paces. What has happened to you? What has come over you? Have
you stopped gathering scalps to offer your own head? The hares and
the hounds, I tell you, are diverse creatures. I understand all things
human, but the divine order must be kept intact. It’s flying in the
face of providence that you should stand at the gate like a beggar. You
used to be the one who showed others the door; they whined and moaned
after you--and that was proper. I had an uncle who was something of a
philosopher, and he used to say: when a woman, a lawyer, and a stove
are at their hottest--turn your back to them. I’ve always done that,
and kept my peace of mind and my reputation. There are extenuating
circumstances in your case, I admit. There is but one such woman in a
century, and whoever possesses her may well lose his reason. But even
that should not apply to you, Christian. Splendour is your natural
portion: it is for you to grant favours; at your board the honey should
be fresh each day. And now tell me what you intend to do.”

Christian had listened to this lengthy though wise and pregnant
discourse with great patience. At times there was a glint of mockery or
anger in his eyes. Then again he would lower them and seem embarrassed.
Sometimes he grasped the sense of Crammon’s words, sometimes he thought
of other things. It cost him an effort to recall clearly by what right
this apparently complete stranger interfered in his life and sought
to influence his decisions. And then again he felt within himself a
certain tenderness for Crammon in the memory of common experiences and
intimate talks; but all that seemed so far away and so estranged from
the present.

He looked out of the window, from which the view was free to the
horizon where sea and sky touched. Far in the distance a little white
cloud floated like a white, round pillow. The same tenderness that he
felt for Crammon, he now felt for that little cloud.

And as Crammon sat before him and waited for an answer, there suddenly
came into his mind the story of the ring which Amadeus had told him.
He began: “A young candidate for Holy Orders, who was tutor to the
children of a banker, fell under the suspicion of having stolen a
costly ring. He told me the story himself, and from his words I knew
that the ring, when he saw it on the hand of his employer’s wife,
aroused his desire. In addition he loved this woman, and would have
been happy to have had something by which to remember her. But he
was utterly innocent of the disappearance of the ring, and some
time after he had left that house, his innocence received the most
striking confirmation. For the lady sent him the ring as a gift. He
was wretchedly poor, and the ring would have meant much to him; but he
went and threw it into a well, a deep old-fashioned well. The costliest
thing he had ever possessed in life, he threw without hesitation or
reflection into a well--that’s what this man did.”

“Oh, well, very well. Although ... no, I don’t quite see your meaning,”
said Crammon, discontentedly, and shifted his pipe from the right to
the left corner of his mouth. “What good did the ring do the poor fool?
How absurd to take something that reaches you in a manner so delicate
and discreet, and throw it into a well? Would not a box have served,
or a drawer? There at least it could have been found. It was a loutish
trick.”

Crammon’s way of sitting there with his legs crossed, showing his grey
silk socks, had something about it so secure and satiated, that it
reminded one of an animal that basks in the sun and digests its food.
Christian’s disgust at his words quieted, and was replaced by a gentle,
almost compassionate tenderness. He said: “It is so hard to renounce.
You can talk about it and imagine it; you can will it and even believe
yourself capable of it. But when the moment of renunciation comes,
it is hard, it is almost impossible to give up even the humblest of
things.”

“Yes, but why do you want to renounce?” Crammon murmured in his
vexation. “What do you mean exactly by renunciation? What is it to lead
to?”

Christian said almost to himself: “I believe that one must cast one’s
ring into a well.”

“If you mean by that that you intend to forget our wonderful Queen
Mab, all I have to say is--the Lord help you in your purpose,” Crammon
answered.

“One holds fast and clings because one fears the step into the
unknown,” Christian said.

Crammon was silent for a few minutes and wrinkled his forehead. Then he
cleared his throat and asked: “Did you ever hear about homœopathy? I’ll
explain to you what is meant by it. It means curing like with like. If
for instance some food has disagreed with you violently, and I give you
a drug that would, in a state of health, have sickened you even more
violently than your food--that would be a homœopathic treatment.”

“So you want to cure me?” Christian asked, and smiled. “From what and
with what?”

Crammon moved his chair nearer to Christian’s, laid a hand on his
knees, and whispered astutely: “I’ve got something for you, dear boy.
I’ve made an exquisite find. There’s a woman in your horoscope, as the
sooth-sayers put it. Some one is yearning for you, is immensely taken
with you, and dying of impatience to know you. And it’s something quite
different, a new type, something prickling and comical, indeterminate,
sensitive, a little graceless and small and not beautiful, but
enormously charming. She comes from the bourgeoisie at its most obese,
but she struggles with both hands and feet against the fate of being a
pearl in a trough. There’s your chance for employment, distraction, and
refreshment. It won’t be a long affair,--an interlude of her holidays,
but instructive, and, in the homœopathic sense, sure to work a cure.
For look you: Ariel, she is a miracle, a star, the food of the gods.
You can’t live on such nourishment; you need bread. Descend, my son,
from the high tower where you still grasp after the _miraculum cœli_
that once flamed on your bosom. Put it out of your mind; descend, and
be contented with mortality. To-night at seven in the dining-room of
the Hotel de la Plage. Is it a bargain?”

Christian laughed, and got up. On the table stood a vase filled with
white pinks. He took out one of the flowers, and fastened it into
Crammon’s button-hole.

“Is it a bargain or not?” Crammon asked severely.

“No, dear friend, there’s nothing in that for me,” Christian answered,
laughing more heartily. “Keep your find to yourself.”

The veins on Crammon’s forehead swelled. “But I’ve promised to bring
you, and you mustn’t leave me in the lurch.” He was in a rage. “I don’t
deserve such treatment, after all the slights which you have put on me
for months. You give rights to an obscure vagabond that astonish the
whole world, and you cast aside heartlessly an old and proved friend.
That does hurt and embitter and enrage one. I’m through.”

“Calm yourself, Bernard,” said Christian, and stooped to pick up
some blossoms that had fallen on the floor. And as he put back the
flowers into the vase, there came to him the vision of Amadeus Voss’
white face, showing his bleeding soul and paralyzed by desire and
renunciation, even as it was turned toward the fat, morose Walloon
woman. “I don’t comprehend your stubbornness,” he continued. “Why won’t
you let me be? Don’t you know that I bring misfortune to all who love
me?”

Crammon was startled. Despite Christian’s equivocal smile, he felt a
sudden twinge of superstitious fear. “Idiotic!” he growled. He arose
and took his hat, and still tried to wring from Christian a promise for
the evening. At that moment a knock sounded at the door, and Amadeus
Voss entered.

“I beg your pardon,” he stammered, and looked shyly at Crammon, who had
at once assumed an attitude of hostility. “I merely wanted to ask you,
Christian, whether we are going to leave. Shall the packing be done? We
must know what to do.”

Crammon was furious. “Fancy the scoundrel taking such a tone,” he
thought. He could hardly force himself to assume the grimace of
courtesy that became inevitable when Christian, quite hesitatingly,
introduced them to each other.

Amadeus bowed like an applicant for some humble office. His eyes behind
their lenses clung to Crammon, like the valves of an exhaust pump. He
found Crammon repulsive at once; but he thought it advisable not only
to hide this feeling but to play the part of obsequiousness. His hatred
was so immediate and so violent, that he was afraid of showing it too
soon, and stripping himself of some chance of translating it into
action.

Crammon sought points of attack. He treated Voss with contempt, looked
at him as though he were a wad of clothes against the wall, neither
answered him nor listened to what he said, deliberately prolonged his
stay, and paid no attention to Christian’s nervousness. Voss continued
to play the part he had selected. He agreed and bowed, rubbed the toe
of one of his boots against the sole of the other, picked up Crammon’s
stick when the latter dropped it; but as he seemed determined not to
be the first to yield, Crammon at last took pity on the silent wonder
and torment in Christian’s face. He waved his well-gloved left hand
and withdrew. He seemed to swell up in his rage like a frog. “Softly,
Bernard,” he said to himself; “guard your dignity, and do not step
into the ordure at your feet. Trust in the Lord who said: Vengeance is
mine.” He met a little dog on his path, and administered a kick to it,
so that the beast howled and scurried into an open cellar.

Across the table Christian and Voss faced each other in silence. Voss
pulled a flower from the vase, and shredded its calyx with his thin
fingers. “So that was Herr von Crammon,” he murmured. “I don’t know why
I feel like laughing. But I can’t help it. I do.” And he giggled softly
to himself.

“We leave to-morrow,” said Christian, held a handkerchief to his
mouth, and breathed the delicate perfume that aroused in him so many
tender and slowly fading images.

Voss took a blossom, tore it in two, gazed tensely at the parts, and
said: “Fibre by fibre, cell by cell. I am done with this life of sloth
and parasitism. I want to cut up the bodies of men and anatomize
corpses. Perhaps one can get at the seat of weakness and vulgarity. One
must seek life at its source and death at its root. The talent of an
anatomist stirs within me. Once I wanted to be a great preacher like
Savonarola; but it’s a reckless thing to try in these days. One had
better stick to men’s bodies; their souls would bring one to despair.”

“I believe one must work,” Christian answered softly. “It does not
matter at what. But one must work.” He turned toward the window. The
round, white cloud had vanished; the silver sea had sucked it up.

“Have you come to that conclusion?” Voss jeered. “I’ve known it long.
The way to hell is paved with work; and only hell can burn us clean. It
is well that you have learned that much.”


III

Crammon and Johanna Schöntag were sitting in a drawing-room of the
hotel. They had had dinner together. Johanna’s companion, Fräulein
Grabmeier, had already retired.

“You must be patient, Rumpelstilzkin,” said Crammon. “I’m sorry to say
that he hasn’t bitten yet. The bait is still in the water.”

“I’ll be patient, my lord,” said Johanna, in her slightly rough,
boyish voice, and a gleam of merriment, in which charm and ugliness
were strangely blended, passed over her face. “I don’t find it very
hard either. Everything is sure to go wrong with me in the end. If
ever unexpectedly a wish of mine is fulfilled, and something I looked
forward to does happen, I’m as wretched as I can be, because it’s never
as nice as I thought it would be. The best thing for me, therefore, is
to be disappointed.”

“You’re a problematic soul,” said Crammon musingly.

Johanna gave a comical sigh. “I advise you, dear friend and protector,
to get rid of me by return post.” She stretched her thin little neck
with an intentionally bizarre movement. “I simply interfere with
the traffic. I’m a personified evil omen. At my birth a lady by the
name of Cassandra appeared, and I needn’t tell you the disagreeable
things that have been said of her. You remember how when we were at
target practice at Ashburnhill I hit the bull’s-eye. Everybody was
amazed, yourself included; but I more so than any one, because it was
pure, unadulterated chance. The rifle had actually gone off before
I had taken aim. Fate gives me such small and worthless gifts, in
order to seem friendly and lull me into security. But I’m not to be
deceived. Ugh! A nun, a nun!” she interrupted herself. Her eyes became
very large, as she looked into the garden where an Ursuline nun was
passing by. Then she crossed her arms over her bosom, and counted with
extraordinary readiness: “Seven, six, five, four, three, two, one.”
Then she laughed, and showed two rows of marvellous teeth.

“Is it your custom to do that whenever a nun appears?” Crammon asked.
His interest in superstitions was aroused.

“It’s the proper ritual to follow. But she was gone before I came to
one, and that augurs no good. By the way, dear baron, your sporting
terminology sounds suspicious. What does that mean: ‘he hasn’t
bitten yet; the bait is still in the water’? I beg you to restrain
yourself. I’m an unprotected girl, and wholly dependent on your
delicate chivalry. If you shake my tottering self-confidence by any
more reminiscences of the sporting world, I’ll have to telegraph for
two berths on the Vienna train. For myself and Fräulein Grabmeier, of
course.”

She loved these daring little implications, from which she could
withdraw quite naïvely. Crammon burst into belated laughter, and that
fact stirred her merriment too.

She was very watchful, and nothing escaped her attentive eyes. She took
a burning interest in the characters and actions of people. She leaned
toward Crammon and they whispered together, for he could tell a story
about each form and face that emerged from the crowd. The chronicle
of international biography and scandal of which he was master was
inexhaustible. If ever his memory failed him, he invented or poetized
a little. He had everything at his tongue’s end--disputes concerning
inheritances, family quarrels, illegitimate descent, adulteries,
relationships of all sorts. Johanna listened to him with a smile. She
peered at all the tables and carefully observed every uncommon detail.
She picked up and pinned down, as an entomologist does his beetles, any
chance remark or roguish expression, any silliness or peculiarity of
any of these unconscious actors of the great world or the half world.

Suddenly the pupils of her greyish blue eyes grew very large, and
her lips curved in a bow of childlike delight. “Who is that?” she
whispered, and thrust her chin out a little in the direction of a door
at Crammon’s back. But she at once knew instinctively who it was. She
would have known it without the general raising of heads and softening
of voices, of which she became aware.

Crammon turned around and saw Eva amid a group of ladies and gentlemen.
He arose, waited until Eva glanced in his direction, and then bowed
very low. Eva drew back a little. She had not seen him since the days
of Denis Lay. She thought a little, and nodded distantly. Then she
recognized him, kicked back her train with an incomparable grace, and,
speaking in every line before her lips moved, went up to him.

Johanna had arisen too. Eva remarked the little figure. She gave
Crammon to understand that he had a duty toward his companion, and that
she would not refuse an introduction to the unknown girl, on whose
face enthusiasm and homage were so touchingly to be seen. Crammon
introduced Johanna in his most ceremonious manner. Johanna grew pale
and red and curtsied. She seemed to herself suddenly so negligible that
she was overcome with shame. Then she tore off the three yellow roses
at her corsage, and held them out to Eva with a sudden and yet timid
gesture. Eva liked this impulse. She felt its uniqueness and veracity,
and therefore knew its value.


IV

Christian and Amadeus wandered across the Quai Kokerill in Antwerp.

A great transatlantic liner lay, silent and empty, at the pier. The
steerage passengers waited at its side for the hour of their admission.
They were Polish peasants, Russian Jews, men and women, young ones and
aged ones, children and sucklings. They crouched on the cold stones or
on their dirty bundles. They were themselves dirty, neglected, weary,
dully brooding--a melancholy and confused mass of rags and human bodies.

The mighty globe of the sun rolled blood-red and quivering over the
waters.

Christian and Amadeus stopped. After a while they went on, but
Christian desired to turn back, and they did so. At a crossing near the
emigrants’ camp, a line of ten or twenty donkey-carts cut off the road.
The carts looked liked bisected kegs on wheels, and were filled with
smoked mackerels.

“Buy mackerels!” the cart-drivers cried. “Buy mackerels!” And they
cracked their whips.

A few of the emigrants approached and stared hungrily; they consulted
with others, who were already looking for coins in their pockets, until
finally a few determined ones proceeded to make a purchase.

Then Christian said to Voss: “Let us buy the fish and distribute them.
What do you think?”

Amadeus was ill pleased. He answered. “Do as you wish. Great lords must
have their little pleasures.” He felt uncomfortable amid the gathering
crowd.

Christian turned to one of the hucksters. It was difficult to make
the man understand normal French, but gradually he succeeded. The
huckster summoned the others, and there followed excited chatter and
gesticulations. Various sums were named and considered and rejected.
This process bored Christian; it threatened to be endless. He offered
a sum that represented a considerable increase over the highest price
named, and handed his wallet to Amadeus that the men might be paid.
Then he said to the increasing throng of emigrants in German: “The fish
are yours.”

A few understood his words, and conveyed their meaning to the others.
Timidly they ventured forward. A woman, whose skin was yellow as a
lemon from jaundice, was the first to touch a fish. Soon hundreds came.
From all sides they brought baskets, pots, nets, sacks. A few old
men kept the crowd in order. One of these, who wore a flowing white
beard and a long Jewish coat, bowed down thrice before Christian. His
forehead almost touched the earth.

A sudden impulse compelled Christian to see in person to the just
distribution of the fish. He turned up his sleeves, and with his
delicate hands threw the greasy, malodourous fish into the vessels
held out for them. He laughed as he soiled his fingers. The hucksters
and some idle onlookers laughed too. They thought him a crazy, young
Englishman out for a lark. Suddenly his gorge rose at the odour of the
fish, and even more at the odour of these people. He smelled their
clothes and their breath, and gagged at the thought of their teeth and
fingers, their hair and shoes. A morbid compulsion forced him to think
of their naked bodies, and he shuddered at the idea of their flesh. So
he stopped, and slipped away into the twilight.

His hands still reeked of the smoked fish. He walked through the
streets that had had nothing to do with his adventure and the night
seemed empty.

Amadeus Voss had escaped. He waited in front of the hotel. There the
line of motor cars had gathered that was to accompany Eva on her
journey to Germany. Among the travellers were Crammon and Johanna
Schöntag.


V

In October the weather turned hot on the Rio de la Plata. All day one
had to stay in the house. If one opened a window, living fire seemed
to stream in. Once Letitia fainted, when she wanted to air her stuffy
room, and opened one of the wooden shutters.

The only spot that offered some shade and coolness toward evening
was an avenue of palms beside the river. Sometimes, during the brief
twilight, Letitia and her young sister-in-law Esmeralda would steal
away to that place. Their road passed the ranchos, the wretched
cave-like huts in which the native workmen lived.

Once Letitia saw the people of the ranchos merrily feasting and in
their best garments. She asked for the reason, and was told that a
child had died. “They always celebrate when some one dies,” Esmeralda
told her. “How sad must their lives be to make them so in love with
death.”

The avenue of palms was forbidden ground. When darkness came, the
bushes rustled, and furtive men slipped back and forth. Not long
before the mounted police had caught a sailor here who was wanted for
a murder in Galveston. Somehow Letitia dreamed of him. She was sure he
had killed his man through jealousy and bore the marks of a beautiful
tragedy.

One evening she had met in this spot a young naval officer, who was a
guest on a neighbouring estate. Letitia exchanged glances with him, and
from that time on he sought some way of approaching her. But she was
like a prisoner, or like a Turkish woman in a harem. So she determined
to outwit her guards; she really fell in love with the young officer.
Her imagination made an heroic figure of him, and she began to long for
him.

The heat increased. Letitia could not sleep at night. The mosquitoes
hummed sweetishly, and she cried like a little child. By day she locked
herself in her room, stripped off her clothes, and lay down on the cold
tiles.

Once she was lying thus with arms outstretched. “I’m like an enchanted
princess,” she thought, “in an enchanted castle.”

Some one knocked at the door, and she heard Stephen’s voice calling
her. Idly she raised her head, and from under her heavy lids gazed down
at her naked body. “What a bore it is,” she thought, “what a terrible
bore always to be with the same man. I want others too.” She did not
answer, and let her head droop, and rubbed her glowing cheek against
the warm skin of her upper arm. It pleased the master of the harem out
there to beg for admission; but Letitia did not open the door.

After a while she heard a tumult in the yard--laughter, the cracking of
whips, the report of rifles, and the cries of beasts in torment. She
jumped up, slipped into a silk dressing gown, opened the window that
gave on the verandah, and peered out.

Stephen had tied together the tails of two cats by means of a long
fuse. Along the fuse were fastened explosive bits of firework. The
hissing little rockets singed the cats’ fur, and the glowing cord
burned into their flesh. The cats tumbled about in their agony and
howled. Stephen goaded them and followed them. His brothers, bent over
the balustrade, roared with delight. Two Indians, grave and silent,
watched from the gate.

Stephen had, of course, counted on Letitia’s opening the door in her
curiosity. A few great leaps, and he was beside her. Esmeralda, who
was in the plot, had at once faced Letitia and prevented her from
locking the door. White with rage, and with raised fist, he stormed
across the threshold. She fell to her knees, and hid her face in her
hands.

“Why do you beat me?” she moaned, in horror and surprise. But he did
not touch her.

His teeth gnashed. “To teach you to obey.”

She sobbed. “Be careful! It’s not only me you’re hurting now!”

“Damnation, what are you saying?” He stared at her crouching figure.

“You’re hurting two now.” Letitia enjoyed fooling him. Her tears were
now tears of pity for herself.

“Woman, is that true?” he asked. Letitia peered furtively between her
fingers, and thought mockingly: “It’s like the last act of a cheap
opera.” She nodded with a gesture of pain, and determined to deceive
him with the naval officer.

Stephen gave a howl of triumph, danced about, threw himself down beside
her, and kissed her arms, her shoulders, and her neck. At the windows
and doors appeared Doña Barbara, Esmeralda, Stephen’s brothers, and
the servants. He lifted Letitia on his strong shoulders, and carried
her about on the verandah. He roared his orders: a feast was to be
prepared, an ox slaughtered, champagne to be put on ice.

Letitia had no qualms of conscience. She was glad to have made a fool
of him.

When old Gunderam learned the cause of the rejoicing in his house, he
chuckled to himself. “Fooled all the same, my sly lawyer man. In spite
of the written agreement, you won’t get the Escurial, not for a good
while, even if she has a whole litter.” With an unappetizing, broken
little comb he smoothed his iron grey beard, and poured eau de Cologne
on his head, until his hair, which was still thick, dripped.

But, strangely enough, the lie that Letitia had told in her terror
turned out to be the truth. In a few days she was sure. Secretly she
was amazed. Every morning she stood before the mirror, and looked
at herself with a strange respect and a subtle horror. But she was
unchanged. Her mood became gently melancholy, and she threw a kiss to
her image in the glass.

Since they were now afraid of crossing her wishes, she was permitted
to attend a ball given by Señor and Señora Küchelbäcker, and it was
there that she made the formal acquaintance of the naval lieutenant,
Friedrich Pestel.


VI

Felix Imhof and the painter Weikhardt met at the exhibition of the
“secessionists” in Munich. For a while they strolled through the rooms,
and looked at the paintings; then they went out on the terrace, and sat
down at a table that commanded a view of the park.

It was in the early afternoon, and the odours of oil and turpentine
from within blended with the fragrance of the sun-warmed plants.

Imhof crossed his long legs, and yawned affectedly. “I’m going to leave
this admirable home of art and letters for some months,” he declared.
“I’m going to accompany the minister of colonial affairs to South West
Africa. I’m anxious to see how things are going there. Those people
need looking after. Then, too, it’s a new experience, and there will be
hunting.”

Weikhardt was utterly self-absorbed. He was full of his own annoyances,
his inner and outer conflicts, and therefore spoke only of himself. “I
am to copy a cycle by Luini for the old Countess Matuschka,” he said.
“She has several blank walls in her castle in Galicia, and she wants
tapestries for them. But the old creature is close as the bark on the
tree, and her bargaining is repulsive.”

Imhof also pursued his own thoughts. “I’ve read a lot about Stanhope
recently,” he said. “A tremendous fellow, modern through and through,
reporter and conquistador at the same time. The blacks called him the
‘cliff-breaker.’ It makes one’s mouth water. Simply tremendous!”

Weikhardt continued: “But I dare say I’ll have to accept the
commission. I’ve come to the end of my tether. It’ll be good to see the
old Italians again, too. In Milan there’s a Tintoretto that’s adorable.
I’m on the track of a secret. I’m doing things that will count. The
other day I finished a picture, a simple landscape, and took it to an
acquaintance of mine. He has a rather exquisite room, and there we hung
it. The walls had grey hangings, and the furnishings were in black and
gold. He’s a rich man and wanted to buy the picture. But when I saw
how much he liked it, and saw, too, the delicate, melancholy harmony
of its colours with the tints of the room, I felt a sudden flash of
encouragement. I couldn’t bear to talk money, and I simply gave him the
thing. He accepted it quietly enough, but he continued saying: ‘How
damned good it is!’”

“It’ll take my thoughts off myself, this little trip to the Southern
Hemisphere,” said Imhof. “I’m not exactly favoured of fortune just
now. To be frank--everything’s in the deuce of a mess. My best horse
went to smash, my favourite dog died, my wife took French leave of me,
and my friends avoid me--I don’t know why. My business is progressing
backward, and all my speculations end in losses. But, after all, what
does it matter? I say to myself: Never say die, old boy! Here’s the
great, beautiful world, and all the splendour and variety of life. If
you complain, you deserve no better. My sandwich has dropped into the
mud. All right; I must get a fresh one. Whoever goes to war must expect
wounds. The main thing is to stick to your flag. The main thing is
faith--quite simple faith.”

It was still a question which of the two would first turn his attention
from himself, and hear his companion’s voice. Weikhardt, whose eyes
had grown sombre, spoke again: “O this dumb loneliness in a studio,
with one’s hundred failures, and the ghosts of one’s thousand hours of
despair! I have a chance to marry, and I’m going to take it, too. The
girl has no money, to be sure, but she has a heart. She’s not afraid
of my poverty, and comprehends the necessary quixotism of an artist’s
life. She comes of a Protestant family of very liberal traditions, but
two years ago she became a Catholic. When I first met her I was full
of suspicion, and assumed all sorts of reasons for her step except
the simple and human ones. It’s very difficult to see the simple and
the human things, and still more difficult to do them. Gradually I
understood what it means--to believe! and I understood what is to
be reverenced in such faith. It is faith itself that is sacred, not
that in which the faith is placed. It doesn’t matter what one has
faith in--a book, a beast, a man, a star, a god. But it must be pure
faith--immovable and unconquerable. Yes, I quite agree with you--we
need simple faith.”

So they had found each other through a word. “When do I get my picture,
your Descent from the Cross?” Imhof inquired.

Weikhardt did not answer the question. As he talked on, his smooth,
handsome, boyish face assumed the aspect of a quarrelsome old man’s.
Yet his voice remained gentle and slow, and his bearing phlegmatic.
“Humanity to-day has lost its faith,” he continued. “Faith has
leaked out like water from a cracked glass. Our age is tyrannised by
machinery: it is a mob rule without parallel. Who will save us from
machinery and from business? The golden calf has gone mad. The spirit
of man kowtows to a warehouse. Our watchword is to be up and doing.
We manufacture Christianity, a renaissance, culture, et cetera. If
it’s not quite the real thing, yet it will serve. Everything tends
toward the external--toward expression, line, arabesque, gesture,
mask. Everything is stuck on a hoarding and lit by electric lamps.
Everything is the very latest, until something still later begins to
function. Thus the soul flees, goodness ceases, the form breaks, and
reverence dies. Do you feel no horror at the generation that is growing
up? The air is like that before the flood.”

“Create, O artist, and don’t philosophize,” Imhof said gently.

Weikhardt was shamed a little. “It’s true,” he said, “we have no means
of knowing the goal of it all. But there are symptoms, typical cases
that leave little room for hope. Did you hear the story of the suicide
of the German-American Scharnitzer? He was pretty well known among
artists. He used to go to the studios himself, and buy whatever took
his fancy. He never bargained. Sometimes he would be accompanied by a
daughter of eighteen, a girl of angelic beauty. Her name was Sybil, and
he used to buy pictures for her. She was especially fond of still-life
and flower pieces. The man had been in California and made millions
in lumber. Then he returned to the fatherland to give the girl an
atmosphere of calm and culture. Sybil was his one thought, his hope,
his idol and his world. He had been married but a short time. His wife,
it is said, ran away from him. All that a life of feverish activity
had left him of deep feeling and of hope for the future was centred
in this child. He saw in her one girl in a thousand, a little saint.
And so indeed she seemed--extraordinarily dainty, proud and ethereal.
One would not have dared to touch her with one’s finger. When the two
were together, a delightful sense of harmony radiated from them. The
father, especially, seemed happy. His voluntary death caused all the
more consternation. No one suspected the motive; it was assumed that he
had suffered a moment of madness. But he left behind him a letter to
an American friend which explained everything. He had been indisposed
one day, and had had to stay in bed. Sybil had invited several girl
friends to tea, and the little company was in a room at the other end
of their suite. But all the doors between were open, even the last was
slightly ajar, so that the murmur of the girls’ voices came to him
inarticulately. A sudden curiosity seized him to know what they were
saying. He got up, slipped into a dressing gown, went softly through
the intervening rooms, and listened at the door. The conversation was
about the future of these girls--the possibilities of love, happiness,
and marriage. Each gave her ideas. Finally it was Sybil’s turn to speak
her thoughts. At first she refused; but they urged her again and again.
She said she took no interest in emotions of any sort; she didn’t yearn
for love; she wasn’t able to feel even gratitude to any one. What she
expected of marriage was simply liberation from a galling yoke. She
wanted a man who could give her all that life held--boundless luxury
and high social position--and who, moreover, would be abjectly at her
feet. That, she said, was her program, and she intended to carry it
out too. The other girls fell silent. None answered. But that hour
poisoned the father’s soul. This cynicism, uttered by the pure and
spiritual voice of the child he adored and thought a miracle of depth
and sweetness, the child on whom he had wasted all he was and had,
plunged him into an incurable melancholy, and caused him finally to end
his life.”

“My dear fellow,” cried Imhof, and waved his arm, “that man wasn’t a
lumber merchant, he was a minor poet.”

“It’s possible that he was,” Weikhardt replied, and smiled; “quite
possible. What does it alter? I admire a man who cannot survive the
destruction of all his ideals. It’s better than to be a cliff-breaker,
I assure you. Most people haven’t any ideals to be destroyed. They
adapt themselves endlessly, and become vulgar and sterile.” Again his
eyes grew sombre, and he added, half to himself: “Sometimes I dream of
one who neither rises nor falls, of one who walks on earth whole and
unchangeable, unswerving and unadaptable. Perfectly unadaptable. It is
of such an one that I dream.”

Imhof jumped up, and smoothed his coat. “Talk, talk!” he rattled,
in the disagreeable military tone that he assumed in his moments of
pseudo-virility. “Talk won’t improve things.” He passed his arm through
Weikhardt’s, and as they left the terrace, which had been gradually
filling with other guests, he recited, boldly, unashamed, and in the
same tone, the alcaic stanza of Hölderlin:

    “Still man will take up arms against all who breathe;
    Compelled by pride and dread he consumes himself in conflict, and
            destroys the lovely
      Flower of his peace that is brief of blooming.”


VII

On their first evening in Hamburg, Crammon rented a box in the
playhouse, and invited Christian, Johanna Schöntag, and Herr Livholm,
one of the directors of the Lloyd, to be his guests. He had made the
latter’s acquaintance in the hotel where he had gone to pay Eva a visit
of welcome. He had liked the man, who cut a good figure, and so he had
added him to the party in order, as he put it, to keep the atmosphere
normal by the presence of an entirely neutral person.

“Social skill,” he was accustomed to say, “is not unlike skill in
cookery and serving. Between two heavy, rich dishes there must be one
like foam that stimulates the palate quite superficially. Otherwise the
meal has no style.”

The play was a mediocre comedy, and Christian was frankly bored.
Crammon thought it his duty to show a condescending and muffled
amusement, and now and then he gave Christian a gentle poke, to
persuade him also to show some appreciation of the performance. Johanna
was the only one who was genuinely amused. The source of her amusement
was an actor to whom a serious rôle had been assigned, but who talked
with such silly affectation and false importance that every time he
appeared she had to hold her lacy handkerchief to her lips to smother
her laughter.

Occasionally Christian gave the girl a far and estranged glance. She
wasn’t either agreeable or the reverse; he did not know what to make of
her. This feeling of his had not changed since he had first seen her
during the journey in Eva’s company.

She felt the coldness of his glance. Her merriment did not vanish; but
on the lower part of her face appeared a scarcely perceptible shadow of
disappointment.

As though seeking for help, she turned to Christian. “The man is
terribly funny, don’t you think so?” It was characteristic of her to
end a question with a negative interrogation.

“He’s certainly worth seeing,” Christian agreed politely.

The door of the box opened, and Voss entered. He was faultlessly
dressed for the occasion; but no one had expected or invited him.
They looked at him in astonishment. He bowed calmly and without
embarrassment, stood quite still, and gave his attention to the stage.

Crammon looked at Christian. The latter shrugged his shoulders. After a
while Crammon arose, and with sarcastic courtesy pointed to his seat.
Voss shook his head in friendly refusal, but immediately thereafter
assumed once more his air of humility and abjectness. He stammered:
“I was in the stalls and looked up. I thought there was no harm in
paying a visit.” Suddenly Crammon went out, and was heard quarrelling
with the usher. Johanna had become serious, and looked down at the
audience. Christian, as though to ward off disagreeable things,
ducked his shoulders a little. The people in the near-by seats became
indignant at the noise Crammon was making. Herr Livholm felt that the
proper atmosphere had hardly been preserved. Amadeus Voss alone showed
himself insensitive to the situation.

He stood behind Johanna, and thought: “The hair of this woman has a
fragrance that turns one dizzy.” At the end of the act he withdrew, and
did not return.

Late at night, when he had him alone, Crammon vented his rage on
Christian. “I’ll shoot him down like a mad dog, if he tries that sort
of thing again! What does the fellow think? I’m not accustomed to such
manners. Damned gallow’s bird--where’d he grow up? Oh, my prophetic
soul! I always distrusted people with spectacles. Why don’t you tell
him to go to hell? In the course of my sinful life, I’ve come in
contact with all kinds of people; I know the best and I know the dregs;
but this fellow is a new type. Quite new, by God! I’ll have to take a
bromide, or I won’t be able to sleep.”

“I believe you are unjust, Bernard,” answered Christian, with lowered
eyes. But his face was stern, reserved, and cold.


VIII

Amadeus Voss submitted the following plan to Christian: to go to
Berlin, first as an unmatriculated student, and later to prepare
himself for the state examination in medicine.

Christian nodded approvingly, and added that he intended to go to
Berlin shortly too. Voss walked up and down in the room. Then he asked
brusquely: “What am I to live on? Am I to address envelopes? Or apply
for stipends? If you intend to withdraw your friendship and assistance,
say so frankly. I’ve learned to wade through the mud. The new kind
won’t offer more resistance than the old.”

Christian was thoroughly surprised. A week ago, in Holland, he had
given Amadeus ten thousand francs. “How much will you need?” he asked.

“Board, lodging, clothes, books....” Voss went over the items, and his
expression was that of one who formulates demands and uses the tone of
request only as a matter of courtesy. “I’ll be frugal.”

“I shall order two thousand marks a month to be sent you,” Christian
said, with an air of aversion. The impudent demand for money pained
him. Possession weighed upon him like a mountain. He could not get his
arms free nor lift his chest, and the weight grew heavier and heavier.

In a bowl of chrysolite on the table lay a scarf-pin with one large,
black pearl. Voss, whose hands always groped for some occupation, had
taken it up, and held it between his thumb and index finger against the
light. “Do you want the pin?” Christian asked. “Take it,” he persuaded
Amadeus, who was hesitating. “I really don’t care about it.”

Voss approached the mirror, and with a curious smile stuck the pin into
his cravat.

When Christian was left alone, he stood for a while quite lost in
thought. Then he sat down, and wrote to his manager at Christian’s
Rest. He wrote in his lanky script and his no less awkward style. “My
dear Herr Borkowski:--I have determined to sell Christian’s Rest,
together with all furnishings and objects of art, as well as the
park, woods, and farms. I herewith commission you to find a capable
and honest real estate dealer, who might telegraph me any favourable
offers. You know people of that sort, and need merely drive over
to Frankfort. Have the kindness to settle the matter as quietly as
possible. No advertisements are to appear in the press.”

Then he wrote a second letter to the manager of his racing stable at
Waldleiningen. To write this he had to do more violence to his heart
than the first had cost him, for he saw constantly fixed upon him
the gentle or spirited eyes of the noble animals. He wrote: “My dear
Herr Schaller:--I have determined to discontinue my racing stable.
The horses are to be sold at auction or quietly to fanciers. I should
prefer the latter method, and I suppose you share that feeling. Baron
Deidinger of Deidingshausen was at one time much interested in Columbus
and the mare Lovely. Inquire of him whether he wants them. Admirable
and Bride o’ the Wind could be offered either to Prince Pless or
Herr von Strathmann. Have my friend Denis Lay’s Excelsior sent to
Baden-Baden, and boarded temporarily in the stables of Count Treuberg.
I don’t wish him to remain at Waldleiningen alone.”

When he had sealed the letters, he sighed with relief. He rang, and
gave the letters to his valet. The latter had turned to go, when
Christian called him back. “I’m very sorry to have to give you notice,
Wilhelm,” he said. “I’m going to attend to myself hereafter.”

The man could not trust his ears. He had been with Christian for three
years, and was genuinely devoted to him.

“I’m sorry, but it’s necessary,” said Christian, looked past the man,
and had almost the same strange smile with which he had watched Amadeus
Voss at the mirror putting the black pearl pin into his cravat.


IX

Crammon asserted that Amadeus Voss was paying his attentions to Johanna
Schöntag. Johanna was annoyed, and tapped him with her long gloves. “I
congratulate you on your conquest, Rumpelstilzkin,” Crammon teased her.
“To have a monster like that in leash is no small achievement. I should
advise muzzling the monster, however. What do you think, Christian,
wouldn’t you advise a muzzle, too?”

“A muzzle?” answered Christian. “Yes, if it would keep people from
talking. So many talk too much.”

Crammon bit his lips. The reproof struck him as harsh. Somewhere
beneath the downs of life on which he lay and enjoyed himself, there
was, evidently, a stone. The stone hurt. He sought for it, but the
softness of the down calmed him again, and he forgot his pain.

“I was sitting in the breakfast room, and waiting for Madame Sorel,”
Johanna began in a voice whose every shading and inflection sought to
woo Christian’s ear, “when Herr Voss came in and marched straight up
to me. ‘What does that bad man want of me?’ I asked myself. He asked
me, as though we’d been bosom friends for years, whether I didn’t want
to go with him to St. Paul’s to hear the famous itinerant preacher
Jacobsen. I couldn’t help laughing, and he stalked away insulted. But
this afternoon, as I was leaving the hotel, he seemed suddenly to
spring from the earth, and invited me to a trip around the harbour. He
had rented a motor launch, and was looking for a companion. He had the
same gruff familiarity, and when he left he was quite as insulted as
before. And you call that paying attentions? I felt much more as though
he were going to drag me off and murder me. But perhaps that’s only his
manner.” She laughed.

“You’re the only person, at all events, whom he distinguishes by
observing at all,” Crammon said, with the same mockery.

“Or the only one whom he considers his equal,” Johanna said, with a
childlike frown.

Christian was wondering: “Why does she laugh so often? Why are her
hands so pudgy and so very pink?” Johanna felt his disapproval, and was
as though paralysed. And yet Christian felt himself drawn toward her by
some hidden power.

Why should he resist? Why be so ceremonious? Such was his thought, as
Johanna arose, and he, with unobtrusive glances, observed her graceful
form that still possessed the flexibility of immaturity. He saw the
nape of her slender neck, in which were expressed both the weakness of
her will and the fineness of her temper. He knew these signs; he had
often been guided by them and used them.

Crammon, massive and magnificent in a great easy chair, spoke with
some emphasis of Eva’s appearance on the morrow. The whole city was in
a state of expectancy. But Christian and Johanna had suddenly become
truly aware of one another.

“Are you coming along?” Christian turned carelessly, and with a sense
of boredom, to Crammon.

“Yes, my boy, let us eat!” Crammon cried. He called Hamburg the
Paradise of Saint Bernard, concerning whom, as his patron saint and
namesake, he had instituted especial investigations, and who, according
to him, had been a mighty trencherman during his lifetime at Tours.

A frightened, subtle, and very feminine smile hovered about Johanna’s
lips. As she preceded the two men, the motions of her dainty body
expressed a vague oppression of the spirit, and at the same time a
humorous rebellion against her own unfreedom.


X

Amadeus Voss knew that he had no one’s sympathy, no one’s except
Christian’s. And him he suspected, watching him, weighing and analysing
his words and actions. In his terror of hypocrisy and treachery, he
practised both himself. Nothing healed or convinced or reconciled him.
Least of all did he pardon Christian the fact that the latter’s glance
and presence had the effect of subduing him. His bitterness moaned from
his very dreams.

He read in the Scriptures: “There was a certain house-holder, which
planted a vineyard, and hedged it round about, and digged a winepress
in it, and built a tower, and let it out to husbandmen, and went into
a far country: and when the time of the fruit drew near, he sent his
servants to the husbandmen that they might receive the fruits of
it. And the husbandmen took his servants, and beat one, and killed
another, and stoned another. Again he sent other servants, more than
the first, and they did unto them likewise. But last of all, he sent
unto them his son, saying, They will reverence my son. But when the
husbandmen saw the son, they said among themselves, This is the heir;
come, let us kill him, and let us seize on his inheritance. And they
caught him, and cast him out of the vineyard, and slew him.”

Sometimes he would not leave Christian’s side for hours. He would study
his gestures and the expressions of his countenance, and all these
perceptions fed the corrosive fire in his brain. For this was the heir!
Then he would flee and bruise and stamp upon his very soul, until his
consciousness of guilt cast him down into the very dust. He would
return, and his demeanour would be a silent confession: “I can thrive
only in your presence.” It seemed to him that this silence of his was
like a cry; but it was not heard, and so his brother seemed again to
become his foe. Thus he kept passing from darkness, through fires and
fumes, back into the darkness.

He suffered from his own embarrassment and importunateness. In the
midst of luxury and plenty, into which he had been transferred by a
fabulous turn of fortune, he suffered from the memories of his former
poverty, still felt how it had bound and throttled him, and still
rebelled against what was gone. He could not freely take what was given
him, but closed his eyes, and shuddered with both desire and a pang of
conscience. He would not look upon the pattern of his web of life. He
turned its texture around, and brooded over the significance of the
intricately knotted threads. And there was no human relationship which
did not rouse his suspicion, no harmless conversation in which he did
not seek a sting directed toward himself, no face that did not feed his
hatred, no beauty whose counter part of ugliness he did not see. To
him everything turned to poison and decay, all blossoms became noxious
weeds, all velvet a Nessus shirt, all light an evil smouldering, every
stimulus a wound: on every wall he saw the flaming letters, _mene tekel
upharsim_.

He could not yield himself or conquer the stubbornness of his heart.
With the object of his desire in his very hands, his envy burned on.
Whatever had once humiliated him spurred his vengefulness through
retrospection. Chastisements which his father had inflicted distorted
the old man’s image beyond the grave; his fellow pupils in the seminary
had once strewn pepper into his coffee, and he could not forget it; he
could not forget the expression on the face of Adeline Ribbeck with
which she had given him his first month’s salary in a closed envelope;
he remembered the contempt and contumely of hundreds, who had inflicted
upon him their revenge for the oppression or degradation which they
themselves had endured. He could not conquer these things nor forgive
fate. The marks that had been burned into his flesh throbbed like new
wounds.

But at other times he would cast himself into the dust in prayer and in
great need of forgiveness. Religious scruples plagued him into remorse;
he panted for an hour’s release from consciousness, judged himself with
cruel severity, and condemned himself to ascetic practices.

And these hurled him into the other extreme of a wild,
undiscriminating, and senseless dissipation and a mad waste of money.
He could no longer resist the excitement of gambling, and fell into the
hands of sharpers, drifted into loathsome dives, where he acted the
part of a wealthy man and an aristocrat in incognito, for he desired to
test this human mask and prove its worthlessness to himself. Since his
companions took him seriously in this rôle, which filled his own mind
with shame and despair, he took his high losses with apparent calm, and
overlooked the open cheating. One evening the den in which he happened
to be was raided by the police, and he escaped by a hair’s breadth.
One creature clung to him, frightened him with possible dangers ahead,
threatened exposure, and wrung from him a considerable sum of hush
money.

He became the prey of cocottes. He bought them jewels and frocks and
instituted nightly revels. In his eyes they were outcasts that he used
as a famishing man might slake his thirst at a mud puddle with no
clean water within reach. And he was brutally frank with them. He paid
them to endure his contempt. They were surprised, resisted only his
most infamous abuses, and laughed at his unconquerable traits of the
churchly hypocrite. Once he remained alone with a girl who was young
and pretty. He had blindfolded himself. But suddenly he fled as though
the furies were at his heels.

Thrice he had set the date for his departure and as many times had
put it off. The image of Johanna had joined that of Eva in his soul,
and both raged in his brain. Both belonged to an unattainable world.
Yet Johanna seemed less alien; she might conceivably hear his plea.
Eva and her beauty were like a strident jeer at all he was. He had
heard so much and read so much of her art that he determined to await
her appearance, in order (as he told Christian) to form a judgment of
his own, and be no longer at the mercy of those who fed her on mere
adulation and brazen flattery.

The audience was in full evening dress. Amadeus sat next to Christian
in the magnificent and radiant hall, in which had gathered royal and
princely persons, the senators of the free city, the heads of the
official and financial world, and representatives of every valley and
city of Germany. Christian had bought seats near the stage. Crammon,
who was an expert in matters of artistic perspective, had preferred the
first row in the balcony. With him were Johanna and Botho von Thüngen,
to whom he had emphatically explained that the play of the dancer’s
feet and legs was interfered with by the dark line of the stage below,
while from their present position its full harmony would be visible.

Amadeus Voss had almost determined to remain rigid in mind. He hardly
resisted actively, for he did not expect anything powerful enough to
make resistance worth while. He was cold, dull, unseeing. Suddenly
there floated upon the stage a bird-like vision, a being miraculously
eased of human heaviness, one who was all rhythm, and turned the rhythm
of motion into music. She broke the chains of the soul, and made every
emotion an image, every action a myth, every step a conquest over space
and matter. But the face of Amadeus seemed to say: How can that serve
me? How does that serve you? Filled by the fury of sex, he saw only a
scabrous exhibition, and when the thunder of applause burst out, he
showed his teeth.

Eva’s last number was a little dramatic episode, a charming _jeu
d’esprit_, which she had invented and worked out, to be accompanied by
a composition of Delibes. It was very simple. She was Pierrot playing
with a top. She regulated and guided the whimsical course of the toy.
In ever new positions, turns, and rhythms, she finally drove the top
toward a hole into which it disappeared. But this trivial action was so
filled with life by the wealth and variety of her rhythmic gestures,
so radiant with spirit and swiftest grace, so fresh in inspiration,
so heightened in the perfection of its art, that the audience watched
breathlessly, and released its own tensity in a fury of applause.

In the foyer Crammon rushed up to Christian, and drew him through the
crowd along the dim passage way that led back of the stage. Amadeus
Voss, unnoticed by Crammon, followed them unthinkingly and morosely.
The sight of the wings, of cliffs and trees, of discarded drops,
electrical apparatus and pulleys and of the hurrying stage-hands,
stirred in him a dull and hostile curiosity.

An excited crowd thronged toward Eva’s dressing-room. She sat in the
silken Pierrot costume of black and white, the dainty silver whip still
in her hand, amid a forest of flowers. Before her kneeled Johanna
Schöntag with an adoring moisture in her eyes. Susan gave her mistress
a glass of cool champagne. Then in a mixture of five or six languages
she tried to make it clear to the unbidden guests that they were in
the way. But each wanted a look, a word, a smile of Eva for himself.

Next to the room in which Eva sat, and separated from it by a thin
partition with an open door, was a second dressing-room, which
contained only her costumes and a tall mirror. Accidentally pushed
in that direction, and not through any will of his own, Amadeus Voss
suddenly found himself alone in this little chamber. Having entered it,
his courage grew, and he ventured a little farther in.

He looked around and stared at the garments that lay and hung here--the
shimmering silks, the red, green, blue, white, and yellow shawls and
veils, the fragrant webs of gauze, batiste, and tulle. There were
wholly transparent textures and the heaviest brocades. One frock
glowed like pure gold, another gleamed like silver; one seemed made of
rose-leaves, another knitted of spun glass, one of white foam and one
of amethyst. And there stood dainty shoes--a long row of them, shoes
of Morocco leather and of kid and silk; and there were hose of all
colours, and laces and ribands and antique beads and brooches. The air
was drenched with a fragrance that stung his senses--a fragrance of
precious creams and unguents, of a woman’s skin and hair. His pulses
throbbed and his face turned grey. Involuntarily he stretched out his
hand, and grasped a painted Spanish shawl. Angrily, greedily, beside
himself, he crushed it in his hands, and buried his mouth and nose in
it and trembled in every limb.

At that moment Susan Rappard saw him, and pointed to him with a gesture
of astonishment. Eva saw him too, gently thrust Johanna aside, arose,
and approached the threshold. When she saw the man in his strange
and absorbed ecstasy, she felt as though she had been spattered with
filth, and uttered a soft, brief cry. Amadeus Voss twitched and dropped
the shawl. His eyes were wild and guilty. With a light laugh and an
expression of transcendent contempt, which summed up a long dislike,
Eva raised the little silver whip and struck him full in the face. His
features grew very white, in a contortion of voluptuousness and terror.

In the tense silence Christian went up to Eva, took the silver whip
from her hand, and said in a tone scarcely distinguishable from his
habitual one: “Oh, no, Eva, I shall not let you do that.” He held the
handle of the whip firmly at both ends, and bent it until the fragile
metal snapped. Then he threw the two pieces on the floor.

They gazed at each other. Disgust at Amadeus still flamed in Eva’s
face. It yielded to her astonishment at Christian’s temerity. But
Christian thought: “How beautiful she is!” And he loved her. He loved
her in her black and white Pierrot’s costume with the black velvet
buttons, he loved her with that little cap and its impudent little
tassel on her head; he loved her, and she seemed incomparable to him,
and his blood cried out after her as in those nights from which she had
driven him forth. But he also asked himself: “Why has she grown evil?”
And a strange compassion for her stole over him, and a stranger sense
of liberation. And he smiled. But to all who were watching, this smile
of his seemed a little empty.

Again Amadeus Voss read in the Scripture: “What mean ye that ye beat
my people to pieces, and grind the faces of the poor? Because the
daughters of Zion are haughty, and walk with stretched forth necks and
wanton eyes, walking and mincing as they go, and making a tinkling
with their feet: Therefore the Lord will strike with a scab the crown
of the head of the daughters of Zion, and the Lord will discover their
secret parts. In that day will the Lord take away the bravery of their
tinkling ornaments about their feet, and their cauls, and their round
tires like the moon, the chains, and the bracelets, and the mufflers,
the bonnets, and the ornaments of the legs, and the headbands, and the
tablets, and the earrings, the rings, and nose jewels, the changeable
suits of apparel, and the mantles, and the wimples, and the crisping
pins, the glasses, and the fine linen, and the hoods and the veils.
And it shall come to pass, that instead of sweet smell there shall be
stink; and instead of a girdle a rent; and instead of well set hair
baldness; and instead of a stomacher a girding of sack-cloth; and
burning instead of beauty. Thy men shall fall by the sword, and thy
mighty in the war. And her gates shall lament and mourn; and she being
desolate shall sit upon the ground.”

On the same evening he left for Berlin.


XI

Lorm and Judith had a magnificent apartment near the Tiergarten in
Berlin.

Edgar Lorm flourished. Order and regularity ruled his life. With
childlike boastfulness he spoke of his home. His manager and friend,
Dr. Emanuel Herbst, congratulated him on his visible rejuvenation.

He introduced to Judith the people whom he had long valued; but she
judged most of them sharply and without sympathy. Her characteristic
arrogance drove away many who meant well. But under the sway of his new
comforts Lorm submitted to her opinions.

But he would not give up Emanuel Herbst. When Judith mocked at his
waddling gait, his homeliness, his piping voice, his tactless jokes,
Lorm grew serious. “I’ve known him for over twenty years. The things
that annoy you endear him to me quite as much as those precious
qualities in him which I know well, and which you’ve had no chance to
discover.”

“No doubt he’s a monster of virtue,” Judith replied, “but he bores me
to extinction.”

Lorm said: “One should get used to the idea that other people don’t
exist exclusively for our pleasure. Your point of view is too narrowly
that of use and luxury. There are human qualities that I value more
highly than a handsome face or polished manners. One of these is
trustworthiness. People with whom one has professional dealings often
refuse to honour the demands of common decency--especially in regard
to the keeping of their given word--with a calm frivolity that makes
one’s gorge rise. So I’m intensely grateful to Herbst, since it means
so infinitely much to me, for this--that our relations have never been
shadowed by distrust, and that our simplest verbal agreements are as
firm and as valid as a written contract.”

Judith recognized that in this case she would have to change her
tactics. She was amiable, as though she were convinced of his virtues,
and sought to gain his favour. Dr. Herbst saw through her, but showed
no consciousness of his insight. He treated her with an elaborate
courtesy that seemed a trifle old-fashioned, and effectually concealed
his reservations.

Sometimes in the evening she would sit with the two men, and join
in their shop talk of playwrights and plays, actors and actresses,
successes and failures. And while she seemed attentive, and even asked
an occasional question, she thought of her dressmaker, of her cook, of
her weekly account, or of her old life, that was so different and had
perished so utterly. And her eyes would grow hard.

It would happen that she would pass through the rooms with a bitter
expression on her face and a hostile glance for the things about her.
She hated the many mirrors which Lorm required, the rugs that had been
recently bought, the pretentious furniture and paintings, the countless
bibelots, photographs, ornaments, books, and piously guarded souvenirs.

She had never before lived in a house where other tenants above and
below reminded her of their repulsive and unfamiliar lives. She
listened to the slightest noises, and felt that she had fallen into a
slum.

It was hardly in harmony with her nature to wait each morning until her
husband happened to rise, to see that the breakfast was complete, to
stand aside while the barber, the masseur, the chauffeur, the messenger
of the theatre, and the secretary had completed their tasks or received
their instructions; to wait again until he returned from rehearsal,
tired, annoyed, and hungry, and then to watch him at luncheon--a meal
that he required to be both rich and exquisite--gobble his food; to
guard him from noise and interruption when he memorized his lines; to
answer strange voices on the telephone, to give information, refuse
invitations, to send the troublesome away and to soothe the impatient.
She was wholly out of her natural element, but she forced herself to
endure even as she had endured bodily pain when the long needle had
been thrust through her arm.

Emanuel Herbst, who was a keen observer and a learned student of human
nature, quietly analysed the relations of this husband and this wife.
He said to himself: “Lorm is not fulfilling her expectations; so much
is clear. She fancied she could peel him the way one peels an onion,
and that the removal of each layer would reveal something so new and
surprising as to make up to her for all she has renounced. She will
soon discover her miscalculation, for Lorm is always the same. He can’t
be stripped. He wears his costumes and puts on make-up. She will soon
reproach him for this very ability to fill empty forms with a beautiful
content, and to remain, in his own person, but a humble servitor of his
art. And the more guilty he becomes in her eyes, the more power over
him will she gain. For he is tired--tired to death of the affected,
the flatterers and sentimentalists, of the sweets and easements of his
daily life. Terribly spoiled as he is, he yearns unconsciously for
chains and a keeper.”

The result of his reflection filled Emanuel Herbst with anxious
apprehension.

But Judith remembered her dream--how she had lain beside a fish because
it pleased her, and then beaten it in sudden rage over its cool, moist,
slippery, opalescent scales. And she lay beside the fish and struck it,
and the fish became more and more subservient and her own.

Her constant terror was this thought: “I am poor, impoverished,
dependent, without security.” The thought tormented her to such a
degree that she once expressed it to the housekeeper. The latter was
astonished and replied: “But in addition to your pin money, the master
gives you two thousand marks a month for the house. Why should you
yield to morbid fancies?”

Judith looked at the woman suspiciously. She distrusted all whom she
paid. The moment they mentioned money she fancied herself robbed.

One day the cook gave notice. She was the fourth since the
establishment of the household. A quantity of sugar was missing. There
was a quarrel, an ugly one, and Judith was told things that no one had
ever dared to tell her before.

The secretary mislaid a key. When at last it was found Judith rushed to
the drawer which it fitted to see whether the stationery, the pencils,
and the pen-points were intact.

The housekeeper had bought twenty yards of linen. Judith thought the
price paid too high. She drove to the shop herself. The taxi-fare
amounted to more than she could possibly have saved on the purchase.
Then she chaffered with the clerk for a reduction, until it was granted
her through sheer weariness. She told Lorm the story with a triumphant
air. He neglected to praise her. She jumped up from the table, locked
herself in her room, and went to bed. Whenever she thought that she had
some reason for anger, she went to bed.

Lorm came to her door, knocked softly, and asked her to open it. She
let him stand long enough to regret his conduct, and then opened the
door. She told her story all over, and he listened with a charming
curiosity on his face. “You’re a jewel,” he said, and stroked her cheek
and hand.

But it would also happen, if she really wanted something, that
she would spend sums out of all proportion to her wretched little
economies. She would see a hat, a frock, an ornament in a show window,
and not be able to tear herself away. Then she would go into the shop,
and pay the price asked at once.

One day she visited an auction sale, and happened to come in just as
an old Viennese bon-bon dish was offered for sale. It was one of those
objects that make little show, but which delight the collector’s heart.
At first the dish didn’t tempt her at all. Then the high bidding for it
excited her, and she herself began to bid for it. It kindled something
in her, and she made bid after bid, and drove all competitors from the
field.

Hot and excited, she came home and rushed into Lorm’s study. Emanuel
Herbst was with him. The two men sat by the fire in familiar talk.
Judith disregarded Herbst. She stood before her husband, unwrapped the
dish, and said: “Look at this exquisite thing I bought, Edgar.”

It was toward evening, but no lights had been lit. Lorm loved the
twilight and the flicker of the fire in his chimney, which was, alas,
only a metropolitan imitation of a log fire. In the rich, red, wavering
reflection of the glow, Judith looked charming in her delight and
mobility.

Lorm took the dish, regarded it with polite interest, drew up his
lips a little, and said: “It’s pretty.” Herbst’s face puckered into
innumerable ironical little wrinkles.

Judith grew angry. “Pretty? Don’t you see that it’s magical, a
perfect little dream, the sweetest and rarest thing imaginable? The
connoisseurs were wild after it! Do you know what it cost? Eighteen
hundred marks. And I had six or seven rabid competitors bidding against
me. Pretty!” She gave a hard little laugh. “Give it to me. You handle
it too clumsily.”

“Calm yourself, sweetheart,” said Lorm gently. “I suppose its virtues
are subtle.”

But Judith was hurt, more by Herbst’s silent mockery than by Lorm’s
lack of appreciation. She threw back her head, rustled through the
room, and slammed the door behind her. When she was angry, her own
manners had, at times, a touch of commonness.

For a while the two men were silent. Then Lorm, embarrassed and with
a deprecating smile, said: “A little dream ... for eighteen hundred
marks.... Oh, well! There’s something childlike about her.”

Emanuel Herbst rubbed his tongue up and down between his teeth and his
upper lip. It made him look like an ancient baby. Then he ventured:
“You ought to make it clear to her that eighteen hundred marks are one
thousand eight hundred times one mark.”

“She won’t get that far,” answered Lorm. “Somebody who has always lived
on the open sea, and is suddenly transported to a little inland lake,
finds it hard to get the new measurements and perspectives. But women
are queer creatures.” He sighed and smiled. “Have a nip of whiskey, old
man?”

Sorrowfully Herbst rocked his Cæsarean head. “Why queer? They are
as they are, and one must treat them accordingly. Only one mustn’t
be under any mistaken impression as to what one has. For instance:
A horseshoe is not birch wood. It looks like a bow, but you can’t
bend it--not with all your might. If you string it, the string droops
slackly and will never propel your arrow. All right, let’s have your
whiskey.”

“But occasionally,” Lorm replied cheerfully, and filled the tiny
glasses, “you can turn a horseshoe into the finest Damascene steel.”

“Bravo! A good retort! You’re as ready as Cardinal Richelieu. Your
health!”

“If you’ll let me be Richelieu, I’ll appoint you to be my Father
Joseph. A great rôle, by the way. Your health, old man!”


XII

Crammon and Johanna Schöntag planned to drive to Stellingen to see
Hagenbeck’s famous zoological gardens, and Crammon begged Christian to
lend them his car. They were just about to start when Christian issued
from the hotel. “Why don’t you come along?” Crammon asked. “Have you
anything better to do? The three of us can have a very amusing time.”

Christian was about to refuse, when he caught Johanna’s urgent and
beseeching look. She had the art of putting her wishes into her eyes
in such a way that one was drawn by them and lost the power to resist.
So he said: “Very well, I’ll come along,” and took the seat next to
Johanna’s. But he was silent on the whole drive.

It was a sunny day of October.

They wandered through the park, and Johanna made droll comments on the
animals. She stopped in front of a seal, and exclaimed: “He looks quite
like Herr Livholm, don’t you think so?” She talked to a bear as though
he were a simple sort of man, and fed him bits of sugar. She said that
the camels were incredible, and only pretended to look that way to
live up to the descriptions in the books of natural history. “They’re
almost as ugly as I am,” she added; and then, with a crooked smile:
“Only more useful. At least I was told at school that their stomachs
are reservoirs of water. Isn’t the world a queer place?”

Christian wondered why she spoke so contemptuously of herself. She bent
over a stone balustrade, and the sight of her neck somehow touched him.
She seemed to him a vessel of poor and hurt things.

Crammon discoursed. “It is very curious about animals. Scientists
declare they have a great deal of instinct. But what is instinct? I’ve
usually found them to be of an unlimited stupidity. On the estate
where I passed my childhood, we had a horse, a fat, timid, gentle
horse. It had but one vice: it was very ticklish. I and my playmates
were strictly enjoined from tickling it. Naturally we were constantly
tempted to tickle it. There were five of us little fellows--no higher
than table legs. Each procured a little felt hat with a cock’s feather
in it. And as the horse stood dull-eyed in front of the stable, we
marched in single file under the belly of the stupid beast, tickling
it with our feathers as we passed. The feathers tickled so frightfully
that he kicked with all fours like a mule. It’s a riddle to me to this
day how one of us, at least, failed to be killed. But it was amusing
and grotesque, and there was no sign of instinct anywhere.”

They went to the monkey house. A crowd stood about a little platform,
on which a dainty little monkey was showing off its tricks under the
guidance of a trainer. “I have a horror of monkeys,” said Crammon.
“They annoy me through memory. Science bids me feel a relationship with
them; but after all one has one’s pride. No, I don’t acknowledge this
devilish atavism.” He turned around, and left the building in order to
wait outside.

Alone with Christian, a wave of courage conquered Johanna’s timidity.
She took Christian’s arm and drew him nearer to the platform. She was
utterly charmed, and her delight was childlike. “How dear, how sweet,
how humble!” she cried. A spiritual warmth came from her to Christian.
He yielded himself to it, for he needed it. Her boyish voice, however,
stirred his senses and aroused his fear. She stood very close by him;
he felt her quiver, the response to the hidden erotic power that was in
him, and the other voices of his soul were silenced.

He took her hand into his. She did not struggle, but a painful tension
showed in her face.

Suddenly the little monkey stopped in its droll performance and
turned its lightless little eyes in terror toward the spectators.
Some shy perception had frightened it; it seemed, somehow, to think
and to recollect itself. As it became aware of the many faces, the
indistinctness of its vision seemed to take on outline and form.
Perhaps for a second it had a sight of the world and of men, and that
sight was to it a source of boundless horror. It trembled as in a
fever; it uttered a piercing cry of lamentation; it fled, and when the
trainer tried to grasp it, it leaped from the platform and frantically
sought a hiding-place. Tears glittered in its eyes and its teeth
chattered, and in spite of the animal characteristics of these gestures
and expressions, there was in them something so human and soulful that
only a few very coarse people ventured to laugh.

To Christian there came from the little beast a breath from an alien
region of earth and forests and loneliness. His heart seemed to expand
and then to contract. “Let us go,” he said, and his own voice sounded
unpleasantly in his ears.

Johanna listened to his words. She was all willingness to listen, all
tension and all sweet humility.


XIII

Randolph von Stettner had arrived. There were still several days before
the date of his sailing, and he was on his way to Lübeck, where he
wished to say good-bye to a married sister. Christian hesitated to
promise to be in Hamburg on his friend’s return. Only after much urging
did he consent to stay.

They dined in Christian’s room, discussed conditions in their native
province, and exchanged reminiscences. Christian, laconic as usual, was
silently amazed at the distance of all these things from his present
self.

When the waiter had removed the dishes, Stettner gave an account of all
that had driven him to the determination to expatriate himself. While
he talked he stared with an unchanging look and expression at the table
cover.

“You know that for some years I’ve not been comfortable in my uniform.
I saw no aim ahead except the slow and distant moments of advancement.
Some of my comrades hoped for war. Well, the life makes that hope
natural. In war one can prove one’s self in the only way that has
any meaning to a professional soldier in any army. But personally I
couldn’t share that hope. Others marry money, still others go in for
sports and gambling. None of these things attracted me. The service
itself left me utterly dissatisfied. I seemed to myself in reality an
idler who lives pretentiously on others.

“Imagine this: you stand in the barracks yard; it’s raining, the water
makes the sand gleam; the few wretched trees drip and drip; the men
await some command with the watchfulness of well-trained dogs; the
water pours from their packs, the sergeant roars, the corporals grit
their teeth in zeal and rage; but you? With a monotony like that of
the drops that trickle from your cap, you think: ‘What will to-night
be like? And to-morrow morning? And to-morrow night?’ And the whole
year lies ahead of you like a soaked and muddy road. You think of your
desolate room with its three dozen books, the meaningless pictures,
and the carpet worn thin by many feet; you think of the report you’ve
got to hand in, and the canteen accounts you’ve got to audit, and the
stable inspection, and the next regimental ball, where the arrogant
wives of your superior officers will bore you to the point of illness
with their shallow talk; you think your way through the whole circle
of your life, and find nothing but what is trivial and cheerless as a
rainy day. Is that endurable?

“One day I put the question to myself: What was I really accomplishing,
and what was the nature of my reward? The answer was that, from a human
and intellectual point of view, my accomplishment was an absolute zero.
My reward consisted of a number of privileges, the sum of which raised
me very high in the social scale, but gave me this position only at the
cost of surrendering my personality wholly. I had to obey my superiors
and to command my inferiors. That was all. The power to command
was conditioned in the duty to obey. And each man in the service,
whatever his station, is bound in the identical way, and is simply a
connective apparatus in a great electrical circuit. Only the humblest,
the great mass of privates, were confined to obedience. The ultimate
responsibility at the very top was lost in the vague. In spite of its
ultimate primitiveness, the structure of every military organization
has a mystery at its core. But between the arbitrary will of a very few
and the touching and incomprehensible humility of the great mass, the
parts function according to iron laws. Whoever refuses to function, or
rebels, is crushed.

“There are those who assert that this compulsion has a moral effect and
subserves a higher conception of freedom. I was myself of that opinion
for a long time; but I did not find it permanently tenable. I felt
myself weakening, and a rebellion seething in my blood. I pulled myself
together, and fought against criticism and doubt. In vain. Something
had gone out of me. I lost the readiness to obey and the security to
command. It was torment. Above me I saw implacable idols, below me
defenceless victims. I myself was both idol and victim, implacable and
defenceless at once. It seemed to me that humanity ceased where the
circle of my activity began. My life seemed to me no longer a part of
the general life of mankind, but a fossilized petrefaction conditioned
in certain formulæ of command and obedience.

“This condition could, of course, not remain hidden. My comrades
withdrew their confidence from me. I was observed and distrusted.
Before I had time to clarify either my mind or my affairs, an incident
occurred which forced me to a decision. A fellow officer in my
regiment, Captain von Otto, was engaged to the daughter of an eminent
judge. The wedding, although the date had been set, could not take
place. Otto had a slight attack of pulmonary trouble and had to go
South for cure. About four weeks after his departure, there was a
celebration in honour of the emperor’s birthday, and among the ladies
invited was the captain’s betrothed. Everybody was rather gay and giddy
that evening, especially a dear friend of mine, Georg Mattershausen,
a sincere, kindly chap who had just received a promotion in rank. The
captain’s betrothed, who had been his neighbour at table, was infected
by his merriment, and on the way home he begged her for a kiss. She
refused, and he was going to steal one. She now grew very serious; he
at once came to his senses, apologized with the utmost sincerity, and,
at the very door of her paternal house, received her solemn promise
to mention the incident to no one. When, however, seventeen weeks
later, Captain von Otto returned, the girl was seized by some queer
scruple, and thought it her duty to tell him of the incident between
herself and Mattershausen. The result was a challenge. The conditions
were extraordinarily severe: ten paces distance, drawn revolvers,
half a minute to aim, exchange of shots to the disablement of either
combatant. I was Mattershausen’s second. Otto, who had held himself to
be affronted and had sent the challenge, had the first shot. He aimed
carefully at the head of his adversary. I saw that. But the bullet
whistled past my friend’s ear. Mattershausen aimed, but his revolver
did not go off. This was counted a shot. New pistols were brought. Otto
aimed as carefully as before and this time shot Mattershausen straight
through the heart. Death was immediate.

“I wonder whether you, too, think that that was a harsh punishment for
a moment of youthful thoughtlessness and impropriety. To me it seemed
terribly harsh. I felt profoundly that a crime had been committed
against my friend. Our fossilized caste had perpetrated a murder. Two
days later, in the officers’ mess, I expressed this opinion quite
frankly. There was general astonishment. One or two sharp replies were
made. Some one asked me what I would have done in such a situation.
I answered that I would certainly not have sent a challenge, that I
could never approve a notion of honour so morbid and self-centred
as to demand a human life for a trifle. Even if the young girl’s
over-tender conscience had persuaded her to break her promise, I would
have caused no further trouble, and let the little incident glide
into forgetfulness. At that there was general indignation--a great
shaking of heads, angry or troubled faces, an exchange of significant
glances. But I kept on. Mattershausen’s wretched end had hit me
damned hard, and I relieved my whole mind. So I added that, if I had
been in Mattershausen’s place, I would have refused the challenge,
quite regardless of consequences. That statement fell among them like
a bomb, and a painful silence followed. ‘I imagine you would have
reconsidered,’ said the ranking major, ‘I don’t think you would have
disregarded all the consequences.’ ‘All,’ I insisted, ‘certainly,
all!’ At that moment Captain von Otto, who had been sitting at another
table, arose, and asked frostily: ‘You would have risked the odium of
cowardice?’ I too arose, and answered: ‘Under such circumstances I
would have risked that too.’ Captain von Otto smiled a contorted smile,
and said with an emphasis that could not be misinterpreted: ‘Then I
don’t understand your sitting at the same table with officers of His
Majesty.’ He bowed stiffly, and went out.

“The die had been cast. No one was curious as to what I would do; no
one doubted but that there was only one thing left for me to do. But
I was determined to push the matter to its logical conclusion. That
super-idol, known as the code of honour, had issued its decree; but
I was determined to refuse obedience and take the consequences upon
myself. That very evening, when I came home, two comrades were awaiting
me to offer me their services. I refused courteously. They looked at me
as though I had gone mad, and went off in absurd haste.

“The inevitable consequences followed. You can understand that I could
no longer breathe in that air. You cannot outrage the fetishes of your
social group and go unpunished. I had to avoid insult, and learned what
it was to be an outcast. And that is bad. The imagination alone cannot
quite grasp the full horror of it. I saw clearly that there was no
place left for me in my fatherland. The way out was obvious.”

Christian had listened to his friend’s story with unmoved countenance.
He got up, took a few turns through the room, and returned to his seat.
Then he said: “I think you did the right thing. I am sorry you must
leave us, but you did right.”

Stettner looked up. How strange that sounded: You did right. A question
hovered on his lips. But it was not uttered. For Christian feared that
question, and silenced it by a sudden conventionality of demeanour.


XIV

Christian, the brothers Maelbeek, who had followed Eva from Holland,
Botho von Thüngen, a Russian councillor of state named Koch, and
Crammon sat at luncheon in the dining hall of the hotel.

They were talking about a woman of the streets who had been murdered.
The police had already caught the murderer. He was a man who had once
belonged to good society, but had gradually gone to the dogs. He had
throttled the woman and robbed her in a sailor’s tavern.

Now all the prostitutes in the city had unanimously determined to show
their sister, who had sacrificed her life to her calling, a last and
very public mark of respect, and to follow her coffin to the grave. The
respectable citizens of Hamburg felt this to be a sort of challenge and
protested. But there was no legal provision by which the demonstration
could be stopped.

“We ought to see the spectacle,” said Crammon, “even if we have to
sacrifice our siesta.”

“Then there’s no time to be lost,” the elder Maelbeek declared, and
looked at his watch. “The friends will assemble at the house of
mourning at three sharp.” He smiled, and thought this way of putting
the matter rather witty.

Christian said that he would go too. The motor took them to a crossing
that had been closed by the police. Here they left the car, and Herr
von Thüngen persuaded the police captain to let them pass.

They were at once surrounded by a great throng of humble folk--sailors,
fishermen, workingmen, women, and children. The windows of the
houses were thronged with heads. The Maelbeeks and Koch stopped here,
and called Thüngen to join them. Christian walked farther. Somehow
the behaviour of his companions irritated him. He felt the kind of
curiosity which filled them as something disagreeable. He was curious
too, but in another way. Or, at least, it seemed different to him.

Crammon remained by his side. But the throng grew rowdy. “Where are you
going?” Crammon asked peevishly. “There is no use in going farther. Let
us wait here.”

Christian shook his head.

“Very well. I take my stand here,” Crammon decided, and separated from
Christian.

The latter made his way up to the dirty, old house at the door of which
the hearse was standing. It was a foggy day. The black wagon was like
a dark hole punched into the grey. Christian wanted to go a little
farther, but some young fellows purposely blocked his way. They turned
their heads, looked him over, and suspected him of being a “toff.”
Their own garb was cheap and flashy; their faces and gestures made it
clear what trade they drove. One of them was a young giant. He was half
a head taller than Christian, and his brows joined over the bridge of
his nose. On the index finger of his left hand he wore a huge carnelian
ring.

Christian looked about him quite unintimidated. He saw hundreds of
women, literally hundreds, ranging in age from sixteen to fifty, and in
condition from bloom to utter decay, and from luxury to rags and filth.

They had all gathered--those who had passed the zenith of their
troubled course, and those who had barely emerged from childhood,
frivolous, sanguine, vain, and already tainted with the mire of the
great city. They had come from all streets; they were recruited from
all nations and all classes; some had escaped from a sheltered youth,
others had risen from even direr depths; there were those who felt
themselves pariahs and had the outcast’s hatred in their eyes, and
there were others who showed a certain pride in their calling and
held themselves aloof. He saw cynical and careworn faces, lovely and
hardened ones, indifferent and troubled, greedy and gentle faces. Some
were painted and some pallid; and the latter seemed strangely naked.

He was familiar with them from the streets and houses of many cities,
as every man is. He knew the type, the unfailing stamp, the acquired
gesture and look--this hard, rigid, dull, clinging, lightless look.
But he had never before seen them except when they were exercising
their function behind the gates of their calling, dissembling their
real selves and under the curse of sex. To see many hundreds of them
separated from all that, to see them as human beings stripped of the
stimulus and breath of a turbid sexuality--that was what seemed to
sweep a cloud from his eyes.

Suddenly he thought: “I must order my hunting lodge to be sold, and the
hounds too.”

The coffin was being carried from the house. It was covered with
flowers and wreaths; and from the wreaths fluttered ribands with gilt
inscriptions. Christian tried to read the inscriptions, but it was
impossible. The coffin had small, silver-plated feet that looked like
the paws of a cat. By some accident one of these had been broken off,
and that touched Christian, he hardly knew why, as unbearably pitiful.
An old woman followed the coffin. She seemed more vexed and angry than
grief-stricken. She wore a black dress, but the seam under one arm was
ripped open. And that too seemed unbearably pitiful.

The hearse started off. Six men carrying lighted candles walked in
front of it. The murmur of voices became silent. The women, walking by
fours, followed the hearse. Christian stood still close pressed against
a wall, and let the procession pass him by. In a quarter of an hour the
street was quite desolate. The windows of the houses were closed. He
remained alone in the street, in the fog.

As he walked away he reflected: “I’ve asked my father to take care of
my collection of rings. There are over four thousand of them, and many
are beautiful and costly. They could be sold too. I don’t need them. I
shall have them sold.”

He wandered on and on, and lost all sense of the passing of time.
Evening came, and the city lights glowed through the fog. Everything
became moist, even to the gloves on his hands.

He thought of the missing foot on the coffin of the murdered harlot,
and of the torn seam of the old woman’s dress.

He passed over one of the great bridges of the Elbe, and then walked
along the river bank. It was a desolate region. He stopped near the
light of a street lamp, gazed into the water, drew forth his wallet,
took out a bank note of a hundred marks, turned it about in his hands,
shook his head, and then, with a gesture of disgust, threw it into the
water. He took a second and did the same. There were twenty bank notes
in his wallet. He took them out one by one, and with that expression
half of disgust, half of dreaminess, he let them glide into the river.

The street lamps illuminated the inky water for a short distance, and
he saw the bank notes drift away.

And he smiled and went on.


XV

When he reached the hotel he felt an urgent need of warmth. By turns
he entered the library, the reception hall, the dining-room. All these
places were well heated, but their warmth did not suffice him. He
attributed his chill to walking so long in the damp.

He took the lift and rode up to his own rooms. He changed his clothes,
wrapped himself warmly, and sat down beside the radiator, in which the
steam hissed like a caged animal.

Yet he did not grow warm. At last he knew that his shivering was not
due to the moisture and the fog, but to some inner cause.

Toward eleven o’clock he arose and went out into the corridor. The
stuccoed walls were divided into great squares by gilt moulding; the
floor was covered by pieces of carpet that had been joined together to
appear continuous. Christian felt a revulsion against all this false
splendour. He approached the wall, touched the stucco, and shrugged his
shoulders in contempt.

At the end of the long corridor was Eva’s suite. He had passed the door
several times. As he passed it again he heard the sound of a piano.
Only a few keys were being gently touched. After a moment’s reflection
he knocked, opened the door, and entered.

Susan Rappard was alone in the room. Wrapped in a fur coat, she sat at
the piano. On the music rack was propped a book that she was reading.
Her fingers passed with ghostly swiftness over the keys, but she struck
one only quite rarely. She turned her head and asked rudely: “What do
you want, Monsieur?”

Christian answered: “If it’s possible, I should like to speak to
Madame. I want to ask her a question.”

“Now? At night?” Susan was amazed. “We’re tired. We’re always tired at
night in this hyperborean climate, where the sun is a legend. The fog
weighs on us. Thank God, in four days we have our last performance.
Then we’ll go where the sky is blue. We’re longing for Paris.”

“I should be very happy if I could see Madame,” Christian said.

Susan shook her head. “You have a strange kind of patience,” she said
maliciously. “I hadn’t suspected you of being so romantic. You’re
pursuing a very foolish policy, I assure you. Go in, if you want to,
however. Ce petit laideron est chez elle, demoiselle Schöntag. She
acts the part of a court fool. Everything in the world is amusing to
her--herself not least. Well, that is coming to an end too.”

Voices and clear laughter could be heard. The door of Eva’s rooms
opened, and she and Johanna appeared on the threshold. Eva wore a
simple white garment, unadorned but for one great chrysoprase that
held it on the left shoulder. Her skin had an amber gleam, the quiver
of her nostrils betrayed a secret irritation. The beautiful woman and
the plain one stood there side by side, each with an acute feminine
consciousness of her precise qualities: the one vital, alluring,
pulsing with distinction and freedom; the other all adoration and
yearning ambition for that vitality and that freedom.

Tenderly and delicately Johanna had put her arm about Eva and touched
her friend’s bare shoulder with her cheek. With her bizarre smile she
said: “No one knows how it came that Rumpelstilzkin is my name.”

They had not yet observed Christian. A gesture of Susan’s called their
attention to him. He stood in the shadow of the door. Johanna turned
pale, and her shy glance passed from Eva to Christian. She released
Eva, bowed swiftly to kiss Eva’s hand, and with a whispered good-night
slipped past Christian.

Although Christian’s eyes were cast down, they grasped the vision
of Eva wholly. He saw the feet that he had once held naked in his
hands; under her diaphanous garment he saw the exquisite firmness
of her little breasts; he saw the arms that had once embraced him
and the perfect hands that had once caressed him. All his bodily
being was still vibrantly conscious of the smoothness and delicacy
of their touch. And he saw her before him, quite near and hopelessly
unattainable, and felt a last lure and an ultimate renunciation.

“Monsieur has a request,” said Susan Rappard mockingly, and preparing
to leave them.

“Stay!” Eva commanded, and the look she gave Christian was like that
she gave a lackey.

“I wanted to ask you,” Christian said softly, “what is the meaning of
the name Eidolon by which you used to call me. My question is belated,
I know, and it may seem foolish to-day.” He smiled an embarrassed
smile. “But it torments me not to know when I think about it, and I
determined to ask you.”

Susan gave a soundless laugh. In its belated and unmotivated urgency,
the question did, indeed, sound a little foolish. Eva seemed amused
too, but she concealed the fact. She looked at her hands and said:
“It is hard to tell you what it means--something that one sacrifices,
or a god to whom one sacrifices, a lovely and serene spirit. It means
either or perhaps both at once. Why remind ourselves of it? There is no
Eidolon any more. Eidolon was shattered, and one should not exhibit the
shards to me. Shards are ugly things.”

She shivered a little, and her eyes shone. She turned to Susan. “Let me
sleep to-morrow till I wake. I have such evil dreams nowadays, and find
no rest till toward morning.”


XVI

Passing back through the corridor Christian saw a figure standing very
still in the semi-darkness. He recognized Johanna, and he felt that
this thing was fated--that she should be standing here and waiting for
him.

She did not look at him; she looked at the floor. Not until he came
quite close to her did she raise her eyes, and then she looked timidly
away. Her lips quivered. A question hovered on them. She knew all that
had passed between Eva and Christian. That they had once been lovers
only increased her enthusiastic admiration for them both. But what
happened between them now--her brief presence made her sure of its
character--seemed to her both shameful and incomprehensible.

She was imaginative and sensitive, and loved those who were nobly
proud; and she suffered when such noble pride and dignity were humbled.
Her whole heart was given over to her ideal of spiritual distinction.
Sometimes she would misunderstand her own ideal, and take external
forms and modes as expressions of it. And this division in her soul,
to which she was not equal, sometimes delivered her into the power
of mere frivolity. “It is late,” she whispered timidly. It was not a
statement; it was an attempt to save herself. Each time that Christian
had been mentioned, three things had struck her mind: his elegance, his
fine pride, his power over all hearts. That was the combination that
called to her and stirred her and filled her days with longing.

Thus she had followed Crammon in search of the great adventure,
although she had said of him but an hour after she had met him: “He is
grandiosely and grotesquely comic.” She had followed him like a slave
to a market of slaves, hoping to catch the eye of the khalif.

But she had no faith in her own power. Voluntarily and intentionally
she crumbled the passions of her being into small desires. She suffered
from that very process and jeered at herself. She was too timid to
take greatly what she wanted. She nibbled at life and had not the
adventurousness of great enjoyments. And she mocked at her own unhappy
nature, and suffered the more.

And now he stood before her. It frightened and surprised her, even
though she had waited for him. Since he stayed, she wanted to think
him bold and brave. But she could not, and at once she shrank into
self-contempt. “It is late,” she whispered again, nodded a good-night,
and opened the door of her room.

But Christian begged silently with an expression that was irresistible.
He crossed the threshold behind the trembling girl. Her face grew hard.
But she was too fine to play a coquettish game. Before her blood was
stirred her eyes had yielded. The pallor of her face lit it with a new
charm. There was no hint of plainness any more. The stormy expectation
of her heart harmonized the lines of her features and melted them into
softness, gentleness, and delicacy.

Of her power over the senses of men she was secure. She had tested
her magnetism on those whom one granted little and who gave less.
Flirtations had been used as anodynes in her social group. One had
played with false counters, and by a silent compact avoided serious
moments. But her experience failed her to-night, for here there was not
lightness but austerity. She yielded herself to this night, oblivious
of the future and its responsibilities.


XVII

Stephen Gunderam had to go to Montevideo. In that city there was
a German physician who had considerable skill in the treatment of
nervous disorders; and the bull-necked giant suffered from insomnia and
nocturnal hallucinations. Furthermore, there was to be a yacht race at
Montevideo, on the results of which Stephen had bet heavily.

He appointed Demetrios and Esmeralda as Letitia’s guardians. He said to
them: “If anything happens to my wife or she does anything unseemly,
I’ll break every bone in your bodies.” Demetrios grinned. Esmeralda
demanded that he bring her a box of sweets on his return.

Their leave-taking was touching. Stephen bit Letitia’s ear, and said:
“Be true to me.”

Letitia immediately began to play upon the mood of her guardians. She
gave Demetrios a hundred pesos and Esmeralda a gold bracelet. She
corresponded secretly with the naval lieutenant, Friedrich Pestel. An
Indian lad, of whose secrecy and reliability she was sure, served as
messenger. Within a week Pestel’s ship was to proceed to Cape Town, so
there was little time to be lost. He did not think he would be able to
return to the Argentine until the following winter. And Letitia loved
him dearly.

Two miles from the estate there was an observatory in the lonely
pampas. A wealthy German cattle-man had built it, and now a German
professor with his two assistants lived there and watched the
firmament. Letitia had often asked to see the observatory, but Stephen
had always refused to let her visit it. Now she intended to make it
the scene of her meeting with Friedrich Pestel. She yearned for a long
talk with him.

To use an observatory as a refuge for forlorn lovers--it was a notion
that delighted Letitia and made her ready to run any risk. The day and
the hour were set, and all circumstances were favourable. Riccardo and
Paolo had gone hunting; Demetrios had been sent by his father to a
farm far to the north; the old people slept. Esmeralda alone had to be
deceived. Fortunately the girl had a headache, and Letitia persuaded
her to go to bed. When twilight approached, Letitia put on a bright,
airy frock in which she could ride. She did not hesitate in spite
of her pregnancy. Then, as though taking a harmless walk, she left
the house and proceeded to the avenue of palms, where the Indian boy
awaited her with two ponies.

It was beautiful to ride out freely into the endless plain. In the west
there still shone a reddish glow, into which projected in lacy outline
the chain of mountains. The earth suffered from drought; it had not
rained for long, and crooked fissures split the ground. Hundreds of
grasshopper traps were set up in the fields, and the pits behind them,
which were from two to three metres deep, were filled with the insects.

When she reached the observatory, it was dark. The building was like
an oriental house of prayer. From a low structure of brick arose the
mighty iron dome, the upper part of which rotated on a movable axis.
The shutters of the windows were closed, and there was no light to be
seen. Friedrich Pestel waited at the gate; he had tethered his horse
to a post. He told her that the professor and his two assistants had
been absent for a week. She and he, he added, could enter the building
nevertheless. The caretaker, an old, fever-stricken mulatto, had given
him the key.

The Indian boy lit the lantern that he had carried tied to his saddle.
Pestel took it, and preceded Letitia through a desolate brick hallway,
then up a wooden and finally up a spiral iron stairway. “Fortune is
kind to us,” he said. “Next week there’s going to be an eclipse of
the sun, and astronomers are arriving in Buenos Ayres from Europe. The
professor and his assistants have gone to receive them.”

Letitia’s heart beat very fast. In the high vault of the observatory,
the little light of the lantern made only the faintest impression. The
great telescope was a terrifying shadow; the drawing instruments and
the photographic apparatus on its stand looked like the skeletons of
animals; the charts on the wall, with their strange dots and lines,
reminded her of black magic. The whole room seemed to her like the cave
of a wizard.

Yet there was a smile of childlike curiosity and satisfaction
on Letitia’s lips. Her famished imagination needed such an hour
as this. She forgot Stephen and his jealousy, the eternally
quarrelling brothers, the wicked old man, the shrewish Doña Barbara,
the treacherous Esmeralda, the house in which she lived like a
prisoner--she forgot all that completely in this room with its magic
implements, in this darkness lit only by the dim flicker of the
lantern, beside this charming young man who would soon kiss her. At
least, she hoped he would.

But Pestel was timid. He went up to the telescope, unscrewed the
gleaming brass cover, and said: “Let us take a look at the stars.” He
looked in. Then he asked Letitia to do the same. Letitia saw a milky
mist and flashing, leaping fires. “Are those the stars?” she asked,
with a coquettish melancholy in her voice.

Then Pestel told her about the stars. She listened with radiant eyes,
although it didn’t in the least interest her to know how many millions
of miles distant from the earth either Sirius or Aldebaran happened
to be, and what precisely was the mystery which puzzled scientists in
regard to the southern heavens.

“Ah,” she breathed, and there was indulgence and a dreamy scepticism in
that sound.

The lieutenant, abandoning the cosmos and its infinities, talked about
himself and his life, of Letitia and of the impression she had made on
him, and of the fact that he thought only of her by day and by night.

Letitia remained very, very still in order not to turn his thoughts in
another direction and thus disturb the sweet suspense of her mood.

As befitted a man with a highly developed conscience, Pestel had
definitely laid his plans for the future. When he returned at the end
of six months, ways and means were to be found for Letitia’s divorce
from Stephen and her remarriage to him. He thought of flight only as an
extreme measure.

He told her that he was poor. Only a very small capital was deposited
in his name in Stuttgart. He was a Suabian--simple-hearted, sober, and
accurate.

“Ah,” Letitia sighed again, half-astonished and half-saddened. “It
doesn’t matter,” she said with determination. “I’m rich. I own a great
tract of forest land. My aunt, the Countess Brainitz, gave it to me as
a wedding present.”

“A forest? Where?” Pestel asked, and smiled.

“In Germany. Near Heiligenkreuz in the Rhön region. It’s as big as a
city, and when it’s sold it will bring a lot of money. I’ve never been
there, but I’ve been told that it contains large deposits of some ore.
That would have to be found and exploited. Then I’d be even richer than
if I sold the forest.” These facts had grown in Letitia’s imagination;
they were the children of the dreams and wishes she had harboured since
her slavery in this strange land. She was not lying; she had quite
forgotten that she had invented it all. She wished this thing to be so,
and it had taken on reality in her mind.

“It’s too good, altogether too good to be true,” Pestel commented
thoughtfully.

His words moved Letitia. She began to sob and threw herself on his
breast. Her young life seemed hard to her and ugly and surrounded by
dangers. Nothing she had hoped for had become reality. All her pretty
soap-bubbles had burst in the wind. Her tears sprang from her deep
realization of this fact and out of her fear of men and of her fate.
She yearned for a pair of strong arms to give her protection and
security.

Pestel was also moved. He put his arms about her and ventured to kiss
her forehead. She sobbed more pitifully, and so he kissed her mouth.
Then she smiled. He said that he would love her until he died, that no
woman had ever inspired such feelings in him.

She confessed to him that she was with child by the unloved husband to
whom she was chained. Pestel pressed her to his bosom, and said: “The
child is blood of your blood, and I shall regard it as my own.”

The time was speeding dangerously. Holding each other’s hands they went
down the stairs. They parted with the promise to write each other daily.

“When he returns from Africa I’ll flee with him on his ship,” Letitia
determined, as she rode home slowly across the dark plain. Everything
else seemed ugly and a bore to her. “Oh, if only it were to be soon,”
she thought in her anxiety and heart-ache. And curiosity stirred in
her to know how Pestel would behave and master the dangers and the
difficulties involved. She believed in him, and gave herself up to
tender and tempting dreams of the future.

In the house her absence had finally been noticed, and servants had
been sent out to look for her. She slipped into the house by obscure
paths, and then emerged from her room with an air of innocence.


XVIII

Stettner had returned to Hamburg. His ship was to sail on that very
evening. He had several errands in the city, and Christian and Crammon
waited for him in order to accompany him to the pier.

Crammon said: “A captain of Hussars who suddenly turns up in mufti--I
can’t help it, there’s something desperate about it to me. I feel
as though I were on a perpetual visit of condolence. After all, he’s
déclassé, and I don’t like people in that situation. Social classes are
a divine institution; a man who interferes with them wounds his own
character. One doesn’t throw up one’s profession the way one tosses
aside a rotten apple. These are delicate and difficult matters. Common
sense may disregard them; the higher intelligence reverences them. What
is he going to do among the Yankees? What good can come of it?”

“He’s a chemist by inclination, and scholarly in his line,” Christian
answered. “That will help.”

“What do the Yankees care about that? He’s more likely to catch
consumption and be trodden under. He’ll be stripped of pride and
dignity. It’s a country for thieves, waiters, and renegades. Did he
have to go as far as all this?”

“Yes,” Christian answered, “I believe he did.”

An hour later they and Stettner arrived at the harbour. Cargoes
and luggage were still being stowed, and they strolled, Stettner
between Crammon and Christian, up and down a narrow alley lined with
cotton-bales, boxes, barrels, and baskets. The arc lamps cast radiant
light from the tall masts, and a tumult of carts and cranes, motors and
bells, criers and whistles rolled through the fog. The asphalt was wet;
there was no sky to be seen.

“Don’t forget me wholly here in the old land,” said Stettner. A silence
followed.

“I don’t know whether we shall be as well off in the old country in the
future as we have been in the past,” said Crammon, who occasionally had
pessimistic attacks and forebodings. “Hitherto we haven’t suffered. Our
larders and cellars have been well-stocked, nor have the higher needs
been neglected. But times are getting worse, and, unless I mistake,
clouds are gathering on the political horizon. So I can’t call it a bad
idea, my dear Stettner, to slip away quietly and amiably. I only hope
that you’ll find some secure position over there from which you may
calmly watch the spectacle of our débâcle. And when the waves rise very
high, you might think of us and have a mass said for us, that is for
me, because Christian has been expelled from the bosom of Holy Church.”

Stettner smiled at this speech. But he became serious again at once.
“It seems to me too that, in a sense, we’re all trapped here. Yet I
have never felt myself so deeply and devotedly a German as at this
moment when I am probably leaving my fatherland forever. But in that
feeling there is a stab of pain. It seems to me as though I should
hurry from one to another and sound a warning. But what to warn them
of, or why warn them at all--I don’t know.”

Crammon answered weightily. “My dear old Aglaia wrote me the other day
that she had dreamed of black cats all night long. She is deep, she has
a prophetic soul, and dreams like that are of evil presage. I may enter
a monastery. It is actually within the realm of the possible. Don’t
laugh, Christian; don’t laugh, my dearest boy! You don’t know all my
possibilities.”

It had not occurred to Christian to laugh.

Stettner stopped and gave his hands to his friends. “Good-bye,
Crammon,” he said cordially. “I’m grateful that you accompanied me.
Good-bye, dear Christian, good-bye.” He pressed Christian’s hand long
and firmly. Then he tore himself away, hastened toward the gang-plank,
and was lost in the crowd.

“A nice fellow,” Crammon murmured. “A very nice fellow. What a pity!”

When the car met them Christian said: “I’d like to walk a bit, either
back to the hotel or somewhere else. Will you come, Bernard?”

“If you want me, yes. Toddling along is my portion.”

Christian dismissed his car. He had a strange foreboding, as though
something fateful were lying in wait for him.

“Ariel’s days here are numbered,” said Crammon. “Duty calls me away.
I must look after my two old ladies. Then I must join Franz Lothar in
Styria. We’ll hunt heath-cocks. After that I’ve agreed to meet young
Sinsheim in St. Moritz. What are your plans, my dear boy?”

“I leave for Berlin to-morrow or the day after.”

“And what in God’s name are you going to do there?”

“I’m going to work.”

Crammon stopped, and opened his mouth very wide. “Work?” he gasped,
quite beside himself. “What at? What for, O misguided one?”

“I’m going to take courses at the university, under the faculty of
medicine.”

Horrified, Crammon shook his head. “Work ... courses ... medicine....
Merciful Providence, what does this mean? Is there not enough sweat in
the world, not enough bungling and half-wisdom and ugly ambition and
useless turmoil? You’re not serious.”

“You exaggerate as usual, Bernard,” Christian answered, with a smile.
“Don’t always be a Jeremiah. What I’m going to do is something quite
simple and conventional. And I’m only going to try. I may not even
succeed; but I must try it. So much is sure.”

Crammon raised his hand, lifted a warning index finger, and said with
great solemnity: “You are upon an evil path, Christian, upon a path of
destruction. For many, many days I have had a presentiment of terrible
things. The sleep of my nights has been embittered; a sorrow gnaws
at me and my peace has flown. How am I to hunt in the mountains when
I know you to be among the Pharisees? How shall I cast my line into
clear streams when my inner eye sees you bending over greasy volumes or
handling diseased bodies? No wine will glitter beautifully in my glass,
no girl’s eyes seem friendly any more, no pear yield me its delicate
flavour!”

“Oh, yes, they will,” Christian said, laughing. “More than that: I
hope you’ll come to see me from time to time, to convince yourself that
you needn’t cast me off entirely.”

Crammon sighed. “Indeed I shall come. I must come and soon, else the
spirit of evil will get entire control of you. Which may God forbid!”


XIX

Johanna told Eva, whom she adored, about her life. Eva thus received an
unexpected insight into the grey depths of middle-class existence. The
account sounded repulsive. But it was stimulating to offer a spiritual
refuge to so much thirst and flight.

She herself often seemed to her own soul like one in flight. But she
had her bulwarks. The wind of time seemed cold to her, and when she
felt a horror of the busy marionettes whose strings were in her hands,
she felt herself growing harder. The friendship which she gave to this
devoted girl seemed to her a rest in the mad race of her fate.

They were so intimate that Susan Rappard complained. The latter opened
her eyes wide and her jealousy led her to become a spy. She became
aware of the relations that had developed between Johanna and Christian.

At dinner there had been much merriment. Johanna had bought a number of
peaked, woollen caps. She had wrapped them carefully in white paper,
written some witty verses on each bundle, and distributed them as
favours to Eva’s guests. No one had been vexed. For despite her mockery
and gentle eccentricity, there was a charm about her that disarmed
every one.

“How gay you are to-day, Rumpelstilzkin,” Eva said. She, too, used that
nickname. The word, which she pronounced with some difficulty, had a
peculiar charm upon her lips.

“It is the gaiety that precedes tears,” Johanna answered, and yielded
as entirely to her superstitious terror as she had to her jesting mood.

A wealthy ship-owner had invited Eva to view his private picture
gallery. His house was in the suburbs. She drove there with Johanna.

Arm in arm they stood before the paintings. And in that absorbed
union there was something purifying. Johanna loved it as she loved
their common reading of poetry, when they would sit with their cheeks
almost touching. Extinguished in her selfless adoration, she forgot
what lay behind her--the anxious, sticky, unworthily ambitious life of
her family of brokers; she forgot what lay before her--oppression and
force, an inevitable and appointed way.

Her gestures revealed a gentle glow of tenderness.

On their way back she seemed pale. “You are cold,” Eva said, and
wrapped the robe more firmly about her friend.

Johanna squeezed Eva’s hand gratefully. “How dear of you! I shall
always need some one to tell me when I’m hot or cold.”

This melancholy jest moved Eva deeply. “Why do you act so humble?”
she cried. “Why do you shrink and hide and turn your vision away from
yourself? Why do you not dare to be happy?”

Johanna answered: “Do you not know that I am a Jewess?”

“Well?” Eva asked in her turn. “I know some very extraordinary people
who are Jews--some of the proudest, wisest, most impassioned in the
world.”

Johanna shook her head. “In the Middle Ages the Jews were forced to
wear yellow badges on their garments,” she said. “I wear the yellow
badge upon my soul.”

Eva was putting on a tea gown. Susan Rappard was helping her. “What’s
new with us, Susan?” Eva asked, and took the clasps out of her hair.

Susan answered: “What is good is not new, and what is new is not good.
Your ugly little court fool is having an affair with M. Wahnschaffe.
They are very secretive, but there are whispers. I don’t understand
him. He is easily and quickly consoled. I have always said that he has
neither a mind nor a heart. Now it is plain that he has no eyes either.”

Eva had flushed very dark. Now she became very pale. “It is a lie,” she
said.

Susan’s voice was quite dry. “It is the truth. Ask her. I don’t think
she’ll deny it.”

Shortly thereafter Johanna slipped into the room. She had on a dress
of simple, black velvet which set off her figure charmingly. Eva sat
before the mirror. Susan was arranging her hair. She had a book in her
hand and read without looking up.

On a chair near the dressing-table lay an open jewel case. Johanna
stood before it, smiled timidly, and took out of it a beautifully
cut cameo, which she playfully fastened to her bosom; she looked
admiringly at a diadem and put it in her hair; she slipped on a few
rings and a pearl bracelet over her sleeve. Thus adorned she went, half
hesitatingly, half with an air of self-mockery, up to Eva.

Slowly Eva lifted her eyes from the book, looked at Johanna, and asked:
“Is it true?” She let a few seconds pass, and then with wider open eyes
she asked once more: “Is it true?”

Johanna drew back, and the colour left her cheeks. She suspected and
knew and began to tremble.

Then Eva arose and went close up to her and stripped the cameo from the
girl’s bosom, the diadem from her hair, the rings from her fingers, the
bracelet from her arm, and threw the things back into the case. Then
she sat down again, took up her book, and said: “Hurry, Susan! I want
to rest a little.”

Johanna’s breath failed her. She looked like one who has been struck.
A tender blossom in her heart was crushed forever, and from its sudden
withering arose a subtle miasma. Almost on the point of fainting she
left the room.

As though to seal the end of a period in her life and warn her of evil
things to come, she received within two hours a telegram from her
mother which informed her of a catastrophe and urgently summoned her
home. Fräulein Grabmeier began packing at once. They were to catch the
train at five o’clock in the morning.

From midnight on Johanna sat waiting in Christian’s room. She lit no
light. In the darkness she sat beside a table, resting her head in her
hands. She did not move, and her eyes were fixed on vacancy.


XX

In the course of their talk Christian and Crammon had wandered farther
and farther into the tangled alleys around the harbour. “Let us turn
back and seek a way out,” Crammon suggested. “It isn’t very nice here.
A damnable neighbourhood, in fact.”

He peered about, and Christian too looked around. When they had gone a
few steps farther, they came upon a man lying flat on his belly on the
pavement. He struggled convulsively, croaked obscene curses, and shook
his fist threateningly toward a red-curtained, brightly lit door.

Suddenly the door opened, and a second man flew out. A paper box, an
umbrella, and a derby hat were pitched out after him. He stumbled
down the steps with outstretched arms, fell beside the first man, and
remained sitting there with heavy eyes.

Christian and Crammon looked in through the open door. In the smoky
light twenty or thirty people were crouching. The monotonous crying of
a woman became audible. At times it became shriller.

The glass door was flung shut.

“I shall see what goes on in there,” said Christian, and mounted the
steps to the door. Crammon had only time to utter a horrified warning.
But he followed. The reek of cheap whiskey struck him as he entered
the room behind Christian.

Beside tables and on the floor crouched men and women. In every corner
lay people, sleeping or drunk. The eyes which were turned toward the
newcomers were glassy. The faces here looked like lumps of earth. The
room, with its dirty tables, glasses, and bottles had a colour-scheme
of scarlet and yellow. Two sturdy fellows stood behind the bar.

The woman whose crying had penetrated to the street sat on a bench
beside the wall. Blood was streaming down her face, and she continued
to utter her monotonous and almost bestial whine. In front of her,
trying hard to keep erect on legs stretched far apart, stood the
huge fellow whom Christian had observed at the public funeral of the
murdered harlot. In a hoarse voice, in the extreme jargon of the Berlin
populace, he was shouting: “Yuh gonna git what’s comin’ to yuh! I’ll
show yuh what’s what! I’ll blow off yer dam’ head-piece’n yuh cin go
fetch it in the moon!”

On the threshold of an open door in the rear stood a stout man with
innumerable watch-charms dangling across his checked waistcoat. A fat
cigar was held between his yellow teeth. He regarded the scene with
a superior calm. It was the proprietor of the place. When he saw the
two strangers his brows went up. He first took them to be detectives,
and hastened to meet them. Then he saw his mistake and was the more
amazed. “Come into my office, gentlemen,” he said in a greasy voice,
and without removing the cigar. “Come back there, and I’ll give you a
drink of something good.” He drew Christian along by the arm. A woman
with a yellow head-kerchief arose from the floor, stretched out her
arms toward Christian, and begged for ten pfennigs. Christian drew back
as from a worm.

An old man tried to prevent the gigantic lout from maltreating the
bleeding woman any more. He called him Mesecke and fawned upon him.
But Mesecke gave him a blow under the chin that sent him spinning and
moaning. Murmurs of protest sounded, but no one dared to offend the
giant. The proprietor whispered to Christian: “What he wants is brass;
wants her to go on the street again and earn a little. Nothing to be
done right now.”

He grasped Crammon by the sleeve too, and drew them both through the
door into a dark hall. “I suppose you gentlemen are interested in my
establishment?” he asked anxiously. He opened a door and forced them to
enter. The room into which they came showed a tasteless attempt at such
luxury as is represented by red plush and gilt frames. The place was
small, and the furniture stood huddled together. Crossed swords hung
above a bunch of peacock feathers, and above the swords the gay cap of
a student fraternity. Between two windows stood a slanting desk covered
with ledgers. An emaciated man with a yellowish face sat at the desk
and made entries in a book. He quivered when the proprietor entered the
room, and bent more zealously over his work.

The proprietor said: “I’ve got to take care of you gents or something
might happen. When that son of a gun is quiet you can go back and look
the place over. I guess you’re strangers here, eh?” From a shelf he
took down a bottle. “Brandy,” he whispered. “Prime stuff. You must
try it. I sell it by the bottle and by the case. A number one! Here
you are!” Crammon regarded Christian, whose face was without any sign
of disquiet. With a sombre expression he went to the table and, as
though unseeing, touched his lips to the glass which the proprietor had
filled. It was a momentary refuge, at all events.

In the meantime a frightful noise penetrated from the outer room.
“Fighting again,” said the proprietor, listened for a moment, and then
disappeared. The noise increased furiously for a moment. Then silence
fell. The book-keeper, without raising his waxy face, said: “Nobody
can stand that. It’s that way every night. And the books here show the
profits. That man Hillebohm is a millionaire, and he rakes in more and
more money without mercy, without compassion. Nobody can stand that.”

The words sounded like those of a madman.

“Are we going to permit ourselves to be locked up here?” Crammon asked
indignantly. “It’s rank impudence.”

Christian opened the door, and Crammon drew from his back pocket the
Browning revolver that was his constant companion. They passed through
the hall and stopped on the threshold of the outer room. Mesecke had
vanished. Many arms had finally expelled him. The woman from whom he
had been trying to get money was washing the blood from her face.
The old man who had been beaten when he had pleaded for her said
consolingly: “Don’t yuh howl, Karen. Things’ll get better. Keep up,
says I!” The woman hardly listened. She looked treacherous and angry.

A tangle of yellow hair flamed on her head, high as a helmet and
unkempt. While she was bleeding she had wiped the blood with her naked
hand, and then stained her hair with it.

“You go home now,” the proprietor commanded. “Wash your paws and give
our regards to God if you see him. Hurry up, or your sweetheart’ll be
back and give you a little more.”

She did not move. “Well, how about it, Karen,” a woman shrilled.
“Hurry. D’yuh want some more beating?”

But the woman did not stir. She breathed heavily, and suddenly looked
at Christian.

“Come with us,” Christian said unexpectedly. The bar-tenders roared
with laughter. Crammon laid a hand of desperate warning on Christian’s
shoulder.

“Come with us,” Christian repeated calmly. “We will take you home.”

A dozen glassy eyes stared their mockery. A voice brayed: “Hell,
hell, but you’re gettin’ somethin’ elegant.” Another hummed as though
scanning verses: “If that don’t kill the bedbugs dead, I dunno what’ll
do instead! Don’t yuh be scared, Karen. Hurry! Use your legs!”

Karen got up. She had not taken her shy and sombre eyes from Christian.
His beauty overwhelmed her. A crooked, frightened, cynical smile glided
over her full lips.

She was rather tall. She had fine shoulders and a well-developed bosom.
She was with child--perhaps five months; it was obvious when she stood.
She wore a dark green dress with iridescent buttons, and at her neck a
flaming red riband fastened by a brooch that represented in silver, set
with garnets, a Venetian gondola, and bore the inscription: _Ricordo di
Venezia_. Her shoes were clumsy and muddy. Her hat--made of imitation
kid and trimmed with cherries of rubber--lay beside her on the bench.
She grasped it with a strange ferocity.

Christian looked at the riband and at the silver brooch with its
inscription: _Ricordo di Venezia_.

Crammon sought to protect their backs. For new guests were coming
in--fellows with dangerous faces. He had simply yielded to the
inevitable and incomprehensible, and determined to give a good account
of himself. He gritted his teeth over the absence of proper police
protection, and said to himself: “We won’t get out of this hole
alive, old boy.” And he thought of his comfortable hotel-bed, his
delicious, fragrant bath, his excellent breakfast, and of the box of
chocolates on his table. He thought of young girls who exhaled the
fresh sweetness of linen, of all pleasant fragrances, of Ariel’s smile
and Rumpelstilzkin’s gaiety, and of the express train that was to have
taken him to Vienna. He thought of all these things as though his last
hour had come.

Two sailors came in dragging between them a girl who was pale and
stiff with drunkenness. Roughly they threw her on the floor. The
creature moaned, and had an expression of ghastly voluptuousness, of
strange lasciviousness on her face. She lay there stiff as a board.
The sailors, with a challenge in their voices, asked after Mesecke.
He had evidently met them and complained to them. They wanted to get
even with the proprietor. One of them had a scarlet scratch across his
forehead; the other’s arms were naked up to his shoulders and tattooed
until they were blue all over. The tattooing represented a snake, a
winged wheel, an anchor, a skull, a phallus, a scale, a fish, and many
other objects.

Both sailors measured Christian and Crammon with impudent glances. The
one with the tattooed arms pointed to the revolver in Crammon’s hand,
and said: “If you don’t put up that there pistol I’ll make you, by God!”

The other went up to Christian and stood so close to him that he
turned pale. Vulgarity had never yet touched him, nor had the obscene
things of the gutter splashed his garments. Contempt and disgust arose
hotly in him. These might force him to abandon his new road; for they
were more terrible than the vision of evil he had had in the house of
Szilaghin.

But when he looked into the man’s eyes, he became aware of the fact
that the latter could not endure his glance. Those eyes twitched and
flickered and fled. And this perception gave Christian courage and
a feeling of inner power, the full effectiveness of which was still
uncertain.

“Quiet there!” the proprietor roared at the two sailors. “I want order.
You want to get the police here, do you? That’d be fine for us all, eh?
You’re a bit crazy, eh? The girl can go with the gentlemen, if they’ll
pay her score. Two glasses champagne--that’s one mark fifty. And that
ends it.”

Crammon laid a two-mark piece on the table. Karen Engelschall had put
on her hat, and turned toward the door. Christian and Crammon followed
her, and the proprietor followed them with sarcastic courtesy, while
the two sturdy bar-tenders formed an additional bodyguard. A few
half-drunken men sent the strains of a jeering song behind them.

The street was empty. Karen gazed up and down it, and seemed uncertain
in which direction she should go. Crammon asked her where she lived.
She answered harshly that she didn’t want to go home. “Then where
shall we take you?” Crammon asked, forcing himself to be patient and
considerate. She shrugged her shoulders. “It don’t matter,” she said.
Then, after a while, she added defiantly. “I don’t need you.”

They went toward the harbour, Karen between the two men. For a moment
she stopped and murmured with a shudder of fear: “But I mustn’t run
into him. No, I mustn’t.”

“Will you suggest something then?” Crammon said to her. His impulse
was simply to decamp, but for Christian’s sake, and in the hope of
saving him uninjured from this mesh of adventures, he played the part
of interest and compassion.

Karen Engelschall did not answer, but hurried more swiftly as she
caught sight of a figure in the light of a street lamp. Until she was
beyond its vision she gasped with terror.

“Shall we give you money?” Crammon asked again.

She answered furiously: “I don’t need your money. I want no money.”
Surreptitiously she gazed at Christian, and her face grew malicious and
stubborn.

Crammon went over beside Christian, and spoke to him in French. “The
best thing would be to take her to an inn where she can get a room and
a bed. We can deposit a sum of money there, so that she is sheltered
for a while. Then she can help herself.”

“Quite right. That will be best,” Christian replied. And, as though he
could not bear to address her, he added: “Tell her that.”

Karen stopped. She lifted her shoulders as though she were cold, and
said in a hoarse voice: “Leave me alone. What are you two talking
about? I won’t walk another step. I’m tired. Don’t pay no attention to
me!” She leaned against the wall of a house, and her hat was pushed
forward over her forehead. She was as sorry and dissipated a looking
object as one could possibly imagine.

“Isn’t that the sign of an inn?” Crammon asked and pointed to an
illuminated sign at the far end of the street.

Christian, who had very keen eyes, looked and answered: “Yes. It says
‘King of Greece.’ Do go and inquire.”

“A lovely neighbourhood and a lovely errand,” Crammon said plaintively.
“I am paying for my sins.” But he went.

Christian remained with the woman, who looked down silently and
angrily. Her fingers scratched at her riband. Christian listened to the
beating of the tower-clock. It struck two. At last Crammon reappeared.
He beckoned from a distance and cried: “Ready.”

Christian addressed the girl for the first time. “We’ve found a shelter
for you,” he said, a little throatily, and, quite contrary to his wont,
blinked his eyes. His own voice sounded disagreeably in his ears. “You
can stay there for some days.”

She looked at him with eyes that glowed with hatred. An indescribable
but evil curiosity burned in her glance. Then she lowered her eyes
again. Christian was forced to speak again: “I think you will be safe
from that man there. Try to rest. Perhaps you are ill. We could summon
a physician.”

She laughed a soft, sarcastic laugh. Her breath smelt of whiskey.

Crammon called out again.

“Come on then,” Christian said, mastering his aversion with difficulty.

His voice and his words made the same overwhelming impression on her
that his appearance had done. She started to go as though she were
being propelled from behind.

A sleepy porter in slippers stood at the door of the inn. His servile
courtesy proved that Crammon had known how to treat him. “Number 14 on
the second floor is vacant,” he said.

“Send some one to your lodgings to-morrow for your things,” Crammon
advised the girl.

She did not seem to hear him. Without a word of thanks or greeting she
followed the porter up the soiled red carpet of the stairs. The rubber
cherries tapped audibly against the brim of her hat. Her clumsy form
disappeared in the blackness.

Crammon breathed a sigh of relief. “My kingdom for a four-wheeler,” he
moaned. At a nearby corner they found a cab.


XXI

When Christian entered his room and switched on the electric light, he
was surprised to find Johanna sitting at the table. She shaded her eyes
from the sudden glare. He remained at the door. His frown disappeared
when he saw the deadly pallor of the girl’s face.

“I must leave,” Johanna breathed. “I’ve received a telegram and I must
start for Vienna at once.”

“I am about to leave, too,” Christian answered.

For a while there was silence. Then Johanna said: “Shall I see you
again? Will you want me to? Dare I?” Her timid questions showed the old
division of her soul. She smiled a smile of patience and renunciation.

“I shall be in Berlin,” Christian answered. “I don’t know yet where I
shall live. But whenever you want to know, ask Crammon. He is easily
reached. His two old ladies send him all letters.”

“If you desire it, I can come to Berlin,” Johanna said with the same
patient and resigned smile. “I have relatives there. But I don’t think
that you do desire it.” Then, after a pause, during which her gentle
eyes wandered aimlessly, she said: “Then is this to be the end?” She
held her breath; she was taut as a bow-string.

Christian went up to the table and rested the index finger of one hand
on its top. With lowered head he said slowly: “Don’t demand a decision
of me. I cannot make one. I should hate to hurt you. I don’t want
something to happen again that has happened so often before in my life.
If you feel impelled to come--come! Don’t consider me. Don’t think,
above all, that I would then leave you in the lurch. But just now is a
critical time in my life. More I cannot say.”

Johanna could gather nothing but what was hopeless for herself from
these words. Yet through them there sounded a note that softened their
merely selfish regretfulness. With a characteristically pliant gesture,
she stretched out her arm to Christian. Her pose was formal and her
smile faint, as she said: “Then, au revoir--perhaps!”


XXII

When the girl had gone, Christian lay down on the sofa and folded his
hands beneath his head. Thus he lay until dawn. He neither switched off
the light nor did he close his eyes.

He saw the paintless stairs that led to the den where he had been and
the red carpet of the inn soiled by many feet; he saw the lamp in the
desolate street and the watch charms on the proprietor’s waistcoat; he
saw the brandy bottle on the shelf, and the green shawl of one of the
drunken women, and the tattooed symbols on the sailor’s naked arm: the
anchor, the winged wheel, the phallus, the fish, the snake; he saw the
rubber cherries on the prostitute’s hat and the silver brooch with the
garnets and the foolish motto: _Ricordo di Venezia_.

And more and more as he thought of these things they awakened in him an
ever surer feeling of freedom and of liberation, and seemed to release
him from other things that he had hitherto loved, the rare and precious
things that he had loved so exclusively and fruitlessly. And they
seemed to release him likewise from men and women whose friendship or
love had been sterile in the end.

As he lay there and gazed into space, he lived in these poor and mean
things, and all fruitless occupations and human relationships lost
their importance; and even the thought of Eva ceased to torment him and
betray him into fruitless humiliation.

That radiant and regal creature allured him no more, when he thought of
the blood-stained face of the harlot. For the latter aroused in him a
feeling akin to curiosity that gradually filled his soul so entirely
that it left room for nothing else.

Toward dawn he slumbered for an hour. Then he arose, and bathed his
face in cold water, left the hotel, hired a cab, and drove to the inn
called “The King of Greece.”

The nightwatchman was still at his post. He recognized this early guest
and guided him with disagreeable eagerness up two flights of stairs to
the room of Karen Engelschall.

Christian knocked. There was no answer. “You just go in, sir,” said
the porter. “There ain’t no key and the latch don’t work. All kinds of
things will happen, and it’s better for us to have the doors unlocked.”

Christian entered. It was a room with ugly brown furnishings, a
dark-red plush sofa, a round mirror with a crack across its middle, an
electric bulb at the end of a naked wire, and a chromo-lithograph of
the emperor. Everything was dusty, worn, shabby, used-up, poor and mean.

Karen Engelschall lay in the bed asleep. She was on her back, and her
dishevelled hair looked like a bundle of straw; her face was pale and a
little puffy. Recent scars showed on her forehead and right cheek. Her
full but flaccid breasts protruded above the coverings.

His old and violent dislike of sleeping people stirred in Christian,
but he mastered it and regarded her face. He wondered from what social
class she had come, whether she was a sailor’s or a fisherman’s
daughter, a girl of the lower middle-classes, of the proletariat or
the peasantry. Thus his curiosity employed his mind for a while until
he became fully aware of the indescribable perturbation of that face.
It was as void of evil as of good; but as it lay there it seemed
distraught by the unheard of torment of its dreams. Then Christian
thought of the carnelian on Mesecke’s hand, and the repulsively
red stone which was like a beetle or a piece of raw flesh became
extraordinarily vivid to him.

He made a movement and knocked against a chair; the noise awakened
Karen Engelschall. She opened her lids, and fear and horror burned in
her eyes when she observed a figure in her room; her features became
distorted with fury, and her mouth rounded itself for a cry. Then she
saw who the intruder was, and with a sigh of relief slid back among
the pillows. Her face reassumed its expression of stubbornness and of
enforced yielding. She watched, not knowing what to make of this visit,
and seemed to wonder and reflect. She drew the covers up under her
chin, and smiled a shallow, flattered smile.

Involuntarily Christian’s eyes looked for the red riband and the silver
brooch. The girl’s garments had been flung pell-mell on a chair. The
hat with the rubber cherries lay on the table.

“Why do you stand?” Karen Engelschall asked in a cheerful voice.
“Sit down.” Again, as in the night, his splendour and distinction
overwhelmed her. Smiling her empty smile, she wondered whether he was
a baron or a count. She had slept soundly and felt refreshed.

“You cannot stay in this house very long,” Christian said courteously.
“I have considered what had better be done for you. Your condition
requires care. You must not expose yourself to the brutality of that
man. It would be best if you left the city.”

Karen Engelschall laughed a harsh laugh. “Leave the city? How’s that
going to be done? Girls like me have to stay where they are.”

“Has any one a special claim on you?” Christian asked.

“Claim? Why? How do you mean? Oh, I see. No, no. It’s the way things
are in our business. The feller to whom you give your money, he
protects you, and the others mind him. If he’s strong and has many
friends you’re safe. They’re all rotten, but you got no choice. You get
no rest day or night, and your flesh gets tired, I can tell you.”

“I can imagine that,” Christian replied, and for a second looked into
Karen’s round and lightless eyes, “and for that reason I wanted to
put myself at your disposal. I shall leave Hamburg either to-day or
to-morrow, and probably stay in Berlin for some months. I am ready to
take you with me. But you must not delay your decision, because I have
not yet any address in Berlin, I don’t know yet where I shall live, and
if a plan like this is delayed it is usually not carried out at all.
At the moment you have eluded your pursuer, and so the opportunity to
escape is good. You don’t need to send for your things. I can get you
whatever you need when we arrive.”

Those words, spoken with real friendliness, did not have the effect
which Christian expected. Karen Engelschall could not realize the
simplicity and frankness of their intention. A mocking suspicion arose
in her mind. She knew of Vice Crusaders and Preachers of Salvation;
and these men her world as a rule fears as much as it does the
emissaries of the police. But she looked at Christian more sharply,
and an instinct told her that she was on the wrong track. Clumsily
considering, she drifted to other suppositions that had a tinge of
cheap romance. She thought of plots and kidnapping and a possible
fate more terrible than that under the heel of her old tormentor.
She brooded over these thoughts in haste and rage, with convulsed
features and clenched fist, passing from fear to hope and from hope to
distrust, and yet, even as on the day before, compelled by something
irresistible, a force from which she could not withdraw and which made
her struggles futile.

“What do you want to do with me?” she asked, and gave him a penetrating
glance.

Christian considered in order to weigh his answer carefully. “Nothing
but what I have told you.”

She became silent and stared at her hands. “My mother lives in Berlin,”
she murmured. “Maybe you’d want me to go back to her. I don’t want to.”

“You are to go with me.” Christian’s tone was firm and almost hard. His
chest filled with breath and exhaled the air painfully. The final word
had been spoken.

Karen looked at him again. But now her eyes were serious and awake to
reality. “And what shall I do when I’m with you?”

Christian answered hesitatingly: “I’ve come to no decision about that.
I must think it over.”

Karen folded her hands. “But I’ve got to know who you are.”

He spoke his name.

“I am a pregnant woman,” she said with a sombre look, and for the first
time her voice trembled, “a street-walker who’s pregnant. Do you know
that? I’m the lowest and vilest thing in the whole world! Do you know
that?”

“I know it,” said Christian, and cast down his eyes.

“Well, what does a fine gentleman like you want to do with me? Why do
you take such an interest in me?”

“I can’t explain that to you at the moment,” Christian answered
diffidently.

“What am I to do? Go with you? Right away?”

“If you are willing, I shall call for you at two, and we can drive to
the station.”

“And you won’t be ashamed of me?”

“No, I shall not be ashamed.”

“You know how I look? Suppose people point their fingers at the whore
travelling with such an elegant gentleman?”

“It does not matter what people do.”

“All right. I’ll wait for you.” She crossed her arms over her breast
and stared at the ceiling and did not stir. Christian arose and nodded
and went out. Nor did Karen move when he was gone. A deep furrow
appeared on her forehead, the fresh scars gleamed like burns upon her
earthy skin, a dull and primitive amazement turned her eyes to stone.


XXIII

When Christian crossed the reception room of the hotel he saw Crammon
sitting sadly in a chair. Christian stopped and smiled and held out
his hand. “Did you sleep well, Bernard?” he asked.

“If that were my only difficulty I should not complain,” Crammon
answered. “I always sleep well. The troubles begin when I’m awake. Age
with his stealing steps! The old pleasures no longer sting, the old
delights are worn out. One counts on gratitude and affection, and gets
care and disappointment. I think a monastery would be the best place
for me. I must look into that plan more closely.”

Christian laughed. “Come now, Bernard, you would be a very unsuitable
person in a monastery. Drive the black thoughts away and let us have
breakfast.”

“All right, let us have breakfast.” Crammon arose. “Have you any idea
why poor Rumpelstilzkin suddenly fled by night? She had bad news from
home, I am told, but that’s no reason why she should have gone without
a word. It was not nice or considerate. And in a few hours Ariel too
will be lost to us. Her rooms are filled with cases and boxes, and M.
Chinard is bursting with self-importance. Black clouds are over us, and
all our lovely rainbows fade. This caviare, by the way, is excellent.
I shall withdraw into an utterly private life. Perhaps I shall hire
a secretary, either a man or a fat, appetizing, and discreet woman,
and begin to dictate my memoirs. You, my dear fellow, seem in more
excellent spirits than for a long time.”

“Yes, excellent,” Christian said, and his smile revealed his beautiful
teeth. “Excellent!” he repeated, and held out his hand to his
astonished friend.

“So you have finally become reconciled to your loss?” he winked, and
pointed upward with a significant gesture.

Christian guessed his meaning. “Entirely,” he said cheerily. “I’m
completely recovered.”

“Bravo!” said Crammon, and, comfortably eating, he philosophized: “It
would be saddening were it otherwise. I repeat what I have often said:
Ariel was born for the stars. There are blessed stars and fateful
stars. Some are inhabited by good spirits, others by demons. We have
known that from times immemorial. Let them wage their battles among
themselves. If it comes to collisions and catastrophes, it is a cosmic
matter in which we mortals have no share. When all is said and done,
you are but a mortal too, though one so blessed that you were even
granted a stay in the happy hunting grounds of the gods. But excesses
are evil. You cannot compete with Muscovite autocrats. Siegfried
can conquer the dragons in the end; were Lucifer to attack him with
fire-breathing steeds, the hero would but risk his skin in vain. Your
renunciation is as wise as it is delightful. I drink to your pleasant
future, dearest boy!”

Christian went to a buffet where magnificent fruit was exposed for
sale. He knew Crammon’s passionate delight in rare and lovely fruit.
He selected a woven basket and placed in the middle a pine-apple cut
open so that its golden inside showed. He surrounded it with a wreath
of flawless apples and of great, amber-coloured peaches from the South
of France. They were elastic and yet firm. He added seven enormous
clusters of California grapes. He arranged the fruit artistically,
carried the basket to Crammon, and presented it to him with jesting
solemnity.

They separated. When, late that afternoon, Crammon returned to the
hotel, he learned to his bitter amazement that Christian had left.

He could not compose himself. It seemed to him that he was the victim
of some secret cabal. “They all leave me in the lurch,” he murmured
angrily to himself; “they make a mock of me. It’s like an epidemic. You
are through with life, Bernard Gervasius, you are in every one’s way.
Go to your cell and bemoan your fate.”

He ordered his valet to pack, and to secure accommodations on the train
to Vienna. Then he placed the basket of fruit on the table, and in his
sad reflections plucked berry after berry of the grape.


XXIV

In his quiet little house, furnished in the style of the age of Maria
Theresa, he forgot what he had suffered. He lived an idyl.

He accompanied the two pious ladies to church, and out of
considerateness and kindness to them even prayed occasionally. His
chief prayer was: Lord, forgive those who have trespassed against me
and lead me not into temptation. On sunny afternoons the carriage
appeared and took the three for a ride through the parks. In the
evening the bill of fare for the following day was determined on,
and the national and traditional dishes were given the preference.
Then he read to the devoutly attentive Misses Aglaia and Constantine
classical poems: a canto of Klopstock’s “Messiah,” Schiller’s “Walk,”
or something by Rückert. And he still imitated the voice and intonation
of Edgar Lorm. Also he related harmless anecdotes connected with his
life; and he adorned and purified them so that they would have been
worthy of a schoolgirl’s library.

Not till the two ladies had retired did he light his short pipe or
pour himself out a glass of cognac; he practised reminiscence or
introspection, or became absorbed in his little museum of treasures,
which he had gathered during many years.

Shortly before his proposed meeting with Franz Lothar von Westernach,
he received an alarming letter from Christian’s mother.

Frau Wahnschaffe informed him that Christian had ordered all his
possessions to be sold--Christian’s Rest, Waldleiningen, the hunting
lodge, the stables and kennels, the motor cars, the collections,
including the wonderful collection of rings. This incomprehensible
plan was actually being carried out, and no one had an inkling of the
motive. She herself was in the utmost despair, and begged Crammon for
some explanation and, if possible, to come to the castle. She besought
him in God’s name for some hint in regard to Christian’s actions and
state of mind. No news of her son had reached her for weeks; he seemed
lost, and they were groping in the dark. The family did not, of course,
desire his possessions to pass into the hands of strangers, and would
bid in everything, although it was both difficult and hateful to oppose
the impudent offers and the tricky manœuvres which the auction ordered
by Christian would entail. Above all, however, there was her personal
anxiety about Christian. She expected Crammon to stand by her in her
hour of need, and justify the high opinion she had formed both of his
friendship for her son and of his attachment to her family.

Crammon re-read the lines that mentioned the sale of Christian’s Rest
and of the collections. He shook his head long and sadly, pressed his
chin into his hands, and two large tears rolled down his cheeks.


END OF VOL. I



Transcriber's Note


The following apparent errors have been corrected:

p. 49 "Machailovitch" changed to "Michailovitch"

p. 79 "cross-beams," changed to "cross-beams."

p. 104 "chuch" changed to "church"

p. 105 "insisisted" changed to "insisted"

p. 195 "pubic" changed to "public"

p. 198 "walk." changed to "walk.”"

p. 207 "passsionate" changed to "passionate"

p. 223 "Finally,in" changed to "Finally, in"

p. 238 "elegent" changed to "elegant"

p. 239 "aquaintance" changed to "acquaintance"

p. 241 "int" changed to "into"

p. 250 "orginate" changed to "originate"

p. 250 "Wahnshaffe" changed to "Wahnschaffe"

p. 262 "mother-of pearl" changed to "mother-of-pearl"

p. 263 "Hy" changed to "My"

p. 290 "Maalbeeks" changed to "Maelbeeks"

p. 297 "Rumpelstiezkin" changed to "Rumpelstilzkin"

p. 342 "characteritsics" changed to "characteristics"

p. 366 "I shall" changed to "“I shall"


Spelling and punctuation have otherwise been kept as printed.


The following are used inconsistently in the text:

careworn and care-worn

earrings and ear-rings

fireplace and fire-place

fishpond and fish-pond

flowerlike and flower-like

heartache and heart-ache

horseshoe and horse-shoe

nearby and near-by

shopkeepers and shop-keepers

shopworn and shop-worn

Voss’ and Voss’s





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