and at the place where this turned he noticed in the wall a narrow cleft
wide enough to afford, to an unusually slender figure, passage into the
adjoining building, and even farther to the Vicolo del Fauno at the
other side of the house. Suddenly, however, the idea flashed through his
mind that Zoë-Gradiva did not sink into the ground here—that was
essentially unreasonable, and he could not understand how he had ever
believed it—but went, on this street, back to her tomb. That must be in
the Street of Tombs, and rushing forth, he hastened out into the Strada
di Mercurio and as far as the gate of Hercules; but when, breathless and
reeking with perspiration, he entered this, it was already too late. The
broad Strada di Sepolcri stretched out empty and dazzlingly white, only
at its extremity, behind the glimmering curtain of radiance, a faint
shadow seemed to dissolve uncertainly before the Villa of Diomede.
* * * * *
Norbert Hanold passed the second half of the day with a feeling that
Pompeii was everywhere, or at least wherever he stopped, veiled in a
cloud of mist. It was not grey, gloomy and melancholy as formerly, but
rather cheerful and vari-coloured to an extraordinary degree; blue, red
and brown, chiefly a light-yellowish white and alabaster white,
interwoven with golden threads of sunbeams. This injured neither his
power of vision nor that of hearing, only, because of it, thinking was
impossible, and that produced a cloud-wall whose effect rivalled the
thickest mist. To the young archæologist it seemed almost as if hourly,
in an invisible and not otherwise noticeable way, there was brought to
him a little bottle of Vesuvio wine, which produced a continuous
whirling in his head. From this he instinctively sought to free himself
by the use of correctives, on the one hand drinking water frequently,
and on the other hand moving about as much and as far as possible. His
knowledge of medicine was not comprehensive, but it helped him to the
diagnosis that this strange condition must arise from excessive
congestion of blood in his head, perhaps associated with accelerated
action of the heart; for he felt the latter—something formerly quite
unknown to him—occasionally beating fast against his chest. Otherwise,
his thoughts, which could not penetrate into the outer world, were not
in the least inactive within, or more exactly, there was only one
thought there, which had come into sole possession and carried on a
restless, though vain activity. It continually turned about the question
of what physical nature Zoë-Gradiva might possess, whether during her
stay in the house of Meleager she was a corporeal being or only an
illusory representation of what she had formerly been. For the former,
physical, physiological and anatomical facts seemed to argue that she
had at her disposal organs of speech, and could hold a pencil with her
fingers. Yet Norbert was overwhelmed with the idea that if he should
touch her, even lightly place his hand on hers, he would then encounter
only empty air. A peculiar impulse urged him to make sure of this, but
an equally great timidity hindered him from even thinking of doing it.
For he felt that the confirmation of either of the two possibilities
must bring with it something inspiring fear. The corporeal existence of
the hand would thrill him with horror, and its lack of substance would
cause him deep pain.
Occupied vainly with this problem, which was impossible to solve
scientifically without experiment, he arrived, in the course of his
extensive wanderings that afternoon, at the foothills of the big
mountain group of Monte Sant’ Angelo, rising south from Pompeii, and
here he unexpectedly came upon an elderly man, already grey-bearded,
who, from his equipment with all sorts of implements, seemed to be a
zoologist or botanist, and appeared to be making a search on a hot,
sunny slope. He turned his head as Norbert came close to him, looked at
the latter in surprise for a moment and then said, “Are you interested
in _Faraglionensis_? I should hardly have supposed it, but it seems
thoroughly probable that they are found, not only in the _Faraglioni_ of
Capri, but also dwell permanently on the mainland. The method suggested
by my colleague, Eimer, is really good; I have already used it often
with the best of success. Please remain quite still——”
The speaker stopped, stepped carefully forward a few paces and,
stretched out motionless on the ground, held a little snare, made of a
long grass-blade, before a narrow crevice in the rock, from which the
blue, chatoyant little head of a lizard peeped. Thus the man remained
without the slightest movement, and Norbert Hanold turned about
noiselessly behind him and returned by the way he had come. It seemed to
him dimly that he had already seen the face of the lizard-hunter once,
probably in one of the two hotels; to this fact the latter’s manner
pointed. It was hardly credible what foolishly remarkable purposes could
cause people to make the long trip to Pompeii; happy that he had
succeeded in so quickly ridding himself of the snare-layer, and being
again able to direct his thoughts to the problem of corporeal reality or
unreality, he started on the return. Yet a side street misled him once
to a wrong turn and took him, instead of to the west boundary, to the
east end of the extensive old city-wall; buried in thought, he did not
notice the mistake until he had come right up to a building which was
neither the “Diomed” nor the “Hotel Suisse.” In spite of this it bore
the sign of an hotel; near by he recognized the ruins of the large
Pompeiian amphitheatre, and the memory came to him that near this latter
there was another hotel, the “Albergo del Sole,” which, on account of
its remoteness from the station, was sought out by only a few guests,
and had remained unknown to even him. The walk had made him hot;
besides, the cloudy whirling in his head had not diminished; so he
stepped in through the open door and ordered the remedy deemed useful by
him for blood congestion, a bottle of lime-water. The room stood empty
except, of course, for the fly-visitors gathered in full numbers, and
the unoccupied host availed himself of the opportunity to recommend
highly his house and the excavated treasures it contained. He pointed
suggestively to the fact that there were, near Pompeii, people at whose
places there was not a single genuine piece among the many objects
offered for sale, but that all were imitations, while he, satisfying
himself with a smaller number, offered his guests only things
undoubtedly genuine. For he acquired no articles which he himself had
not seen brought to the light of day, and, in the course of his
eloquence, he revealed that he had also been present when they had found
near the Forum the young lovers who had clasped each other in firm
embrace when they realized their inevitable destruction, and had thus
awaited death. Norbert had already heard of this discovery, but had
shrugged his shoulders about it as a fabulous invention of some
especially imaginative narrator, and he did so now, too, when the host
brought in to him, as authentic proof, a metal brooch encrusted with
green patina, which, in his presence, had been gathered with the remains
of the girl from the ashes. When the arrival at the “Sun Hotel” took it
in his own hand, however, the power of imagination exercised such
ascendency over him that suddenly, without further critical
consideration, he paid for it the price asked from English people, and,
with his acquisition, hastily left the “Albergo del Sole,” in which,
after another turn, he saw in an open window, nodding down, an asphodel
branch covered with white blossoms, which had been placed in a
water-glass; and without needing any logical connection, it rushed
through his mind, at the sight of the grave-flower, that it was an
attestation of the genuineness of his new possession.
This he viewed with mingled feelings of excitement and shyness, keeping
now to the way along the city-wall to Porta Marina. Then it was no fairy
tale that a couple of young lovers had been excavated near the Forum in
such an embrace, and there at the Apollo temple he had seen Gradiva lie
down to sleep, but only in a dream; that he knew now quite definitely;
in reality she might have gone on still farther from the Forum, met some
one and died with him.
From the green brooch between his fingers a feeling passed through him
that it had belonged to Zoë-Gradiva, and had held her dress closed at
the throat. Then she was the beloved fiancée, perhaps the young wife of
him with whom she had wished to die.
It occurred to Norbert Hanold to hurl the brooch away. It burned his
fingers as if it had become glowing, or more exactly, it caused him the
pain such as he had felt at the idea that he might put his hand on that
of Gradiva and encounter only empty air.
Reason, nevertheless, asserted the upper hand; he did not allow himself
to be controlled by imagination against his will. However probable it
might be, there was still lacking invincible proof that the brooch had
belonged to her and that it had been she who had been discovered in the
young man’s arms. This judgment made it possible for him to breathe
freely, and when at the dawn of twilight he reached the “Diomed,” his
long wandering had brought to his sound constitution need of physical
refreshment. Not without appetite did he devour the rather Spartan
evening meal which the “Diomed,” in spite of its Argive origin, had
adopted, and he then noticed two guests newly-arrived in the course of
the afternoon. By appearance and language they marked themselves as
Germans, a man and a woman; they both had youthful, attractive features
endowed with intellectual expressions; their relation to each other
could not be determined, yet, because of a certain resemblance, Norbert
decided that they were brother and sister. To be sure the young man’s
fair hair differed in colour from her light-brown tresses. In her gown
she wore a red Sorrento rose, the sight of which, as he looked across
from his corner, stirred something in his memory without his being able
to think what it was. The couple were the first people he had met on his
journey who seemed possibly congenial. They talked with one another,
over a little bottle, in not too plainly audible tones, nor in cautious
whisperings, apparently sometimes about serious things and sometimes
about gay things, for at times there passed over her face a
half-laughing expression which was very becoming to her, and aroused the
desire to participate in their conversation, or perhaps might have
awakened it in Norbert, if he had met them two days before in the room
otherwise populated only by Anglo-Americans. Yet he felt that what was
passing through his mind stood in too strong contrast to the happy
naïveté of the couple about whom there undeniably lay not the slightest
cloud, for they doubtless were not meditating profoundly over the
essential nature of a girl who had died two thousand years ago, but,
without any weariness, were taking pleasure in an enigmatical problem of
their life of the present. His condition did not harmonize with that; on
the one hand he seemed superfluous to them, and on the other, he
recoiled from an attempt to start an acquaintance with them, for he had
a dark feeling that their bright, merry eyes might look through his
forehead into his thoughts and thereby assume an expression as if they
did not consider him quite in his right mind. Therefore he went up to
his room, stood, as yesterday, at the window, looking over to the purple
night-mantle of Vesuvius, and then he lay down to rest. Exhausted, he
soon fell asleep and dreamed, but remarkably nonsensically. Somewhere in
the sun Gradiva sat making a trap out of a blade of grass in order to
catch a lizard, and she said, “Please stay quite still—my colleague is
right; the method is really good, and she has used it with the greatest
success.”
Norbert Hanold became conscious in his dream that it was actually the
most utter madness, and he cast about to free himself from it. He
succeeded in this by the aid of an invisible bird, who seemingly uttered
a short, merry call, and carried the lizard away in its beak; afterwards
everything disappeared.
* * * * *
On awakening he remembered that in the night a voice had said that in
the spring one gave roses, or rather this was recalled to him through
his eyes, for his gaze, passing down from the window, came upon a bright
bush of red flowers. They were of the same kind as those which the young
lady had worn in her bosom, and when he went down he involuntarily
plucked a couple and smelled of them. In fact, there must be something
peculiar about Sorrento roses, for their fragrance seemed to him not
only wonderful, but quite new and unfamiliar, and at the same time he
felt that they had a somewhat liberating effect upon his mind. At least
they freed him from yesterday’s timidity before the gatekeepers, for he
went, according to directions, in through the “ingresso” to Pompeii,
paid double the amount of admission fee, and quickly struck out upon
streets which took him from the vicinity of other visitors. The little
sketch-book from the house of Meleager he carried along with the green
brooch and the red roses, but the fragrance of the latter had made him
forget to eat breakfast, and his thoughts were not in the present, but
were directed exclusively to the noon hour, which was still far off; he
had to pass the remaining interval, and for this purpose he entered now
one house, now another, as a result of which activity the idea probably
occurred to him that Gradiva had also walked there often before or even
now sought these places out sometimes—his supposition that she was able
to do it only at noon was tottering. Perhaps she was at liberty to do it
in other hours of the day, possibly even at night in the moonlight. The
roses strengthened this supposition strangely for him, when he inhaled,
as he held them to his nose; and his deliberations, complaisant, and
open to conviction, made advances to this new idea, for he could bear
witness that he did not cling to preconceived opinions at all, but
rather gave free rein to every reasonable objection, and such there was
here without any doubt, not only logically, but desirably valid. Only
the question arose whether, upon meeting her then, the eyes of others
could see her as a corporeal being, or whether only his possessed the
ability to do that. The former was not to be denied, claimed even
probability for itself, transformed the desirable thing into quite the
opposite, and transported him into a low-spirited, restless mood. The
thought that others might also speak to her and sit down near her to
carry on a conversation with her made him indignant; to that he alone
possessed a claim, or at any rate a privilege, for he had discovered
Gradiva, of whom no one had formerly known, had observed her daily,
taken her into his life, to a degree, imparted to her his life-strength,
and it seemed to him as if he had thereby again lent to her life that
she would not have possessed without him. Therefore he felt that there
devolved upon him a right, to which he alone might make a claim, and
which he might refuse to share with anyone else.
The advancing day was hotter than the two preceding; the sun seemed to
have set her mind to-day on a quite extraordinary feat, and made it
regrettable, not only in an archæological, but also in a practical
connection, that the water system of Pompeii had lain burst and dried up
for two thousand years. Street fountains here and there commemorated it
and likewise gave evidence of their informal use by thirsty passers-by,
who had, in order to bend forward to the jet, leaned a hand on the
marble railing and gradually dug out a sort of trough in the place, in
the same way that dropping wears away stone; Norbert observed this at a
corner of the Strada della Fortuna, and from that the idea occurred to
him that the hand of Zoë-Gradiva, too, might formerly have rested here
in that way, and involuntarily he laid his hand into the little hollow,
yet he immediately rejected the idea, and felt annoyance at himself that
he could have done it; the thought did not harmonize at all with the
nature and bearing of the young Pompeiian girl of a refined family;
there was something profane in the idea that she could have bent over so
and placed her lips on the very pipe from which the plebeians drank with
coarse mouths. In a noble sense, he had never seen anything more seemly
than her actions and movements; he was frightened by the idea that she
might be able to see by looking at him that he had had the incredibly
unreasonable thought, for her eyes possessed something penetrating; a
couple of times, when he had been with her, the feeling had seized him
that she looked as if she were seeking for access to his inmost thoughts
and were looking about them as if with a bright steel probe. He was
obliged, therefore, to take great care that she might come upon nothing
foolish in his mental processes.
It was now an hour until noon and in order to pass it, he went
diagonally across the street into the Casa del Fauno, the most extensive
and magnificent of all the excavated houses. Like no other, it possessed
a double inner court and showed, in the larger one, on the middle of the
ground, the empty base on which had stood the famous statue of the
dancing faun after which the house had been named. Yet there stirred in
Norbert Hanold not the least regret that this work of art, valued highly
by science, was no longer here, but, together with the mosaic picture of
the Battle of Alexander, had been transferred to the Museo Nazionale in
Naples; he possessed no further intention nor desire than to let time
move along, and he wandered about aimlessly in this place through the
large building. Behind the peristyle opened a wider room, surrounded by
numerous pillars, planned either as another repetition of the peristyle
or as an ornamental garden; so it seemed at present for, like the
dining-room of the Casa di Meleagro, it was completely covered with
poppy-blooms. Absent-mindedly the visitor passed through the silent
dereliction.
Then, however, he stopped and rested on one foot; but he found himself
not alone here; at some distance his glance fell upon two figures, who
first gave the impression of only one, because they stood as closely as
possible to each other. They did not see him, for they were concerned
only with themselves, and, in that corner, because of the pillars, might
have believed themselves undiscoverable by any other eyes. Mutually
embracing each other, they held their lips also pressed together, and
the unsuspected spectator recognized, to his amazement, that they were
the young man and woman who had last evening seemed to him the first
congenial people encountered on this trip. For brother and sister, their
present position, the embrace and the kiss, it seemed to him had lasted
too long. So it was surely another pair of lovers, probably a young
bridal couple, an Augustus and Gretchen, too.
Strange to relate, however, the two latter did not, at the moment, enter
Norbert’s mind, and the incident seemed to him not at all ridiculous nor
repulsive, rather it heightened his pleasure in them. What they were
doing seemed to him as natural as it did comprehensible; his eyes clung
to the living picture, more widely open than they ever had been to any
of the most admired works of art, and he would have gladly devoted
himself for a longer time to his observation. Yet it seemed to him that
he had wrongfully penetrated into a consecrated place and was on the
point of disturbing a secret act of devotion; the idea of being noticed
there struck terror to his heart, and he quickly turned, went back some
distance noiselessly on tiptoe and, when he had passed beyond hearing
distance, ran out with bated breath and beating heart to the Vicolo del
Fauno.
* * * * *
When he arrived before the house of Meleager, he did not know whether it
was already noon, and did not happen to question his watch about it, but
remained before the door, standing looking down with indecision for some
time at the “Ave” in the entrance. A fear prevented him from stepping
in, and strangely, he was equally afraid of not meeting Gradiva within,
and of finding her there; for, during the last few moments, he had felt
quite sure that, in the first case, she would be staying somewhere else
with some younger man, and, in the second case, the latter would be in
company with her on the steps between the pillars. Toward the man,
however, he felt a hate far stronger than against all the assembled
common house-flies; until to-day he had not considered it possible that
he could be capable of such violent inner excitement. The duel, which he
had always considered stupid nonsense, suddenly appeared to him in a
different light; here it became a natural right which the man injured in
his own rights, or mortally insulted, made use of as the only available
means to secure satisfaction or to part with an existence which had
become purposeless. So he suddenly stepped forward to enter; he would
challenge the bold man and would—this rushed upon him almost more
powerfully—express unreservedly to her that he had considered her
something better, more noble, and incapable of such vulgarity.
He was so filled to the brim with this rebellious idea that he uttered
it, even though there was not apparently the least occasion for it, for,
when he had covered the distance to the dining-room with stormy haste,
he demanded violently, “Are you alone?” although appearances allowed of
no doubt that Gradiva was sitting there on the steps, just as much alone
as on the two previous days.
She looked at him amazed and replied, “Who should still be here after
noon? Then the people are all hungry and sit down to meals. Nature has
arranged that very happily for me.”
His surging excitement could not, however, be allayed so quickly, and
without his knowledge or desire, he let slip, with the conviction of
certainty, the conjecture which had come over him outside; for he added,
to be sure somewhat foolishly, that he could really not think otherwise.
Her bright eyes remained fixed upon his face until he had finished. Then
she made a motion with one finger against her brow and said, “You——”
After that, however, she continued, “It seems to me quite enough that I
do not remain away from here, even though I must expect that you are
coming here at this time; but the place pleases me, and I see that you
have brought me my sketch-book that I forgot here yesterday. I thank you
for your vigilance. Won’t you give it to me?” The last question was well
founded, for he showed no disposition to do so, but remained motionless.
It began to dawn upon him that he had imagined and worked out a
monstrous piece of nonsense, and had also given expression to it; in
order to compensate, as far as possible, he now stepped forward hastily,
handed Gradiva the book, and at the same time sat down near her on the
step, mechanically. Casting a glance at his hand, she said, “You seem to
be a lover of roses.”
At these words he suddenly became conscious of what had caused him to
pluck and bring them and he responded, “Yes,—of course, not for myself,
have I—you spoke yesterday—and last night, too, some one said it to
me—people give them in spring.”
She pondered briefly before she answered, “Ah, so—yes, I remember. To
others, I meant, one does not give asphodel, but roses. That is polite
of you; it seems your opinion of me is improved.”
Her hand stretched out to receive the red flowers, and, handing them to
her, he rejoined, “I believed at first that you could be here only
during the noon hour, but it has become probable to me that you also, at
some other time—that makes me very happy——”
“Why does it make you happy?”
Her face expressed lack of comprehension—only about her lips there
passed a slight, hardly noticeable quiver. Confused, he offered, “It is
beautiful to be alive; it has never seemed so much so to me before—I
wished to ask you?” He searched in his breast pocket and added, as he
drew out the object, “Has this brooch ever belonged to you?”