From the unconscious brooding of many days there arose in the mind of
Albrecht Wahnschaffe the clear memory of an incident which had taken
place at Aix-les-Bains when Christian was fourteen years old.
Albrecht Wahnschaffe had made the acquaintance of a Marchesa Barlotti,
a witty old lady who had been a famous opera singer in her youth, and
who was now of a positively fascinating ugliness. One day she had met
Albrecht Wahnschaffe and Christian on the promenade, and had been so
enchanted by the boy’s beauty that she had cordially asked him, in
her fine, free way, to visit her. Christian had turned pale; but his
father had promised, and appointed an hour in his stead. But Christian,
in whom the ugliness of the Marchesa had aroused an unconquerable
aversion, calmly and coldly refused obedience to his father’s wish.
No persuasion or request or command had influenced the boy. Albrecht
Wahnschaffe fell into one of those Berserker rages which made him drunk
and dizzy; it didn’t happen more than once in ten years, and when the
attack had passed he felt like a man who had had a serious illness. In
his rage he had approached Christian and struck him with his stick. But
no second blow fell. The expression in the boy’s face paralyzed his
arm. For it was as of ice, yet as of flame: there was in it a loftiness
and also a deadly scorn, against which anger broke as glass will break
on granite. And that icy and infinitely astonished expression seemed
to say: You hope to chastise me? To force me?
And the father, in his amazement and humiliation and shame, had
recognized the fact that here was a human soul that could not and must
not be forced, never, under no circumstances, unto no purpose in the
world.
It was this incident that came into his mind now, and was the reason
why he definitively gave up the intention of using force.
Months ago he had written to Christian, asking him to come home and
explain himself, to rescue his parents from the pressure of anxiety
and confusion, and especially his mother, who was suffering beyond her
strength. To this letter Christian had replied laconically that there
would be no purpose in his coming, and that there was no ground for
anxiety, that he was very well and in excellent spirits, and that no
one need suffer because he followed his own devices.
But what was the sense of his action? Was there any key to this
mystery? Was it possible in this age of science and enlightenment to
conceive of a mystic metamorphosis of personality?
He had a vision of Christian walking through the long streets,
especially at night, going into humble inns and eating poor food.
What was the meaning of it? And he could imagine meeting Christian on
such an occasion, and could see his son’s conventional courtesy, the
proud, cool eyes, the firm, white teeth which that conventional smile
revealed. And even to imagine such a meeting filled him with fear.
But perhaps that was necessary. Perhaps he would have to go to him.
Perhaps all that had happened did not in reality have the deadly
seriousness which it seemed to have at a distance. Perhaps there was
some simple confusion that could be cleared and disentangled easily
enough.
The thought of Christian burrowed deep into his brain, and his fear
grew. If he sought release from that thought, it emerged to torment
him the more, in dreams, in sleepless nights, amid the tumult of
affairs, in conversation, in every place, at all times, through all the
weeks and months.
V
The castle of the Wahnschaffes, built for delight and splendour, lay
desolate. The great reception halls and the guest-rooms were empty.
Some American friends had announced their arrival; but Frau Wahnschaffe
had begged to be excused.
Her husband sent her delicacies and flowers from the hothouses. She
cared for neither. In a lethargy she sat in an armchair or lay in her
bed of state. The curtains were drawn even by day. The electric lamps
were veiled.
Memories of Christian’s childhood were her refuge. She lived them
over in imagination: how Christian as a child of five had lain in bed
with her. Early in the morning the nurse had brought him in his loud
delight, still with the rosy warmth of sleep upon him. She recalled the
bird-like voice, the golden locks, the flexible hands, the radiant,
deep-blue eyes. He had stretched out his little hands after her ropes
of pearls, when she had come in evening dress into the nursery. Once
little maidens had placed a wreath of sweet peas on his head and danced
about him in innocent homage. He had raced through the park with two
dogs, and stopped with an admirable gesture of astonishment before a
statue of bronze. Later, when he was a youth, at the carnival in Mainz
he had stood amid lovely women in a flowery chariot and raised a silver
goblet toward the beholders.
Unforgettable to her were his gestures, his glances, his resilient
walk, the dark tones of his voice. Equally unforgettable were the
expectation of his coming, the delight of his presence, the admiration
that met him from the eyes of men. The world contained him only.
She read the few letters that he had written her. She guarded them
like relics in a little ebony box. They were sober, dry notes, but to
her they were magical. There were ten or twelve lines from Paris or San
Sebastian, Rome, Viareggio, Corfu, or the Isle of Wight. Once she had
drunk all the beauty of earth from these places. Now that he was no
longer there, they faded and died to her.
She had loved her womb because it had borne him; she hated it now
because she had lost him. But how or why she had lost him--that was a
thing unfathomable. She brooded over it by day and night.
No one could guide her. No thought revealed a gleam of light. She stood
before a wall and stared at it in despair. She listened, but no voice
reached her ear from the other side. All that people told her seemed
absurd and false.
In her bedroom hung a portrait of Christian painted in his twentieth
year. It had been done three years before by a Swedish painter. It was
very like him, and she adored it. One night she took it from the wall
and placed it on a table and lifted the shade from a lamp nearby. She
crouched in a chair, rested her head upon her hands, and gazed at the
picture steadily and with a questioning passion.
She asked the picture, but it gave no answer. She thrilled with a
desire to take that head into her hands. But the face on the canvas
smiled its equivocal and remote smile. If only she could have wept! But
tears were denied her: too hard and unmoved had she passed through life.
When morning came her maid found her still sitting before Christian’s
picture. The painted face beside the burning lamp still smiled its
alien smile.