When Christian entered, Frau Wahnschaffe stood massively in the middle
of the room. Her arms were lightly folded below her bosom. A wave of
pallor passed over her, and she felt chilled. Christian approached. She
turned her face, and looked at him out of the corners of her eyes. She
sought to speak, but her lips twitched nervously. Christian suddenly
lost the simple assurance born of his swift and unreflective action.
He suddenly realized the monstrousness of his errand, and stood quite
silent.
“Will you stay with us for some time?” Frau Wahnschaffe asked hoarsely.
“Surely you will. I have had your room made ready; you will find
everything in order. It was unnecessarily considerate of you to spend
the night at an hotel. Do you not know your mother well enough to take
it for granted that the house is always ready to receive you?”
“I am sorry, mother,” answered Christian, “but I can stay only a few
hours. I must not and dare not delay. I have to return to Berlin on the
five o’clock train. I am sorry.”
Frau Wahnschaffe now turned her full face upon Christian so slowly that
the motion had the air of marionette’s. “You are sorry,” she murmured.
“Ah, yes. I scarcely expected even that much. But everything is ready
for you, Christian, your bed and your wardrobes. You have not been
here for very long, and it is very long since I have seen you. Let me
think: it must be eighteen months. Pastor Werner told me some things
about you; they were not pleasant to hear. He was here several times.
I seemed unable to grasp his report except in small doses. It seemed
to me the man must have had hallucinations, yet he expressed himself
very carefully. I said to him: ‘Nonsense, my dear pastor, people don’t
do such things.’ You know, Christian, that I find matters of a certain
sort difficult to understand.... But you look strange, Christian....
You look changed, my son. You’re dressed differently. Do you no
longer dress as you used to? It is strange. Do you not frequent good
society? And these fancies of the pastor concerning voluntary poverty
and renunciations that you desire to suffer ... and I hardly recall
what--tell me: is there any foundation of truth to all that? For I do
not understand.”
Christian said: “Won’t you sit down beside me for a little, mother? We
can’t talk comfortably while you stand there.”
“Gladly, Christian, let us sit down and talk. It is nice of you to say
it in that way.”
They sat down side by side on the sofa, and Christian said: “I know
I have been guilty of neglect toward you, mother. I should not have
waited to let strangers inform you of my decisions and actions. I
see now that it makes a mutual understanding harder; only it is so
unpleasant and so troublesome to talk about oneself. Yet I suppose
it must be done, for what other people report is usually thoroughly
wrong. I sometimes planned to write to you, but I couldn’t; even while
I thought the words, they became misleading and false. Yet I felt no
impulse to come to you without any other motive than to give you an
explanation. It seemed to me that there should be enough confidence in
me in your heart to make a detailed self-justification unnecessary.
And I thought it better to risk a breach and estrangement caused by
silence, than to indulge in ill-timed talk, and yet avoid neither
because I had not been understood.”
“You speak of breach and estrangement,” Frau Wahnschaffe replied, “as
though it were only now threatening us. And you speak as calmly as
though it were a punishment for children, and you were quite reconciled
to it. Very well, Christian, the breach and the estrangement may come.
You will find me too proud to struggle against your mind and your
decision. I am not a mother who wants her son’s devotion as an alms,
nor a woman who would interfere in your world, nor one who will stoop
to strive for a right that is denied her. Nothing that breaks my heart
need stop your course. But give me, at least, one word to which I can
cling in my lonely days of brooding and questioning. The air gives me
no answer to my questions, nor my own mind, nor any other’s. Explain
to me what you are really doing, and why you are doing it. At last, at
last you are here; I can see you and hear you. Speak!”
Her words, spoken in a monotonous and hollow voice, stirred Christian
deeply, less through their meaning than through his mother’s attitude
and gesture--her stern, lost glance, the grief she felt, and the
coldness that she feigned. She had found the way to his innermost
being, and his great silence was broken. He said: “It isn’t easy to
explain the life one lives or the events whose necessity is rooted
uncertainly in the past. If I search my own past, I cannot tell where
these things had their beginning, nor when, nor how. But let me put it
this way: He whom a great glare blinds, desires darkness; he who is
satiated finds food distasteful; he who has never lost himself in some
cause feels shame and the desire to prove himself. Yet even that does
not explain what seems to me the essential thing. You see, mother, the
world as I gradually got to know it, the institutions of men, harbours
a wrong that is very great and that is inaccessible to our ordinary
thinking. I cannot tell you exactly in what this great wrong consists.
No man can tell us yet, neither the happy man nor the wretched, neither
the learned nor the unlettered one. But it exists, and it meets you at
every turn. It does no good to reflect about it. But like the swimmer
who strips before he leaps, one must dive to the very bottom of life to
find the root and origin of that great wrong. And one can be seized by
a yearning for that search, which sweeps away all other interests and
ambitions, and masters one utterly. It is a feeling that I could not
describe to you, mother, not if I were to talk from now until night.
It pierces one through, all one’s soul and all one’s life; and if one
strives to withdraw from it, it only becomes keener.”
He rose under the impression of the unwonted excitement that he felt,
and continued speaking more swiftly. “That wrong does not consist in
the mere contrast between poor and rich, between arbitrary licence on
the one hand and enforced endurance on the other. No, no. Look, we’ve
all grown up with the view that crime meets its expiation, guilt its
punishment, that every human deed bears its reward within itself, and
that, in a word, a justice rules which compensates, orders, avenges,
if not before our eyes, then in some higher region. But that is not
true. I believe in no such justice; it does not exist. Nor is it
possible that such a justice exists in the universe, for if it did, the
lives men lead could not be as they are. And if this superhuman justice
of which men speak and on which they rely does not exist, then the
source of that great wrong that is in the world must be within the life
of man itself, and we must find that source and know its nature. But
you cannot find it by observing life from without; you must be within
it, within it to the lowest depths. That is it, mother, that is it.
Perhaps you understand now.”
A measureless astonishment spread over Frau Wahnschaffe’s features. She
had never heard such things, she had never prepared her mind to hear
them, and least of all to hear them from him, the beautiful, the ever
festive, the inviolable by any ugliness. For it was that vision of him
which she still nursed within. She meant to answer, she almost thought
the words had escaped her: “That search is not your function in the
world, yours less than any other’s!” The desperate words had already
shadowed her face, when she looked upon him, and saw that he was rapt
not from the sphere she hated, avoided, and feared for him, but from
herself, her world, his world and former self. She beheld one almost
unknown in a ghostly shimmer, and a presage stirred in her frozen soul;
and in that presage was the yearning of which he had spoken, although
its very name was strange to her. Also the fear of losing his love
utterly let all the years behind her seem but wasted years, and she
said shyly: “You indicated, did you not, that a particular purpose had
brought you here? What is it?”
Christian sat down again. “It is a very difficult and delicate matter,”
he answered. “I came without realizing its exact nature, of which I
seem but now to become aware. The woman whom I am taking care of, Karen
Engelschall--you have heard of her, mother--desires your pearls; and
I, I promised to bring them to her. Her desire is as strange as my
request. The whole thing, put bluntly, sounds like madness.” He smiled,
he even laughed, yet his face had grown very pale.
Frau Wahnschaffe merely pronounced his name: “Christian.” That was all.
She spoke the word in a toneless, lingering voice, almost hissing the s.
Christian went on: “I said I was taking care of that woman ... that
isn’t the right expression. It was a critical moment in my life when
I found her. Many people were astonished that I didn’t surround her
with splendour and luxury, when that was still in my power. But that
would have availed nothing. I would have missed my aim utterly by such
a method; and she herself did not dream of demanding it. If it weren’t
for her relatives, who constantly urge her to rebellion and desire,
she would be quite contented. People chatter to her too much. She,
of course, doesn’t understand my purpose; often she regards me as an
enemy. But is that strange after such a life as hers? Mother, you may
believe me when I assure you that all the pearls in the world can not
bring a soul forgetfulness of such a life.”
He spoke disconnectedly and nervously. His fingers twitched, his brow
was wrinkled and smooth in turn. The words he spoke and must yet speak
pained him; the monstrousness of his demand, which he had but now fully
realized, and the possibility that his request might be refused--these
things drove the blood to his heart. His mother neither stirred nor
spoke. Within a few minutes her features seemed to have shrunk into the
crumpled mask of extreme old age.
Christian’s fright stung him to further speech. “She is an outcast,
one of the despised and rejected. That is true; or rather, that is
what she was. But it is not permitted us to pass judgment. An accident
placed a photograph of you, wearing your pearls, in her possession; and
perhaps she felt as though you stood before her in person, and there
came over her a sudden sense of what it means to be an outcast and
despised. You and she--perhaps the world should hold no such contrasts;
and the pearls became to her confused and half-mad vision a symbol of
compensation, of moral equilibrium. She will not keep the pearls, by
the way, nor would I permit her to do so. I pledge myself that they
shall be returned, if you will accept my mere word as a pledge. I shall
return the pearls, and you yourself may set the date. Only please don’t
disappoint me in my quandary.”
Frau Wahnschaffe took a deep breath, and her tone was harsh: “You
foolish boy.”
Christian lowered his eyes.
“You foolish boy,” Frau Wahnschaffe repeated, and her lips trembled.
“Why do you say that?” Christian asked softly.
She arose, and beckoned him with a weary gesture. He followed her
into her bed-chamber. She took a key out of a leather-case, and
unlocked the steel door of the safe built into the wall. There were
her jewels--diadems and clasps, bracelets, brooches, pins, rings and
lavallières studded with precious stones. She grasped the rope of
pearls, and, as she took it out, its end trailed, on the floor. The
pearls were almost equal in magnificence and of uncommon size. Frau
Wahnschaffe said: “These pearls, Christian, have meant more to me than
such things usually do to a woman. Your father gave them to me when
you were born. I always wore them in a spirit of thankfulness to God
for the gift of you. I am not ashamed to confess that. They seemed,
I thought, to form a circle within which you and I alone had being.
I have neither touched them nor looked at them since you started on
your strange wanderings, and I believe that the pearls themselves have
sickened. They are so yellow, and some have lost their lustre. Did you
seriously think I could deny you anything, no matter what it is? It is
true that your ways are too strange for me now. My brain seems befogged
when I try to grasp all that, and I feel blind and lame. Yet to-day
some voice has spoken for you, and I would not lose that voice. So far
I have heard only vain lamentations. My whole soul shudders, but I
begin to see you again, and whatever you ask I must give you. You are
to know that, and indeed, you must have known that or you would not
have come. Take them!” She turned aside to hide the pain upon her face,
and with outstretched arm held out to him the rope of pearls. “But your
father must never know,” she murmured. “If you desire to return the
pearls, bring them yourself if possible. I would not know for whom they
are. Do with them as though they were your property.”
Property! Christian listened to the word, but it did not penetrate
his consciousness. It fell and disappeared like a stone in water;
for him it had lost all meaning. And he looked upon the pearls with
surprise and indifference, as though they were a toy, and it were
strange to talk and trouble so much about them. Their preciousness,
the value which amounted to millions, was no longer a living fact of
consciousness to him, but like a dim memory of something heard long
ago. Therefore he did not feel the burden of his mother’s trust and
his possession. The way in which he tucked the pearls into a case
his mother had found, had something so carelessly business-like, and
his word of thanks so obvious a formality, that it was clear he had
forgotten the obstacles to his errand which he had felt so keenly a
little while before.
He remained with his mother for another hour. But he spoke little, and
the environment, the splendour of the room, the air of the house, the
solemnity and sloth, the emptiness and aloofness, all this seemed to
disquiet him. Frau Wahnschaffe was unconscious of that. She talked and
became silent, and in her eyes flickered the fear over the passing of
her hour. When Christian arose to bid her farewell, her face became
ashen, and she controlled herself with extreme difficulty. But when
she was alone she reeled a little, and grasped for support one of the
carven columns of her bed and gave a cry. Then suddenly she smiled.
Perhaps it was a delusion that caused her to smile; perhaps it was a
flash of insight like lightning in a dark sky.
V
After his return from Africa, Felix Imhof was practically a ruined man.
Unfortunate mining speculations had swallowed up the greater part of
his fortune. But his attitude and behaviour were unchanged.
Exposure to the sun and air had almost blackened his skin, and his
bohemian friends called him the Abyssinian prince. He was leaner than
ever, his eyes protruded more greedily, his laughter and speech were
noisier, and the tempo of his life was more accelerated. If any one
asked after his well-being, he answered: “There’s two years’ fuel left
in this machine. After that--exit!”
He had one dwelling in Munich and another in Berlin, but his numerous
and complicated undertakings drove him to a different city every week.
Some political friends persuaded him to join in the founding of a great
daily representing the left wing of liberalism, and he consented. A
new catchword arose, a People’s Theatre; and it was his ambition to
be named among those who furthered the new panacea. He caused the
publishing house that he had financed to issue a new edition of the
classics, distinguished by tasteful editing and exquisite bookmaking.
He received twenty to thirty telegrams daily, and sent between forty
and fifty; he kept three typists busy, and suffered from the lack
of a telephone while he was in motor cars or on express trains. He
discovered the value of a half-forgotten painter of the Quattrocento
for modern connoisseurs, and by means of literary advertisements caused
fabulous prices to be offered for the painter’s few and faded works. He
gambled on the American stock exchange, and made four hundred thousand
marks; next week he lost double the amount in a deal in Roumanian
timber.
Sitting in his steam-bath, he sketched the plan of a mock-heroic
poem; between three and five at night he dictated in alternation a
translation of a novel by Lesage and an essay in economics; he carried
on an elaborate correspondence with the chief of a theosophical
society; drank like an aristocratic fraternity student, spent money
like water, subsidized young artists, was constantly on the trail of
new inventions, and fairly pursued promising engineers, chemists, and
experts in aeronautics. One of his boldest plans was the founding of
a stock company for the exploitation of the hidden coal-fields of the
Antarctic regions. He assured all doubters that the profits would run
to billions and that the difficulties were trifling.
One day he made the acquaintance of a technical expert named
Schlehdorn. The man hardly inspired confidence, but Imhof overlooked
that as well as his shabbiness. As though by the way Schlehdorn
mentioned the difficulty caused the German marine by the fact that all
glass for ships’ port-holes had to be imported from Belgium and France.
The secret of its manufacture was stringently guarded by certain
factories in those countries. Whoever succeeded in unearthing it was a
made man. Imhof swallowed the bait. He let the man inform him in regard
to possible plans, agreed with him upon a special telegraphic code, and
financed him generously. The telegrams he received sounded hopeful.
Schlehdorn, to be sure, demanded larger and larger sums. He explained
that he had had to bribe influential persons. Imhof deliberately
silenced his suspicions; he was curious what the end would be.
One day he received a telegram from Schlehdorn demanding that he come
at once to Andenne with fifty thousand francs. The matter was as good
as settled. Imhof took fifty thousand francs as well as his revolver,
and followed the summons. Schlehdorn was waiting for him, and conducted
him through the darkness to a suspicious looking inn. He was led to a
room at the end of a long hall, and the moment he had entered it, Imhof
recognized the situation for what it was. He had hardly looked about
when two elegantly dressed gentlemen appeared. The company took seats
about a round table. Schlehdorn spread out some documents in front of
him, and looked significantly at one of his accomplices. At that moment
Imhof leaped up, backed against the wall, drew his revolver, and said
calmly: “You needn’t take any further trouble, gentlemen. The fifty
thousand francs are deposited in my bank in Brussels. The trick was too
obvious and this place too suspicious. If any one stirs, he’ll have to
have his tailor mend small, round holes in his suit to-morrow.” His
cool determination saved him. The three men were intimidated, and let
him take his travelling bag and slip out. They themselves, of course,
escaped as swiftly as possible after that.
But this experience, though he gave a humorous description of it, had
a paralysing effect on Imhof. Considering the causes of his inner
tension, this incident was trivial, yet it somehow brought into
relief symptoms of weariness and satiety that multiplied and became
noticeable. His cynicism would rise to the point of savagery, and then
break down into sentimentality. “Give me a little garden, two little
rooms, a dog and a cow, and I won’t look at the scarlet woman of the
world’s Babylon again,” he perorated insincerely. A violent illness
seized upon him. Theatrically he made his final dispositions, and
summoned his friends to hear his last words. When he recovered, he gave
a feast that was the talk of all Munich for three weeks and cost him
sixty thousand marks.
On this occasion he met Sybil Scharnitzer and fell in love with her.
It was like an inner explosion. He acted like a madman; he declared
himself capable of any crime for this woman’s sake. Sybil was asked how
she liked him. Her answer was quite laconic: “I don’t like niggers.”
Her words were reported to him by three different witnesses. The sting
of them went deep. He stood in front of his mirror in the night,
laughed bitterly, and smashed the glass with his fist so that the blood
flowed.
The image of Sybil pursued him. He went wherever he was likely to meet
her. In the girl’s presence he became a boy again. He found no words,
blushed and stammered, and became the laughing stock of those who
knew him. One evening he ventured most shyly to speak to her of his
feelings. She looked at him coldly, and her eyes said; “I don’t like
niggers.” They were hard, selfish, stubborn eyes.
“I don’t like niggers.” The words became furies that pursued him. A
month later business took him to Paris, and in a cabaret he saw a young
Negro woman dancing a snake dance. An impulse of revenge urged him
to make advances to the girl. The revenge was directed less against
the unfeeling woman who had repulsed him so pitilessly than against
himself. It was the defiant rage of his own desires. He boasted of his
relations with the Negro woman, and appeared with her in public. What
drove him thereafter from dissipation to dissipation was the terror of
emptiness, the excess at the edge of life, where nature itself demands
the final fulfilment of human fate.
And his fate was fulfilled.