I
Edgar Lorm was accustomed to taking his meals without Judith, so he was
not surprised at her absence to-day and sat down alone.
The meal was served: a lobster, breast of veal with salad and three
kinds of vegetables, a pheasant with compote, a large boule de Berlin,
pineapple and cheese. He drank two glasses of red Bordeaux and a pint
of champagne.
He ate this excessively rich meal daily with the appetite of a giant
and the philosophical delight of a gourmet. As he was lighting his
heavy Havana cigar over his coffee, he heard Judith’s voice. She burst
in, perturbed to the utmost.
“What has happened, dear child?” he asked.
“Something frightful,” she gasped, and sank into a chair.
Lorm arose. “But what has happened, my dear?”
She panted. “I haven’t been feeling at all well for several days. I got
the doctor to look me over, and he says I’m pregnant.”
A sudden light came into Lorm’s eyes. “I don’t think that’s such a
terrible misfortune.” He had difficulty in concealing his surprised
delight. “On the contrary, I think it’s a blessed thing. I hardly dared
hope for it. Indeed, my dear wife, I don’t know what I wouldn’t give to
have it true.”
Judith’s eyes glittered as she replied: “It shall never be--never,
never! I shall not remind you of our agreement; I shall not lay the
blame on you if this terrible thing has really happened. I can’t
believe it yet. It would make me feel bewitched. But you are mistaken
if you count on any yielding on my part, any womanly weakness, or
any awakening of certain so-called instincts. Never, never! My body
shall remain as it is--mine, all mine. I won’t have it lacerated and I
won’t share it. It’s the only thing I still call my own. I won’t have
a strange creature take possession of it, and I refuse to age by nine
years in nine months. And I don’t want some mocking image of you or
me to appear. Never, never! The horror of it! Be careful! If you take
delight in something I detest so, the horror will extend itself to you!”
Lorm stretched himself a little, and regarded her with amazement. There
was nothing for him to say.
She went into her bedroom and locked the door. Lorm gave orders that
no visitors were to be admitted. Then he went into the library, and
spent the time until eight reading a treatise on the motions of the
fixed stars. But often he raised his eyes from the book, for he was
preoccupied not so much with the secrets of the heavens as with very
mundane and very depressing things. He got up and went to the door of
Judith’s room. He listened and knocked, but Judith did not answer.
At the end of half an hour he returned and knocked again. She knew
his humble way of seeking admission, but she did not answer. The door
remained locked.
At the end of each half hour, which he spent in reading about the
stars, he returned to the door and knocked. He called her name. He
begged her to have some confidence in him and hear what he had to say.
He spoke in muffled tones, so as not to arouse the attention of the
servants. He asked her not to blame him for his premature delight. He
saw his error and deplored it. Only let her listen to him. He promised
her gifts--an antique candlestick, a set of Dresden china, a frock made
by Worth. In vain. She did not answer.
Three days passed. An oppressive atmosphere rested on the household.
Lorm slunk through the rooms like an intimidated guest. He humiliated
himself so far as to send Judith a letter by the housekeeper, who took
in her meals and who alone had access to her. At night he returned to
the door again and again, placed his lips against it, and implored her.
There was no stirring of anger in him, no impulse to clench his fist
and break down the door. Judith knew that. She was beating her fish.
She knew that she could go any length.
This man had been the idol of a whole nation. He had been spoiled by
fame, by the friendship of distinguished people, by the kindness of
fate and all the amenities of life. His very whims had been feared;
a frown of his had swept all opposition aside. Now he not only
endured the maltreatment of this woman whom he had married after
long solitariness and hesitation; he accepted insult and humiliation
like the just rewards of some guilt. Weary of fame, appreciation,
friendship, success, and domination, he seemed to lust after
mortification, the reversal of all things, and the very voluptuousness
of pain.
Quite late on the third evening he was summoned to the telephone by
Wolfgang Wahnschaffe. The breach between Wolfgang and Judith that had
followed his first visit forbade his visiting the house.
He begged Lorm for an interview on neutral ground. The occasion,
he said, was most pressing. Lorm asked for details. The bitter and
excited answer was that the question concerned Christian. Some common
proceeding against him, some decision and plan, some protective
measures were absolutely necessary. The family must be saved from both
danger and inconceivable disgrace.
At this point Lorm interrupted him. “I feel rather sure that my wife
will prove quite unapproachable in the matter. And what could I do more
than the merest stranger?” Urged anew, he finally promised to meet
Wolfgang at luncheon in a restaurant on Potsdamer Street.
He had scarcely hung up the receiver when Judith entered. She had on
a négligée of dark-green velvet trimmed with fur. The garment had a
long train. Her hair was carefully dressed, a cheerful smile was on her
lips, and she stretched out both hands to Lorm.
He was happy, and took her hands and kissed them.
She put her arms about his neck and her lips close to his ear:
“Everything is all right. The doctor is a donkey. I did you wrong.
Everything is nice now, so be nice!”
“If only you are satisfied,” said Lorm, “nothing else matters.”
She nestled closer to him, and coaxed with eyes and mouth and hands:
“How about the antique candlestick, darling, and the frock by Worth?
Are you going to get them for me? And am I not to have my set of
Dresden china?”
Lorm laughed. “Since you admit that you wronged me, the price of
reconciliation is a trifle high,” he mocked. “But don’t worry. You
shall have everything.”
He breathed a kiss upon her forehead. That disembodied tenderness was
the symbol of the ultimate paralysis of his energy before her and men
and the world. And from day to day this paralysis grew more noticeable,
and bore all the physical symptoms of an affection of the heart.