Lorm was sick unto death. He lay in a sanatorium. An intestinal
operation had been performed, and there was slight hope of his recovery.
Friends visited him. Emanuel Herbst, most faithful of them all,
concealed his pain and fear beneath a changeless mask of fatalistic
calm. Since the first day on which he had seen on the face of his
beloved friend the first traces of fate’s destructive work, the
shadow-world of the theatre with all its activities had nauseated
him. With the dying of its central fire, he had a presentiment of the
approaching end of many things.
Crammon also came often. He loved to talk to Lorm of past days, and
Lorm was glad to remember and to smile. He also smiled when he was
told how numerous were the inquiries after him; that telegrams came
uninterruptedly from all the cities of the land, and showed how
profoundly his image and character had affected the heart of the
nation. He did not believe it; in his innermost soul he did not believe
it. He despised men too deeply.
There was but one human being in whose love he believed. That was
Judith. Unswervingly he believed in her love, though each hour might
have offered proof of his delusion, each hour of the day in which
he expressed the desire to see her, each hour of the night when he
controlled his moans of pain not to annoy the ears of paid, strange
women.
For Judith came at most for half an hour in the forenoon or for half
an hour in the afternoon, tried to conceal her impatient annoyance by
overtenderness and artificial eagerness, and said: “Puggie, aren’t
you going to be well soon?” or “Aren’t you ashamed to be so lazy and
lie here, while poor Judith longs for you at home?” She filled the
sick-room with noise and with futile advice, scolded the nurse, showed
the doctor his place, flirted with the consultant physician, chattered
of a hundred trivialities--a trip to a health resort, the last cook’s
latest pilfering, and never lacked reasons with which to palliate the
shortness of her stay.
Lorm would confirm these reasons. He had no doubt of any of them; he
gave her opportunities to produce them. He was remarkably inventive in
making excuses for her when he saw in others’ faces astonishment or
disapproval of her behaviour. He said: “Don’t bother her. She is an
airy creature. She has her own way of showing devotion, and her own way
of feeling grief. You must not apply ordinary standards.”
Crammon said to Letitia: “I didn’t know that this Judith was one
of those soulless creatures of porcelain. It was always my opinion
that the phrases concerning the superior tenderness of the female
soul--that’s the official expression, isn’t it?--constituted one of
those myths by which men, the truly more delicate and noble organs of
creation, were to be deceived into undue indulgence. But such spiritual
coarseness as hers would make a cowboy blush. Go to her and try to stir
her conscience. A great artist is leaving us, and his last sigh will be
given to a popinjay, who bears his name as a fool might wear the robes
of a king. Let her at least appear to do her duty, else she is worthy
of being stoned. One should follow the ancient Hindoo custom, and burn
her on her husband’s pyre. What a pity that these pleasant laws have
gone out of use.”
When Letitia next saw Judith she reproached her gently. Judith seemed
overwhelmed by remorse. “You are quite right, dear child,” she
answered. “But you see I can’t, I just can’t bear to be around sick
people. They always seem to wear a mask; they don’t seem to be the
same people at all; and there’s such a terrible odour. They remind one
of the most frightful thing in the world--of death. You’ll reply, of
course, that he’s my husband, my own husband. That makes it all the
worse. It creates a tragic conflict for me. One should rather have pity
on me than accuse me of things. He hasn’t the right to demand that I do
violence to my nature, and as a matter of fact, he doesn’t. He’s far
too subtle and too magnanimous. It’s only other people who do. Well,
what do they know about us? What do they know of our married life? What
do they know of my sacrifices? What do they know of a woman’s heart?
And furthermore”--she went on hastily, becoming aware of Letitia’s
inner estrangement from her--“so many things are happening just now,
so many horrid things. My father has just arrived. I haven’t seen him
since my marriage to Imhof. Do you know, by the way, that Imhof is
dying? They say, too, that he’s utterly ruined. I have been spared a
great deal; but wouldn’t it make you think that it is unlucky to love
me? Why do you suppose that is? My life is as harmless as the playing
of a little girl, and yet.... Why do you suppose it is?” She wrinkled
her forehead and shivered. “Well, my father is here. There will be an
interview--he, Wolfgang, and I. And oh, my dear, it’s such a hideous
affair that has to be discussed.”
“It concerns Christian, doesn’t it?” Letitia asked, and it was the
first time that she had uttered his name in Judith’s presence. She
had forgotten again and again; she had abandoned her purpose over
and over. She had felt Judith’s mysterious spite and hate against her
brother, and had not had the courage to face it. Always something more
important and more amusing had seemed to appear on the gay stage of
life. Now she repeated hesitantly: “It concerns Christian, doesn’t it?”
Judith lapsed into sombre silence.
But from that hour Letitia was tormented by a secret curiosity, and
this curiosity forbade forgetfulness. She had lost her way. Oh, she had
lost her way long ago, and daily she stumbled farther into the pathless
wild. Lost, confused, entangled,--thus did she seem to herself, and she
had many minutes of a fleeting melancholy. All the things that happened
in her life became too much for her, and yet all the trivialities of
the day disappeared as water does in sand, leaving no form, no echo, no
purpose. And in these moments of her sadness, she had the illusion of
a new beginning, and yearned for a hand to lead her forth from these
thickets of her life. She remembered that far night when her full heart
had been rejected, and nursed the ecstatic dream that now, when it was
used up and a little weary, it might find acceptance.
But she delayed and played with the vision in her mind. And then she
had a dream. She dreamed that she was in the lobby of a magnificent
hotel among many people; but she was clothed only in her shift, and
could scarcely move for shame. No one appeared to observe this. She
wanted to flee, but saw no door at all. While she looked about her in
her misery, the lift suddenly came down from the upper storeys. She
rushed into it and the door closed and the lift rose. But her dread did
not leave her, and she had a sense of approaching disaster. Voices from
without came to her: “There is some one dead--dead in the house.” To
stop the lift, she groped for the electric button, but she could not
find it. The lift rose higher and higher, and the voices died away.
Without knowing how she had come there, she stood in a long corridor
along which were the doors of many rooms. In one of the rooms lay a
crucifix about two yards long; it was of bronze covered with a patina.
She went in, and men moved respectfully aside. Now suddenly she was
clothed in a garment of white satin. She kneeled down beside the
crucifix. Someone said: “It is one o’clock, we must go to luncheon.”
Her heart was like a wound with compassion and yearning. She pressed
her lips against the forehead of the image of Christ. The metal body
stirred and grew and grew, and assumed the stature of life; and she,
more and more tenderly giving herself, infused blood into the image,
and gave its skin the colour of life, so that even the wounds of the
nails flushed red. Her feeling rose to an ardent pitch of gratitude and
adoration. She encircled the body and the feet of the rising Christ,
who lifted her as he rose. But one of the gentlemen said: “The gong is
sounding for the last call to table.” And at that she awoke.
Next morning she went to Crammon, and persuaded him to drive with her
to Stolpische Street.