When, two days later, Letitia and Crammon arrived in Stolpische Street,
they were told that Christian Wahnschaffe was no longer there. Both
flats had been cleared of furniture and were announced as to let. Nor
could any one give them any light on whither he had gone or where he
was. The house-agent said he had told his acquaintances that he was
leaving the city. To Crammon’s discomfort, a little crowd of people
gathered around the motor car, and jeering remarks were heard.
“Too late,” Letitia said. “I shall never forgive myself.”
“Oh, yes, you will, my child, you will,” Crammon assured her; and they
returned to the realms of pleasure.
Letitia forgave herself that very evening. And what could she have done
with so questionable a burden on her conscience? It was but a venial
sin. The first tinkle of a glass, the first twang of a violin, the
first fragrance of a flower obliterated it.
But at Crammon that neglect and lateness gnawed more and more and not
less. In his naïve ignorance he imagined that he could have prevented
that extreme step, had he but come two days earlier. Now his loss
was sealed and final. He fancied that he might have laid his hand on
Christian’s shoulder and given him an earnest and admonishing look, and
that Christian, put to shame, might have spoken: “Yes, Bernard, you
are right. It was all a mistake. Let us send for a bottle of wine, and
consider how we may spend the future most amusingly.”
Whenever, like a collector who examines his enviously guarded
treasures, Crammon turned over his memories of life, it was always the
figure of Christian that arose before him in a kind of apotheosis. It
was the Christian of the early days, and he only--amid the dogs in the
park, in the moonlit nights under the plantain, in the exquisite halls
of the dancer, Christian laughing, laughing more beautifully than the
muleteer of Cordova, Christian the seductive, the extravagant, the lord
of life--Eidolon.
Thus he saw him. Thus he carried his image through time.
And rumours came to him which he did not believe. People appeared who
had heard it said that Christian Wahnschaffe had been seen during the
great catastrophe in the mines of Hamm. He had gone down into the
shafts and helped bring up the bodies of men. Others came who asserted
that he was living in the East End of London, in the companionship of
the lowest and most depraved; and again others pretended to know that
he had been seen in the Chinese quarter of New York.
Crammon said: “Nonsense, it isn’t Christian. It’s his double.”
He was afraid of the grey years that drew nearer like fogs over the
face of the waters.
“What would you say to a little house in some valley of the Carinthian
Alps?” he asked Letitia one day. “A quaint and modest little house.
You plant your vegetables and grow your roses and read your favourite
books, in a word, you are secure and at peace.”
“Charming,” answered Letitia, “I’d love to visit you now and then.”
“Why now and then? Why not make it your abiding place?”
“But would you take in the twins, too, and the servants and auntie?”
“I’m afraid that would require a special wing. Impossible.”
“And furthermore ... I must confess to you that Egon Rochlitz and I
have come to an agreement. We’re going to be married. That would be one
more person.”
Crammon was silent for a while. Then he said irritably:
“I give you my curse. You offer me no alternative.”
With a smile Letitia offered him her cheek.
He kissed her with paternal reserve, and said: “Your skin is as velvety
as the skin of an apricot.”