One Sunday afternoon in April they took a walk out into the country.
Gertrude had been suffering for weeks from lassitude and could not go
with them.
Eleanore was a superb walker. It gave Daniel extreme pleasure to walk
along with her, keeping step, moving hastily. The quick movement
increased his susceptibility to the charm of the changing landscapes. It
was quite different when he walked with Gertrude. She was slow, given to
introspection, thoughtful, and not very strong.
In the course of an hour clouds gathered in the sky, the sun
disappeared, big drops began to fall. Eleanore had taken neither
umbrella nor rain coat along; she began to walk more rapidly. If they
tried, they could reach the inn beyond the forest, and find shelter from
the storm.
Just as they slipped through the crowd that had hurried up the road to
the same refuge and entered the inn, the sluices of heaven seemed to
open, and a cloud-burst followed. They were standing in the hall.
Eleanore was warm, and did not wish to remain in the draught. They went
into the restaurant; it was so full that they had considerable trouble
to find seats. A working man, his wife, and four sickly-looking children
squeezed up more closely together; the two youngest boys gave them their
chairs and went to look for others.
The clouds hung low, causing premature darkness. Lamps were lighted, and
their odour mingled freely with the other odours of this overcrowded
room. A few village musicians played some unknown piece; the eyes of the
workingman's children shone with delight. Because they sat there so
quietly--and because they looked so pale--Eleanore gave each of the
children a sandwich. The mother was very grateful, and said so. The
father, who said he was the foreman in a mirror factory, began to talk
with Daniel about the troubles of the present era.
All of a sudden Daniel caught sight of a familiar face at a nearby
table. As it turned to one side, he saw in the dim, smelly light another
face he knew, and then a third and a fourth. It was all so ghost-like in
the room that it was some time before he knew just where to place them.
Then it occurred to him where they came from.
Herr Hadebusch and Frau Hadebusch, Herr Francke and Benjamin Dorn were
having a little Sunday outing. The brush-maker's wife was radiant with
joy on seeing her old lodger. She nodded, she blinked, she folded her
hands as if touched at the sight, and Herr Hadebusch raised his beer
glass, eager to drink a toast to Daniel's health.
They could not quite make out who Eleanore was; they took her for
Daniel's wife. This misunderstanding, it seemed, was then cleared up by
the Methodist after he had craned his neck and called his powers of
recognition into play. The demoniac woman nodded, to be sure, and kept
on blinking, but in her face there was an expression of rustic
disapproval. Her mouth was opened, and the tusks of her upper jaw shone
forth uncannily from the black abyss.
The swan neck of the Methodist was screwed up so hardily and
picturesquely above the heads of the others that Eleanore could not help
but notice his physical and spiritual peculiarities. She wrinkled her
brow, and looked at Daniel questioningly.
She looked around, and saw a great many people from the city whom she
knew either by name or from having met them so frequently. There was a
saleswoman from Ludwig Street; a clerk with a pock-marked face from a
produce store; the dignified preceptress of a Kindergarten; an official
of the savings bank; the hat-maker from the corner of the Market Place
with his grown daughter; and the sergeant who invariably saluted when he
passed by her.
All these people were in their Sunday clothes and seemed care-free and
good natured. But as soon as they saw Eleanore a mean expression came
over them. The fluttering of the lights made their faces look ghastly,
while partial intoxication made it easy to read their filthy, lazy
thoughts. Full of anxiety, Eleanore looked up at Daniel, as if she felt
she would have to rely on his wealth of experience and greater
superiority in general.
He was sorry for her and sorry for himself. He knew what was in store
for him and her. When he looked over this Hogarthian gathering, and saw,
despite its festive, convivial mood, hidden lusts of every description,
crippled passions, secreted envy, and mysterious vindictiveness spread
about like the stench of foul blood, he felt it was quite futile to
cherish delusions of any kind as to what was before him. To spare
Eleanore and to defend her, to leave her rather than be guilty of
causing the child-like smile on her lips to die out and disappear
forever--this he believed in the bottom of his heart he could promise
both her and himself.
The working man and his family had left; and as it was no longer
raining, most of the other guests had also gone. Up in the room above
people were dancing. The lamps were shaking, and it was easy to hear the
low sounds of the bass violin. Daniel took out his pencil, and began
writing notes on the table. Eleanore bent over, looking at him, and,
like him, fell to dreamy thinking.
Neither wished to know what the other was thinking; they entertained
themselves in silence; inwardly they were drawn closer and closer
together, as if by some mysterious and irresistible power. They had not
noticed that it was evening, that the room was empty, that the waiters
had taken the glasses away, and that the dance music in the room above
had stopped.
They sat there in the half-lighted corner side by side, as if in some
dark, deserted cavern. When they finally came out of their deep silence
and looked at each other, they were first surprised and then dismayed.
"What are we going to do?" asked Eleanore half in a whisper, "it is
late; we must be going home."
The sky was clouded, a warm wind swept across the plains, the road was
full of puddles. Here and there a light flashed from the darkness, and a
dog barked every now and then in the distant villages. When the road
turned into the forest, Daniel gave Eleanore his arm. She took it, but
soon let go. Daniel stopped, and said almost angrily: "Are we bewitched,
both of us? Speak, Eleanore, speak!"
"What is there for me to say?" she asked gently. "I am frightened; it is
so dark."
"You are frightened, Eleanore, you? You do not know the night. It has
never yet been night in your soul; nor night in the world about you. Now
you appreciate perhaps how a being of the night feels."
She made no reply.
"Give me your hand," he said, "I will lead you."
She gave him her hand. Soon they saw the lights of the city. He took her
to her house; but when they reached it, they did not say good-bye: they
looked at each other with dazed, helpless, seeking eyes; they were both
pale and speechless.
Eleanore hastened into the hall, but turned as she reached the stairs,
and waved to him with a smile, as if the two were separated by a hazy
distance. As he fixed his eyes on the spot where he saw the slender
figure disappear, he felt as if something were clutching his throat.