One day Christian received a letter that bore the signature of Ivan
Michailovitch Becker. Becker informed him that he was staying for
a short time in Frankfort, and that a woman, a mutual friend, had
insisted that he should visit Christian Wahnschaffe. But this he
would not do for well-considered reasons. If, however, Christian
Wahnschaffe’s state of mind was such as their friend seemed to assume,
he would be glad to see him on some evening.
Eva’s name was not mentioned. But twice he spoke of that woman who was
their mutual friend--twice. And Becker had added the street where he
lived and the number of the house.
Christian’s first impulse was to ignore the invitation. He told himself
that there was nothing in common between him and Becker. The Russian
had not been congenial to him. He had disapproved and arrogantly
overlooked the man’s friendship with Eva. Whenever he thought of his
ugly face, his dragging gait, his sombre, silent presence, a sense of
discomfort seized upon him. What did the man want? Why this summons in
which there was a shadow of menace?
After he had tried in vain to keep from brooding over this incident,
he showed the letter to Crammon, in the secret hope that his friend
would warn him against any response. Crammon read the letter, but
shrugged his shoulders and said nothing. Crammon was in a bad humour;
Crammon was hurt. He had felt for some time that Christian excluded
him from his confidence. In addition he was thinking far more of Eva
Sorel than was good for the peace of his soul. He paid ardent attention
to Fräulein von Einsiedel, nor was that lady unresponsive. But this
triumph could not restore the equilibrium of his mind, and Becker’s
letter opened his old wound anew.
Christian put an end to his vacillation by a sudden decision, and
started out to find Becker. The house was in the suburbs, and he
had to climb the four flights of stairs of a common tenement. He was
careful to come in contact with neither the walls nor the balustrades.
When he had reached the door and pulled the bell, he was pale with
embarrassment and disgust.
When Christian had entered the shabbily furnished room and sat opposite
Becker, what impressed him most was the stamp of suffering on the
Russian’s face. He asked himself whether this was new or whether he had
merely not perceived it before. When Becker spoke to him, his answers
were shy and awkward.
“Madame Sorel is going to Petrograd in the spring,” Ivan Michailovitch
told him. “She has signed a three-months’ contract with the Imperial
Theatre there.”
Christian expressed his pleasure at this information. “Are you going to
stay here long?” he asked, courteously.
“I don’t know,” was the answer. “I’m waiting for a message here.
Afterwards I shall join my friends in Switzerland.”
“My last conversation with Madame Sorel,” he continued, “was
exclusively about you.” He watched Christian attentively out of his
deep-set eyes.
“About me? Ah....” Christian forced himself to a conventional smile.
“She insisted on my remaining in communication with you. She said that
it meant much to her, but gave no reason. She never does give reasons,
though. She insisted likewise that I send her a report. Yet she did
not even give me a message for you. But she kept repeating: ‘It means
something to me, and it may mean very much to him.’ So you see that I
am only her instrument. But I hope that you are not angry with me for
annoying you.”
“Not in the least,” Christian asserted, although he felt oppressed.
“Only I can’t imagine what is in her mind.” He sat there wondering, and
added: “She has her very personal ways!”
Ivan Becker smiled, and the moisture of his thick lips became
unpleasantly visible. “It is very true. She is an enthusiastic
creature, and a woman of great gifts. She has power over others, and is
determined to use that power.”
A pause ensued.
“Can I be of assistance to you?” Christian asked conventionally.
Becker regarded him coldly. “No,” he said, “not of the least.” He
turned his eyes to the window, from which one could see the chimneys
of the factories, the smoke, and the sinister snow-fraught air. Since
the room was unheated, he had a travelling rug spread across his knees,
and under it he hid his crippled hand. A movement of his limbs shifted
the rug, and the hand became visible. Christian knew the story of it.
Crammon had told him at the time in Paris of his meeting and his talk
with Becker. He had heard it with indifference, and had avoided looking
at the hand.
Now he regarded it. Then he got up, and with a gesture of freedom
and assurance, which astonished even Becker, despite the Russian’s
superficial knowledge of him, he held out his own hand. Ivan
Michailovitch gave him his left hand, which Christian held long and
pressed cordially. Then he left without speaking another word.