Judith’s wedding was to be celebrated with great magnificence.
Even to the preliminary festival more than two hundred guests had been
invited. There was no end to the line of motor cars and carriages.
The coal and iron barons of the whole province appeared, military and
civil officials of high rank with their ladies, the chief patricians
and financiers of Frankfort, members of the Court circles of Darmstadt
and Karlsruhe, and friends from afar. A tenor from Berlin, a famous
lyric singer, a Viennese comedian, a magician, and a juggler had been
engaged to furnish the guests with amusement.
The great horse-shoe table in the dining-hall, radiant with gold,
silver, and cut glass, had three hundred and thirty covers.
The festive throng surged up and down in the marble gallery and the
adjoining rooms. Yellow and rose predominated in the toilettes of the
ladies; the young girls were mostly in white. Bare shoulders were
agleam with diamonds and pearls. The severe black and white of the men
effectually softened the gorgeousness of the colour scheme.
Christian was walking up and down with Randolph von Stettner, a young
lieutenant of hussars, stationed at Bonn. They had been friends since
their boyhood, had not seen each other for several years, and were
exchanging reminiscences. Randolph von Stettner said that he was
not very happy in his profession; he would much rather have taken a
university degree. He had a strong taste for the study of chemistry,
and felt out of place as a soldier. “But it is futile to kick against
the pricks,” he ended, sighing; “a man must merely take the bit between
his teeth and keep still.”
Christian happened to observe Letitia, who stood in the centre of a
circle of men. Upon her forehead was forgetfulness; she knew nothing of
yesterday and nothing of to-morrow. There was no one else so absorbed
by the passing hour as she.
A footman approached Christian and gave him a card. The footman frowned
doubtfully, for the card was not quite clean. On it Christian read
these pencilled words: “I. M. Becker must speak with you at once.”
Hurriedly he excused himself and went out.
Ivan Michailovitch stood perfectly still in the outer hall. Newly
arrived guests, who gave the footmen their hats and coats, passed by
without noticing him. The men took mincing steps, the ladies sought the
mirror for a final look with their excited eyes.
Ivan Michailovitch wore a long grey coat, shabby and wet. The
black-bearded face was pale as wax. Christian drew him into an empty
corner of the hall, where they were undisturbed.
“I beg you to forgive me for throwing a shadow on all this festivity,”
Ivan Michailovitch began, “but I had no choice. I received a
notification of expulsion from the police this afternoon. I must leave
the city and the country within twelve hours. The simple favour I ask
of you is to take this notebook into your keeping, until I myself
or some properly identified friend asks it back.” He glanced swiftly
about him, took a thin, blue notebook out of his pocket, and gave it to
Christian, who slid it swiftly and unobtrusively into a pocket of his
evening coat.
“It contains memoranda in Russian,” Ivan continued, “which have no
value to any one but myself, but which must not be found on me. Since I
am being expelled there is little doubt but that my person and effects
will be searched.”
“Won’t you come and rest in my room?” Christian asked, timidly. “Won’t
you eat or drink something?”
Ivan Michailovitch shook his head. From the hall floated the sound of
the violins, playing an ingratiating air by Puccini.
“Won’t you at least dry your coat?” Christian asked again. The strains
of the music, the splendour there within, the merriment and laughter,
the fullness of beauty and happiness, all this presented so sharp a
contrast to the appearance of this man in a wet coat, with wax-like
face and morbidly flaming eyes, that Christian could no longer endure
his apparently unfeeling position between these two worlds, of whose
utter and terrible alienation from each other he was acutely aware.
Ivan Michailovitch smiled. “It is kind of you to think of my coat. But
you can’t do any good. It will only get wet again.”
“I’d like to take you, just as you are,” said Christian, and he smiled
too, “and go in there with you.”
Ivan Michailovitch shrugged his shoulders, and his face grew dark.
“I don’t know why I should like to do that,” Christian murmured. “I
don’t know why it tempts me. I stand before you, and you put me in the
wrong. Whether I speak or am silent does not matter. By merely being
I am in the wrong. We should not be conversing here in the servants’
corner. You are making some demand of me, Ivan Michailovitch, are you
not? What is it that you demand?”
The words bore witness to a confusion of the emotions that went to the
very core of his being. They throbbed with the yearning to become and
to be another man. Ivan Michailovitch, in a sudden flash of intuition,
saw and understood. At first he had suspected that here was but a
lordly whim, or that it was at best but the foolish and thoughtless
defiance of a too swiftly ardent proselyte that urged this proud and
handsome man to his words. He recognized his error now. He understood
that he heard a cry for help, and that it came from the depth of one of
those decisive moments of which life holds but few.
“What is it that I am to demand of you, Christian Wahnschaffe?” he
asked, earnestly. “Surely not that you drag me in there to your
friends, and ask me to regard that as a definite deed and as a triumph
over yourself?”
“It would not be that,” Christian said, with lowered eyes, “but a
simple confession of my friendship and my faith.”
“But consider what a figure I would cut in my blouse, taken so
unwillingly and emphatically, to use the Russian proverb, into the
realm of the spheres. You would be forgiven. You would be accused
of an eccentricity, and laughed at; but it would be overlooked. But
what would happen to me? You could guard me from obvious insult. The
profound humiliation of my position would still be the same. And what
purpose would such a boastful action serve? Do you see any promise of
good in it--for myself, or you, or the others? I could accuse no one,
persuade no one, convince no one. Nor would you yourself be convinced.”
He was silent for a few seconds, and then regarded Christian with a
kind and virile glance. Then he continued. “Had I appeared in evening
clothes, this whole conversation would be without meaning. That shows
how trivial it is. Why, Christian Wahnschaffe, should I exhibit my
blouse and coat amid the garb of your friends? Do you go with me to a
place where your coat is a blasphemy and a stain, and where my rough,
wet one is a thing of pride and advantage. I know such a house. Go with
me!”
Christian, without answering a word, summoned a footman, took his
fur-coat, and followed Ivan Becker into the open. The lackey hurried
to the garage. In a few minutes the car appeared. Christian permitted
Ivan Michailovitch to precede him into it, asked for the address, and
sat down beside him. The car started.