It was in another night. They had been jesting and telling each other
amusing stories, and at last they had grown weary.
Suddenly in the darkness outside of the window Christian had a vision
of his father and of the dog Freia; and his father had the tread of a
lonely man. Never had Christian seen loneliness so visibly embodied.
The dog was his only companion. He had sought for another friend, but
there had been none to go with him.
“How is that possible?” Christian thought.
His senses were lost in a strange drowsiness, even while he held Eva’s
beautiful body, which was as smooth and cool as ivory. And in this
drowsiness visions emerged of his brother, his sister, his mother, and
about each of them was that great loneliness and desolation.
“How is that possible?” Christian thought. “Their lives are thronged
with people.”
But he answered himself, and said: “Is not your own life likewise
thronged with people to suffocation, and do you not also feel that same
loneliness and desolateness?”
Now a dark object seemed to descend upon him. It was a coat--a wet,
dripping coat. And at the same moment some one called out to him:
“Arise, Christian, arise!” But he could not arise, for those ivory arms
held him fast.
Suddenly he became aware of Letitia. She uttered but one word: “Why?”
It seemed to him, while he slept, if indeed he slept, that he should
have chosen Letitia, who lived but for her dreams, her yearnings and
imaginings, and who had been sacrificed with her dreams to the vulgar
world of reality. It seemed to him as though Letitia, pointing to Eva,
were saying: “What do you seek of her? She knows nothing of you, but
weaves at the web of her own life. She is ambitious, and can give you
no help in your suffering; and it is only to forget and deaden the pain
of your soul that you are wasting yourself upon her.”
Christian was astonished to find Letitia so wise. He was almost
inclined to smile at her wisdom. But he knew now clearly that he
was suffering. It was a suffering of an unfathomable nature, which
grew from hour to hour and from day to day, like the spreading of a
gangrened wound.
His head rested on the shoulder of his beloved; her little breasts rose
from the violet shadows and had trembling contours. He felt her beauty
with every nerve, and her strangeness and exquisite lightness. He felt
that he loved her with all his thoughts and with every fibre of his
flesh, and that, despite it all, he could find no help in her.
And again a voice cried: “Arise, Christian, arise!” But he could not
arise. For he loved this woman, and feared life without her.
The dawn was breaking when Eva turned her face to him again: “Where are
you?” she asked. “What are you gazing at?”
He answered: “I am with you.”
“To the last stirrings of your thought?”
“I don’t know. Who knows the last recesses of his mind?”
“I want you wholly. With every breath. And something of you escapes.”
“And you,” Christian asked evasively, “are you utterly with me?”
She answered passionately, and with an imperious smile, as she drew
closer to him: “You are more mine than I am yours.”
“Why?”
“Does it frighten you? Are you miserly in your love? Yes, you are more
mine. I have broken the spell that held you and melted your soul of
stone.”
“Melted my soul...?” Christian asked in amazement.
“I have, my darling. Don’t you know that I’m a sorceress? I have power
over the fish in the sea, the horse on the sod, the vulture in the
air, and the invisible deities that are spoken of in the books of the
Persians. I can make of you what I would, and you must yield.”
“That is true,” Christian admitted.
“But your soul does not look at me,” Eva cried, and flung her arms
about him, “it is an alien soul, dark, hostile, unknown.”
“Perhaps you’re misusing the power you have over me, and my soul
resists.”
“It is to obey--that is all.”
“Perhaps it is not wholly sure of you.”
“I can give your soul only the assurance of the hour that is.”
“What are you planning?”
“Don’t ask me! Hold me fast with your thoughts. Don’t let me go for a
moment, or we are lost to each other. Cling to me with all your might.”
Christian answered: “It seems to me as though I ought to know what you
mean. But I don’t want to know it. Because you see, you ... I ... all
this ... it’s too insignificant.” He shook his head in a troubled way.
“Too insignificant.”
“What, what do you mean by that?” Eva cried in fright, and clung to
his right hand with both hers. Tensely she looked into his face.
“Too insignificant,” Christian repeated stubbornly, as though he could
find no other words.
Then he reflected on all he had said and heard with his accustomed
scepticism and toughmindedness, and arose and bade his friend
good-night.