I
On the appointed hour of the appointed day Crammon arrived. He had
prepared himself to stay and to be festive; but he was disappointed.
Eva and her train were on the point of leaving. Maidanoff had proceeded
to Paris, whither Eva was to follow him.
Crammon had been informed of this new friendship of his idol. All other
news came to him too, and so he was aware that a quarrel had arisen
between Christian and Eva. He was the more astonished to see Christian
determined to follow Eva to Hamburg.
They had exchanged but a few words, when the transformation in
Christian struck him. He laid his hand on the young man’s shoulder, and
asked sympathetically: “Have you nothing to confide?”
He spent the evening with Wiguniewski. “It isn’t possible,” he said;
“you’re mistaken. Or else the world is topsy-turvy and I can no longer
tell a man from a woman.”
“I had no special liking for Wahnschaffe from the start,” Wiguniewski
confessed. “He’s too impenetrable, mysterious, spoiled, cold, and, if
you will, too German. Nevertheless I knew from the first that he was
the very man for Eva Sorel. You couldn’t see the two together without
a sense of delight--the sort of delight that a beautiful composition
gives you, or anything that is spiritually fitting and harmonious.”
Crammon nodded. “He has a strange power over women,” he said. “I’ve
just had another instance which is the more remarkable as it developed
from a mere sight of his picture. At the Ashburnhams’ in Yorkshire,
where I’ve been staying, I made the acquaintance of a Viennese girl,
a banker’s daughter, rather ugly, to be frank, but with a peculiar
little sting and charm and wit of her own. Not a bad figure, though
rather--shall we say scanty? Yes. Her name is Johanna Schöntag, though
that matters little. I called her nothing but Rumpelstilzkin. That
fitted her like a glove. God knows how she got there. Her sister, a
russet-haired person who looks as though she’d jumped out of a Rubens,
is married to an attaché of some minor legation, Roumanian or Bulgarian
or something like that. The big capitalists fit their daughters into
society that way. Well, anyhow, this Rumpelstilzkin and I agreed to
amuse each other in the murky boredom of Lord and Lady Ashburnham’s
house. So one day I showed the girl a miniature of Christian which
Gaston Villiers painted for me in Paris. She looked at the picture
and her merry face grew grave, absorbed, and she handed it back to
me silently. A couple of days later she asked to see it again, and
it had the same effect on her. She asked me about the man, and I, of
course, became very eloquent, and happened to remark, too, that I
expected to meet Christian here. She insisted at once that she must
meet him, and that I must plan to have her do so. Remember she’s rather
unapproachable as a rule, fastidious, turning up her nose--her worst
feature by the way--at things that please most people. The request was
unexpected and rather a nuisance. One mustn’t, as you know, bring the
wrong people together and land one’s self in difficulties. So I said
at once: ‘The Almighty forbid!’ I admonished her gently to change her
mind, and painted the danger in its darkest hues. She laughed at me,
and asked me whether I’d grown strait-laced; then she at once developed
a most cunning plan. She had time enough. She wasn’t expected home
till the first of November, which gave her seven weeks. So she would
announce her intention of studying the Dutch galleries, the pursuit of
culture being always respectable. She had a companion and chaperone,
as it was, and her sister, who was broad-minded in such matters, could
be taken into her confidence. Her energy and astuteness made me feel
weak, and forced me into the conspiracy. Well, she arrived yesterday.
She’s at the Hotel de la Plage, a little scared, like a bird that’s
dropped out of its nest, a little dissatisfied with herself, vexed by
little attacks of morality; and I, for my part, don’t know what to do
with her. I bethought me too late that Christian isn’t to be caught by
such tricks, and now I’ve got to make it clear to the girl. All this is
by the way, prince--a sort of footnote to your discourse, which I did
not intend to interrupt.”
Wiguniewski had listened with very slight sympathy. He began again:
“These past months, as I’ve said, have given us all an unforgettable
experience. We have seen two free personalities achieving a higher form
of union than any of the legitimized ones. But suddenly this noble
spectacle turns into a shabby farce; and it is his fault. For such a
union has its organic and natural close. A man of subtle sensitiveness
knows that, and adjusts himself accordingly. Instead of that, he
actually lets it get to the point of painful scenes. He seeks meetings
that humiliate him and make him absurd. When she is out he waits in her
rooms for her return, and endures her passing him by with a careless
nod. Once he sat waiting all night and stared into a book. He lets the
Rappard woman treat him insolently, and doesn’t seem to mind that the
fruits and flowers he sends daily are regularly refused. What is it?
What does it mean?”
“It points to some sorrow, and assuredly to a great sorrow for me,”
Crammon sighed. “It’s incomprehensible.”
“She entertained at dinner day before yesterday,” Wiguniewski
continued. “As though to mock him he was placed at the lower end of
the table. I didn’t even know the people who sat by him. It seems to
arouse a strange cruelty in her that he doesn’t refuse to bear these
humiliations; he, on the other hand, seems to find some inexplicable
lure in his suffering. He sat down that evening in silence. Afterwards
a curious thing happened. Groups had been formed after dinner. He
stood a few feet from Eva and gazed at her steadily. His face had a
brooding look as he observed her. She wore Ignifer, which is his gift,
and looked like Diana with a burning star above her forehead.”
“That’s excellently well put, prince,” Crammon exclaimed.
“The conversation touched upon many subjects without getting too
shallow. You know her admirable way of checking and disciplining talk.
Finally there arose a discussion of Flemish literature, and some one
spoke of Verhaeren. She quoted some verses of a poem of his called
‘Joy.’ The sense was somewhat as follows: My being is in everything
that lives about me; meadows and roads and trees, springs and shadows,
you become me, since I have felt you wholly. There was a murmur of
appreciation. She went to a shelf and took down a volume of Verhaeren’s
poems. She turned the pages, found the poem she sought, and suddenly
turned to Wahnschaffe. She gave him the book with a gesture of command;
he was to read the poem. He hesitated for a moment, then he obeyed.
The effect of the reading was both absurd and painful. He read like a
schoolboy, low, stammering, and as though the content were beyond his
comprehension. He felt the absurdity and painfulness of the incident
himself, for his colour changed as the ecstatic stanzas came from
his lips like an indifferent paragraph in a newspaper; and when he
had finished the reading, he laid the book aside, and left without a
glance at any one. But Eva turned to us, and said as though nothing
had happened: ‘The verses are wonderful, aren’t they?’ Yet her lips
trembled with fury. But what was her purpose? Did she want to prove to
us his inability to feel things that are beautiful and delicate? Did
she want to put him to shame, to punish him and publicly expose the
poverty of his nature? Or was it only an impatient whim, the annoyance
at his dumb watchfulness and his searching glances? Mlle. Vanleer said
later: ‘If he had read the verses like a divine poet, she would have
forgiven him.’ ‘Forgiven him what?’ I asked. She smiled, and answered:
‘Her own faithlessness.’ There may be something in that. At all events,
you should get him out of this situation, Herr von Crammon.”
“I shall do all in my power,” said Crammon, and the lines of care about
his mouth grew deeper. He wiped his forehead. “Of course I don’t know
how far my influence goes. It would be empty boastfulness to guarantee
anything. I’ve been told too that he frequents all sorts of impossible
dives with impossible people. I could weep when I think of it. He was
the flower of modern manhood, the pride of my lengthening years, the
salt of the earth! Unfortunately he had, even when I left him, certain
attacks of mental confusion, but I put those down to the account of
that suspicious fellow, Ivan Becker.”
“Don’t speak of him! Don’t speak of Becker!” Wiguniewski interrupted
sharply. “Not at least in that manner, I must beg and insist.”
Crammon opened his eyes very wide, and the tip of his tongue became
visible, like a red snail peering out of its shell. He choked down his
discomfort and shrugged his shoulders.
Wiguniewski said: “At all events you’ve given me an indication. I never
considered such a possibility. It throws a new light on many things.
It’s true, by the way, that Wahnschaffe associates with questionable
people. The queerest of them all is Amadeus Voss, a hypocrite and a
gambler. One must not couple such persons with Ivan Becker. Becker
may have set him upon a certain road. If we assume that, a number of
incidents become clear. But anything really baneful comes from Voss.
Save your friend from him!”
“I haven’t seen the fellow yet,” Crammon murmured. “What you tell me,
Prince, doesn’t take me quite unawares. Nevertheless, I’m grateful. But
let that scoundrel beware! May I never drink another drop of honest
wine, if he escape me! Let me never again glance at a tempting bosom,
if I don’t grind this infamous cur to pulp. So help me!”
Wiguniewski arose, and left Crammon to plan his revenge.