Part 12

Count Told’s life hitherto had been irreproachable. Both in sentiment and in the externals of life he had shown himself superior, but for lack of serious pursuits to which he could devote himself he had thrown his energies into following up his hobbies, such as the collection of Futurist works of art, for which there was as yet no standard to judge by. He patronized young poets who were at present but a minority and a novelty. They were brought into the light, and the discovery of their powers engaged the serious attention of himself and his like. The struggle to get possession of something new and striking was carried on in this respect just as it was by the profiteers of ordinary wares.... It was not the uneducated rich who devoted themselves to it, but those who sought for their wealth a channel which should return their gold stamped with the impress of beauty and of intellectual superiority. But these fell victims to the age, and their ideas dissolved in hysteria akin to that of a weeping woman whose whole consciousness can hold but one idea. The value of money declined, and in so doing its power over men became all the greater; it seized upon them with ever-growing force, till at last it was like a disease.

Such was the connection between the hobbies of the Count and his like and the age they lived in. The age made use of what was valuable in them. The propagandists of the “new art” were merely stockjobbers, uniting their intellectual ambitions with their speculations. The celebrated “Blue Horses” were to be had for a couple of hundred marks at first. X. bought them for eight hundred, and now it was impossible to obtain them for two hundred thousand. It was such anecdotes as these that spurred them on.

For a long time Wenk and Count Told discussed these things. The Count opposed Wenk’s view, having learnt some of the terminology of the artists whose pictures he bought.

“Folks even begin to say,” said Wenk to him on one occasion, “that he speaks as well as a Futurist! And this school begins to affiliate itself with another intellectual movement of our day, which stands on much the same foundations--with the so-called theosophy. You will notice that the Futurist _eo ipso_ is also a theosophist or an anthropologist. But it is not because these ideas are really inwardly connected, but because the pursuance of them is united. You will always find nowadays that those who most freely deplore the materialism of our age are those who in private life are most devoted to it. Moreover, in the one case as in the other, it is not always a question of money. Mental and spiritual greed is also an aspect of this age, which exchanges the dominion of one for that of another. Everywhere folks are seeking, seeking eagerly to escape from the misery of the present, and for us mortals there remains but warfare--war against those near us, against those among us, and against ourselves, and it is our class especially which must wage war against ourselves!”

Wenk then asked the Count whether he would not spend the night with him, as it was now so late.

The Count answered involuntarily, “Yes, but my wife....” Then he stopped, looking at Wenk, and his face showed the return of his tormenting thoughts. After a time he began again: “You had caused me to forget my trouble, Dr. Wenk! For this night I have robbed you of, which you have devoted to me so sympathetically, I shall eternally be in your debt. I cannot think how I should have lived through it--alone! Now it seems to be behind me, and I gratefully accept your offer of a bed.”

“How would you like,” said Wenk to Count Told next morning, “for me to see the Privy Councillor and relate your story to him?”

“I should be extremely glad if you would.”

He hesitated as if he wanted to say something more. Wenk noticed it and waited. Then he said, anticipating the other, “I am absolutely at your service. If you have any other wish....”

The Count answered quickly, reddening as he spoke, “Yes, I want to speak to my wife. When I think of her I feel ... so ashamed!”

“You need not be ashamed!”

“My wife has such a strong and forceful idea of life. It always seemed as if she found our life together a somewhat feeble thing.... I wonder whether it will be possible for her to go on living with a husband who henceforth is but an invalid.”

“I will see her, too,” said Wenk.

* * * * *

The Privy Councillor received Wenk at once. As amiably as he could, and in the pleasantly sarcastic tone which distinguished him on all occasions, he told Wenk that his opinion was that the Count had been anxious to adventure something that might raise him in his wife’s esteem. The force of her personality stood far above his own, and he hoped to attain to it by undertaking so hazardous a scheme as to “pack” the cards and win the game. It was not on account of the money, he was convinced of that. He merely wanted to exercise his imagination in adventure as his wife did, but her strength of character always ensured a safe way of escape. For the more feeble personality the first attempt had ended in misfortune. His phantasies had been excited by the current stories of the thieving band of gambling cheats, and the whole affair was mainly due to his neighbour at the table, whose own desire for gain influenced a weaker character and thus paved the way to a society scandal.

“May I inquire, sir, who this neighbour was?”

“Ah, now that I have been so unamiable as to speak of him thus, I cannot possibly betray him. Moreover, he is the blameless head of a household, a professor of physiology.”

“The matter is a great deal more serious than you can have any idea of, sir. The Count spent last night with me, driven to get away from himself. He told me the story, down to the most trifling detail, and I have no reason whatever to suspect that he was misrepresenting the facts. He was absolutely confounded and crushed by the affair. It seemed as if it had been a failure of intellectual force, a sudden inhibition of brain-control. May there not have been someone among your guests who exercised some special influence on the Count?”

“No, there was no Futurist poet or painter among them,” laughed the Privy Councillor.

“I beg you not to consider my questions importunate, Councillor. You really are convinced that no such person was present?”

“I do not believe there could have been any. All my guests have been personally known to me for some time. You know what the occasion of our meeting was, don’t you? We were studying the effect of hypnosis on a medium. There were experts, professors, artists of repute, and some personal friends in the company. Then there was a Dr. Mabuse, whom I have not known very long, but whose extraordinary success as a practitioner I respect very highly. He practises psychotherapy. And that reminds me. If Count Told’s state is such as you describe it to be, we might see what he can do for the Count, who is the son of one of my very oldest friends, for I feel a great deal of sympathy for him in his present position. Tell him from me that I strongly advise his seeing Dr. Mabuse, to whom I will give him a letter, for I know his telephone number only.”

Wenk said farewell, and drove from the house to Count Told’s villa at Tutzing, hoping that he might find the Countess there, but he was told by the footman that neither his master nor his mistress had spent the night at home. Then he returned to his own chambers, where the Count, pale and haggard, waited eagerly for him.

“I felt sure of it,” he said disconsolately, when Wenk told him that the Countess had not returned home, “but one always hopes for the impossible. And what about the Privy Councillor?”

“I told him exactly what you told me; he had regarded the matter in another light, but not a very serious one. He advises you to consult a neurologist whom he knows, and has given me this letter to him for you.”

“Dr. Mabuse,” read the Count. “Why, he was at the party last night.”

“Shall I go to him?” suggested Wenk.

“No, Doctor, I really must not rely on your kindness any longer. I must pull myself together and deal with this crisis in my life. I will call up Dr. Mabuse on the telephone, as we have his number there. I will do it from here, if I may.”

“Dr. Mabuse,” said the Count at the telephone, “you were present at Privy Councillor Wendel’s party last night when I had the misfortune to....”

“That is so.”

“I want your professional help. The Councillor gave me a letter of introduction to you. Can I bring it at once?”

The other voice answered harshly, “No. I do not see patients except in their own homes. What is your address? Expect me there to-morrow morning at 11 a.m. Repeat the appointment; what time is fixed?”

“Eleven a.m.,” said the Count, thoroughly terrified, and then he left Wenk’s house.

XIII

The Countess opened her eyes on something black, intersected with red circles and rays. All around her was dark and strange. Somewhere on high a faint light was glimmering in the room in which she lay. She was on a sofa, fully dressed. She had never seen the room before, and all its contents were unfamiliar. She lay there, trying to recall what had happened, but she found it impossible. One moment alone stood out in her memory: the recollection of the grey eyes of that Dr. Mabuse who had told her of tigers--eyes which had held her as with the clutch of a beast whose claws ran blood. She recalled something like a spring in the air, a hold that left her breathless, feeling as if the very heart were being torn from her body and she was sinking, sinking down into a gulf.

Suddenly a door opened; where, exactly, she did not know, for she felt rather than perceived it. She was expecting something, but her imagination flowed back upon herself and she waited.

After a time a voice spoke out of the semi-darkness: “You are awake. Would you like the light?”

It was a voice which seemed to the Countess at the first moment like the trump of doom, but in an instant this sensation left her and she felt incredulous. How came that voice into this mysterious obscurity? It was the very last she could have expected to hear. She shrank terrified within herself, and it seemed as if her whole body gradually stiffened. There was a sound in her throat, but she was not conscious of it. She stretched her hands in front of her as if warding off a danger. Then suddenly the room was flooded with light.

Dr. Mabuse closed the door and approached the sofa. He said: “The situation is exactly what I desired. I have brought you home!”

At these words the Countess regained control of herself. She rose from the sofa, though she felt faintness stealing over her. What did this man want with her?--but indeed she knew what he wanted. He was a tiger, intent on his prey. Nevertheless, she asked him, “What do you want?”

“I have just told you,” he answered curtly.

“And now?”

“You will remain with me.”

“I will not!” cried the Countess. “I will go and help my husband!” And at that moment she recollected clearly what had happened. Her husband had cheated at cards. Oh, merciful Heaven, she thought, how could such a thing have happened? She knew so well how utterly foreign to his nature such a thing would be. What misery, what despair, what depths of misfortune! And she herself had been with the woman who was an accomplice in Hull’s murder, and had succumbed to her power. Everything seemed to swim before her eyes, and she saw her husband’s unconscious act through a mist of blood.

She heard the voice of the man beside her, stern and threatening: “You will not? Have I asked you whether you will?”

He had not asked the tiger or the buffalo. Was he to ask a weak woman? Was he to ask _her_? She, too, was his prey. This idea filled her with a sort of voluptuous dread. She was the prey of the strongest man whom she had ever known. How could she defend herself? He had simply taken her. Were there men whose will was strong enough to give them possession of a woman if they never even touched her?

“How did I come here?” she asked.

“We have something more important than that to talk about,” he answered in a cold, harsh voice that made her tremble. “How are you going to adapt yourself to the situation?”

“I will never adapt myself to it!” she cried; and it seemed as if instruments of torture were engraven on her brain.

“That is not the question!” answered the voice, falling like a stone, falling, lying, lying for thousands of years. “The question is, are you going to remain with me of your own free will or as my prisoner?”

The Countess, now fully alive to the force and compulsion which threatened her, strove to collect her wits. She looked, listened, considered, and slowly began to ask herself, “Shall it be cunning or resistance?” After a time she answered, “You cannot keep me as your prisoner in Munich.”

Mabuse replied roughly, “How do you know that you are in Munich?”

“Have you run away with me?” she cried.

“I am not a gorilla.”

“Who _are_ you? What is your name?”

“Whatever you like to call me!”

“Then I shall call you a gorilla,” she was about to retort angrily, but it seemed as if her tongue refused to utter the hateful name. It would not be expressed, and something within her appeared to change and soften the situation, to promise allurement in the distance and play around her fancy like busy little elves of night. Yet something in her conscience seemed to tell her that there could be no ease for her while her husband was cast down by misfortune and her own future was so uncertain, and she spoke defiantly, “What do you want with me?”

But the man looked at her long and steadily, and she felt as if her question floated away, minute and unconsidered as a trifle on the mighty ocean. The ocean was the breast of the man before her. There was no breast more mighty or powerful; it represented what her inmost being and her secret desires had yearned after. To rest upon it, to rest ... as in the jungle....

Then, after he had looked at her in a silence fraught with meaning, the man spoke. “The human race is too contemptible and inferior to give its men and women such force as nature has provided for its other creations; that the one sex should see, know and belong to the other as naturally and inevitably as light belongs to day!”

“You mean to say,” said the Countess hesitatingly, “that you love me, and that--is why you have brought me here!”

“I desire you, and that--for me--is stronger than love! You are here because there is no resisting my desires. You may reign as a queen, in this breast, and in my kingdom of Citopomar in Southern Brazil. A queen ruling the virgin forest, its savage beasts, savage and civilized human beings, valleys, rocks and heights. Who in this miserable continent can offer you more?”

“No one!” said the Countess, under the secret dominion of the dream which had so rapidly begun its twofold play in her spirit.

“You have decided, then, to remain of your own free will?” asked Mabuse.

The Countess once more realized her position. She shrank from him, and tried to shelter herself behind the ottoman. She closed her lips firmly, but at the same time she was torn by a conflict within; she desired to go, and at the same time she felt a yearning in some part of her being to remain and to submit.

He continued: “If it were like this: a man and a woman see each other for the first time, and in the first glance that they exchange they say to themselves, ‘There is nothing left to me of what I was. Everything has vanished like a dissolving view, and thou, the only one, thou alone remainest. It is inconceivable that there should be a single heart-beat that does not belong to thee.’ It is as if all the races in all the ages had united their powers in these two beings, instead of giving each individual a beggarly portion of it. What a puny creature is man, but if it were the other way with the race he would be the image of God and of creation!”

The Countess felt as if a sudden force was stretching her between two poles. She knew that she herself resembled both of them, and yet they were unlike each other. “Must I proceed from the one extreme to the other?” she asked herself, feeling very weary, “or can I remain hovering between them, calm and comfortable, in the warm rays of a sunshine that steals over me so pleasantly?”

There was always the inclination to follow the extraordinary and unusual, that she might feel wherein she was most akin to humanity, and yet most herself when surrounded by what did not belong to or affect her. And over her spirit there stole again a feeling as of Paradise, the scent of the Elysian Fields, the songs of enchanting sirens, and it seemed as if the limits of her physical nature were dissolved and, leaving her narrow horizon behind her, she floated as if in ether. “What is happening to me?” she thought, as, struggling with herself, she advanced yet nearer to the vision of Paradise which swam before her eyes.

The eyes of this strange, compelling being flooded her like a spring season of sunshine. He stood high as the clouds above her. The sunshine overpowered the earth, but the earth yielded itself gladly to its rays. Was that the secret of her nature too? she herself asked. The season, now wild and stormy, advanced like a monster endued with power, from beyond the horizon, over the forests, rivers, cities, mountains, looking neither to right nor left and penetrating to the very heart of things. “If this man overcomes me in such a way, fills my whole being, is that indeed Paradise? Is it for me completion, redemption, deliverance? Is this my second nature which I have never yet dared to follow?”

She desired to resist, but a subtle and enchanting feebleness stole over her, and she felt herself like a March field, dark and yielding. A jackdaw was screeching in it, but somewhere or other a thrush was singing behind her. And the screeching jackdaw and the singing thrush were snatching at a maggot, a living maggot in the bark of the tree, and even the bark of the tree seemed to be awaiting and expectant, and there was a murmuring sound in its cells. And the thrush mounted high into the air, singing triolets born of the spirit of the soil....

Woman was the thrush, and at the same time she was the maggot. She yielded herself to the destroying force, and knew it not for the tumult in her blood. She was stirred in her inmost being, plunged into the depths and soared again, intangible as an air-bubble.... Above her rose the call of the man like the rustling sound of the summer, calling the sap to rise, to push forward the growth which should end in a glorious harvest.

XIV

Mabuse’s visit to Count Told duly took place. “Your neurosis is not by any means an unusual one,” said the doctor. “It will be cured when you regain control of yourself, but it will become worse and finally be incurable if you don’t succeed in doing that. It is a precursor of _dementia præcox_. For professional reasons I shall treat you in your own home, as I do all my patients. I make one condition, however. As long as you are undergoing treatment you must not leave the house or see anyone who recalls your former life.”

Told was stupefied by the power and authority which this doctor assumed towards him. Timid and shrinking by nature, downcast by what had occurred, he did not venture to make any objection, and from the very first moment he stood in absolute awe of him.

When Mabuse left the villa, in which he had seen many things which revealed the life the Count and his wife had led, he said to himself, “He must be got rid of if she even mentions him again.”

The doctor was in a highly excitable and savage state. The meeting with this man, who had so long called her his own, had fired his blood and inflamed him as if he had been a bull in the arena transfixed by a javelin. He unconsciously lowered his head as if for attack, and his imagination ran riot, thirsting to satisfy his hate and revenge. It seemed to him as if a tumour had suddenly burst within him, scattering its evil and offensive discharge everywhere, and he allowed himself to bathe in its stream.

When he re-entered his house he went straight to the room in which the Countess was confined. It was in a secluded corner of the villa. The only light there was came from a round window in its arched and richly decorated dome.

The Countess arose as he came in. She was white as the sheets upon her bed. She went towards him, saying, “Something happened to me in the night--something of which I was wholly unconscious. What have you been doing to me?”

“Nothing but what you allowed me to do!”

Then the woman trembled so that she sank down to the ground, raising her glance to his like an animal that has been shot down, and crying in horror, “You devil! oh, you devil!”

“That name pleases me,” said Mabuse. “I consider it flattering. It is, without your realizing it, a caress. Next time you will call me Lucifer, for I shall bring you light!”

The Countess, lying in a heap on the floor, broke into passionate sobs, crying in the midst of her anguish, “Where is my husband?”

Then she saw that at the question Mabuse made a gesture, so indifferent and trivial that she felt her painful anguished appeal was no more than a drop of dew vanishing in the sand, and as hopeless to look for. And her downcast broken heart asked itself whether this man could indeed be so powerful that everything went down before his will--that what she and others before her had been must be brought to nought?

Once again she must yield herself to the twofold stream within. It bore the most secret and hitherto unsuspected currents along with it, and her tortured imagination gave them full play. Must not that which her blood sought to reveal to her be true? She could not separate herself from this new world of feeling. Resist and inveigh against it as she might, she could yet not tear it from her.

The man stood silent before her, and his silence seemed to threaten her. She thought that by a word of her own she could destroy this threatening attitude of his, but she found no power to say anything more than to repeat helplessly, “Where is my husband?” Then Mabuse, silently and roughly, turned away.

When he had left her, leaving behind nothing but the impression of his dominating will, she felt as if she missed something in the room. She would have preferred him to stand there still, and her sense of isolation passed all bounds, overwhelming her. A bottomless abyss opened before her, and phantom figures made appealing gestures. But she could not cast herself down; she hung on to one slender rootlet; she knew it to be the tiny remnant that remained to her of her former life. She wished too, that even this rootlet might be torn adrift, for she would rather have faced death in its entirety than hover over the void.

* * * * *

Mabuse went backwards and forwards in his room. He was like a caged beast, caught between his rage for vengeance and lust of domination on the one hand and the resistance raised to the attainment of his goal on the other. That which baffled him was such a trifle, merely the memories binding a wife to the hours she has passed with her husband, either alone or in company, and because it was so slight an obstacle, the desire to remove and destroy it utterly possessed him with fury such as he had not known till now.

Spoerri entered. He was dressed as a soldier. “What is that for?” asked Mabuse morosely, but he did not wait for an answer, and asked about George’s movements.

“He is at the villa in Schachen. He is very cautious, and does not go out.”

“What is he doing there?”

“At night he helps to bring the store of cocaine under the summer-house into Switzerland. I have found something fresh which they are ready to take there. Ether.”

“What is the ether for?”

“Folks are beginning to take it.”

“Who? What folks? Where?”

“Our folks, in Switzerland!”