Part 29

Stettner smiled at this speech. But he became serious again at once. “It seems to me too that, in a sense, we’re all trapped here. Yet I have never felt myself so deeply and devotedly a German as at this moment when I am probably leaving my fatherland forever. But in that feeling there is a stab of pain. It seems to me as though I should hurry from one to another and sound a warning. But what to warn them of, or why warn them at all--I don’t know.”

Crammon answered weightily. “My dear old Aglaia wrote me the other day that she had dreamed of black cats all night long. She is deep, she has a prophetic soul, and dreams like that are of evil presage. I may enter a monastery. It is actually within the realm of the possible. Don’t laugh, Christian; don’t laugh, my dearest boy! You don’t know all my possibilities.”

It had not occurred to Christian to laugh.

Stettner stopped and gave his hands to his friends. “Good-bye, Crammon,” he said cordially. “I’m grateful that you accompanied me. Good-bye, dear Christian, good-bye.” He pressed Christian’s hand long and firmly. Then he tore himself away, hastened toward the gang-plank, and was lost in the crowd.

“A nice fellow,” Crammon murmured. “A very nice fellow. What a pity!”

When the car met them Christian said: “I’d like to walk a bit, either back to the hotel or somewhere else. Will you come, Bernard?”

“If you want me, yes. Toddling along is my portion.”

Christian dismissed his car. He had a strange foreboding, as though something fateful were lying in wait for him.

“Ariel’s days here are numbered,” said Crammon. “Duty calls me away. I must look after my two old ladies. Then I must join Franz Lothar in Styria. We’ll hunt heath-cocks. After that I’ve agreed to meet young Sinsheim in St. Moritz. What are your plans, my dear boy?”

“I leave for Berlin to-morrow or the day after.”

“And what in God’s name are you going to do there?”

“I’m going to work.”

Crammon stopped, and opened his mouth very wide. “Work?” he gasped, quite beside himself. “What at? What for, O misguided one?”

“I’m going to take courses at the university, under the faculty of medicine.”

Horrified, Crammon shook his head. “Work ... courses ... medicine.... Merciful Providence, what does this mean? Is there not enough sweat in the world, not enough bungling and half-wisdom and ugly ambition and useless turmoil? You’re not serious.”

“You exaggerate as usual, Bernard,” Christian answered, with a smile. “Don’t always be a Jeremiah. What I’m going to do is something quite simple and conventional. And I’m only going to try. I may not even succeed; but I must try it. So much is sure.”

Crammon raised his hand, lifted a warning index finger, and said with great solemnity: “You are upon an evil path, Christian, upon a path of destruction. For many, many days I have had a presentiment of terrible things. The sleep of my nights has been embittered; a sorrow gnaws at me and my peace has flown. How am I to hunt in the mountains when I know you to be among the Pharisees? How shall I cast my line into clear streams when my inner eye sees you bending over greasy volumes or handling diseased bodies? No wine will glitter beautifully in my glass, no girl’s eyes seem friendly any more, no pear yield me its delicate flavour!”

“Oh, yes, they will,” Christian said, laughing. “More than that: I hope you’ll come to see me from time to time, to convince yourself that you needn’t cast me off entirely.”

Crammon sighed. “Indeed I shall come. I must come and soon, else the spirit of evil will get entire control of you. Which may God forbid!”

XIX

Johanna told Eva, whom she adored, about her life. Eva thus received an unexpected insight into the grey depths of middle-class existence. The account sounded repulsive. But it was stimulating to offer a spiritual refuge to so much thirst and flight.

She herself often seemed to her own soul like one in flight. But she had her bulwarks. The wind of time seemed cold to her, and when she felt a horror of the busy marionettes whose strings were in her hands, she felt herself growing harder. The friendship which she gave to this devoted girl seemed to her a rest in the mad race of her fate.

They were so intimate that Susan Rappard complained. The latter opened her eyes wide and her jealousy led her to become a spy. She became aware of the relations that had developed between Johanna and Christian.

At dinner there had been much merriment. Johanna had bought a number of peaked, woollen caps. She had wrapped them carefully in white paper, written some witty verses on each bundle, and distributed them as favours to Eva’s guests. No one had been vexed. For despite her mockery and gentle eccentricity, there was a charm about her that disarmed every one.

“How gay you are to-day, Rumpelstilzkin,” Eva said. She, too, used that nickname. The word, which she pronounced with some difficulty, had a peculiar charm upon her lips.

“It is the gaiety that precedes tears,” Johanna answered, and yielded as entirely to her superstitious terror as she had to her jesting mood.

A wealthy ship-owner had invited Eva to view his private picture gallery. His house was in the suburbs. She drove there with Johanna.

Arm in arm they stood before the paintings. And in that absorbed union there was something purifying. Johanna loved it as she loved their common reading of poetry, when they would sit with their cheeks almost touching. Extinguished in her selfless adoration, she forgot what lay behind her--the anxious, sticky, unworthily ambitious life of her family of brokers; she forgot what lay before her--oppression and force, an inevitable and appointed way.

Her gestures revealed a gentle glow of tenderness.

On their way back she seemed pale. “You are cold,” Eva said, and wrapped the robe more firmly about her friend.

Johanna squeezed Eva’s hand gratefully. “How dear of you! I shall always need some one to tell me when I’m hot or cold.”

This melancholy jest moved Eva deeply. “Why do you act so humble?” she cried. “Why do you shrink and hide and turn your vision away from yourself? Why do you not dare to be happy?”

Johanna answered: “Do you not know that I am a Jewess?”

“Well?” Eva asked in her turn. “I know some very extraordinary people who are Jews--some of the proudest, wisest, most impassioned in the world.”

Johanna shook her head. “In the Middle Ages the Jews were forced to wear yellow badges on their garments,” she said. “I wear the yellow badge upon my soul.”

Eva was putting on a tea gown. Susan Rappard was helping her. “What’s new with us, Susan?” Eva asked, and took the clasps out of her hair.

Susan answered: “What is good is not new, and what is new is not good. Your ugly little court fool is having an affair with M. Wahnschaffe. They are very secretive, but there are whispers. I don’t understand him. He is easily and quickly consoled. I have always said that he has neither a mind nor a heart. Now it is plain that he has no eyes either.”

Eva had flushed very dark. Now she became very pale. “It is a lie,” she said.

Susan’s voice was quite dry. “It is the truth. Ask her. I don’t think she’ll deny it.”

Shortly thereafter Johanna slipped into the room. She had on a dress of simple, black velvet which set off her figure charmingly. Eva sat before the mirror. Susan was arranging her hair. She had a book in her hand and read without looking up.

On a chair near the dressing-table lay an open jewel case. Johanna stood before it, smiled timidly, and took out of it a beautifully cut cameo, which she playfully fastened to her bosom; she looked admiringly at a diadem and put it in her hair; she slipped on a few rings and a pearl bracelet over her sleeve. Thus adorned she went, half hesitatingly, half with an air of self-mockery, up to Eva.

Slowly Eva lifted her eyes from the book, looked at Johanna, and asked: “Is it true?” She let a few seconds pass, and then with wider open eyes she asked once more: “Is it true?”

Johanna drew back, and the colour left her cheeks. She suspected and knew and began to tremble.

Then Eva arose and went close up to her and stripped the cameo from the girl’s bosom, the diadem from her hair, the rings from her fingers, the bracelet from her arm, and threw the things back into the case. Then she sat down again, took up her book, and said: “Hurry, Susan! I want to rest a little.”

Johanna’s breath failed her. She looked like one who has been struck. A tender blossom in her heart was crushed forever, and from its sudden withering arose a subtle miasma. Almost on the point of fainting she left the room.

As though to seal the end of a period in her life and warn her of evil things to come, she received within two hours a telegram from her mother which informed her of a catastrophe and urgently summoned her home. Fräulein Grabmeier began packing at once. They were to catch the train at five o’clock in the morning.

From midnight on Johanna sat waiting in Christian’s room. She lit no light. In the darkness she sat beside a table, resting her head in her hands. She did not move, and her eyes were fixed on vacancy.

XX

In the course of their talk Christian and Crammon had wandered farther and farther into the tangled alleys around the harbour. “Let us turn back and seek a way out,” Crammon suggested. “It isn’t very nice here. A damnable neighbourhood, in fact.”

He peered about, and Christian too looked around. When they had gone a few steps farther, they came upon a man lying flat on his belly on the pavement. He struggled convulsively, croaked obscene curses, and shook his fist threateningly toward a red-curtained, brightly lit door.

Suddenly the door opened, and a second man flew out. A paper box, an umbrella, and a derby hat were pitched out after him. He stumbled down the steps with outstretched arms, fell beside the first man, and remained sitting there with heavy eyes.

Christian and Crammon looked in through the open door. In the smoky light twenty or thirty people were crouching. The monotonous crying of a woman became audible. At times it became shriller.

The glass door was flung shut.

“I shall see what goes on in there,” said Christian, and mounted the steps to the door. Crammon had only time to utter a horrified warning. But he followed. The reek of cheap whiskey struck him as he entered the room behind Christian.

Beside tables and on the floor crouched men and women. In every corner lay people, sleeping or drunk. The eyes which were turned toward the newcomers were glassy. The faces here looked like lumps of earth. The room, with its dirty tables, glasses, and bottles had a colour-scheme of scarlet and yellow. Two sturdy fellows stood behind the bar.

The woman whose crying had penetrated to the street sat on a bench beside the wall. Blood was streaming down her face, and she continued to utter her monotonous and almost bestial whine. In front of her, trying hard to keep erect on legs stretched far apart, stood the huge fellow whom Christian had observed at the public funeral of the murdered harlot. In a hoarse voice, in the extreme jargon of the Berlin populace, he was shouting: “Yuh gonna git what’s comin’ to yuh! I’ll show yuh what’s what! I’ll blow off yer dam’ head-piece’n yuh cin go fetch it in the moon!”

On the threshold of an open door in the rear stood a stout man with innumerable watch-charms dangling across his checked waistcoat. A fat cigar was held between his yellow teeth. He regarded the scene with a superior calm. It was the proprietor of the place. When he saw the two strangers his brows went up. He first took them to be detectives, and hastened to meet them. Then he saw his mistake and was the more amazed. “Come into my office, gentlemen,” he said in a greasy voice, and without removing the cigar. “Come back there, and I’ll give you a drink of something good.” He drew Christian along by the arm. A woman with a yellow head-kerchief arose from the floor, stretched out her arms toward Christian, and begged for ten pfennigs. Christian drew back as from a worm.

An old man tried to prevent the gigantic lout from maltreating the bleeding woman any more. He called him Mesecke and fawned upon him. But Mesecke gave him a blow under the chin that sent him spinning and moaning. Murmurs of protest sounded, but no one dared to offend the giant. The proprietor whispered to Christian: “What he wants is brass; wants her to go on the street again and earn a little. Nothing to be done right now.”

He grasped Crammon by the sleeve too, and drew them both through the door into a dark hall. “I suppose you gentlemen are interested in my establishment?” he asked anxiously. He opened a door and forced them to enter. The room into which they came showed a tasteless attempt at such luxury as is represented by red plush and gilt frames. The place was small, and the furniture stood huddled together. Crossed swords hung above a bunch of peacock feathers, and above the swords the gay cap of a student fraternity. Between two windows stood a slanting desk covered with ledgers. An emaciated man with a yellowish face sat at the desk and made entries in a book. He quivered when the proprietor entered the room, and bent more zealously over his work.

The proprietor said: “I’ve got to take care of you gents or something might happen. When that son of a gun is quiet you can go back and look the place over. I guess you’re strangers here, eh?” From a shelf he took down a bottle. “Brandy,” he whispered. “Prime stuff. You must try it. I sell it by the bottle and by the case. A number one! Here you are!” Crammon regarded Christian, whose face was without any sign of disquiet. With a sombre expression he went to the table and, as though unseeing, touched his lips to the glass which the proprietor had filled. It was a momentary refuge, at all events.

In the meantime a frightful noise penetrated from the outer room. “Fighting again,” said the proprietor, listened for a moment, and then disappeared. The noise increased furiously for a moment. Then silence fell. The book-keeper, without raising his waxy face, said: “Nobody can stand that. It’s that way every night. And the books here show the profits. That man Hillebohm is a millionaire, and he rakes in more and more money without mercy, without compassion. Nobody can stand that.”

The words sounded like those of a madman.

“Are we going to permit ourselves to be locked up here?” Crammon asked indignantly. “It’s rank impudence.”

Christian opened the door, and Crammon drew from his back pocket the Browning revolver that was his constant companion. They passed through the hall and stopped on the threshold of the outer room. Mesecke had vanished. Many arms had finally expelled him. The woman from whom he had been trying to get money was washing the blood from her face. The old man who had been beaten when he had pleaded for her said consolingly: “Don’t yuh howl, Karen. Things’ll get better. Keep up, says I!” The woman hardly listened. She looked treacherous and angry.

A tangle of yellow hair flamed on her head, high as a helmet and unkempt. While she was bleeding she had wiped the blood with her naked hand, and then stained her hair with it.

“You go home now,” the proprietor commanded. “Wash your paws and give our regards to God if you see him. Hurry up, or your sweetheart’ll be back and give you a little more.”

She did not move. “Well, how about it, Karen,” a woman shrilled. “Hurry. D’yuh want some more beating?”

But the woman did not stir. She breathed heavily, and suddenly looked at Christian.

“Come with us,” Christian said unexpectedly. The bar-tenders roared with laughter. Crammon laid a hand of desperate warning on Christian’s shoulder.

“Come with us,” Christian repeated calmly. “We will take you home.”

A dozen glassy eyes stared their mockery. A voice brayed: “Hell, hell, but you’re gettin’ somethin’ elegant.” Another hummed as though scanning verses: “If that don’t kill the bedbugs dead, I dunno what’ll do instead! Don’t yuh be scared, Karen. Hurry! Use your legs!”

Karen got up. She had not taken her shy and sombre eyes from Christian. His beauty overwhelmed her. A crooked, frightened, cynical smile glided over her full lips.

She was rather tall. She had fine shoulders and a well-developed bosom. She was with child--perhaps five months; it was obvious when she stood. She wore a dark green dress with iridescent buttons, and at her neck a flaming red riband fastened by a brooch that represented in silver, set with garnets, a Venetian gondola, and bore the inscription: _Ricordo di Venezia_. Her shoes were clumsy and muddy. Her hat--made of imitation kid and trimmed with cherries of rubber--lay beside her on the bench. She grasped it with a strange ferocity.

Christian looked at the riband and at the silver brooch with its inscription: _Ricordo di Venezia_.

Crammon sought to protect their backs. For new guests were coming in--fellows with dangerous faces. He had simply yielded to the inevitable and incomprehensible, and determined to give a good account of himself. He gritted his teeth over the absence of proper police protection, and said to himself: “We won’t get out of this hole alive, old boy.” And he thought of his comfortable hotel-bed, his delicious, fragrant bath, his excellent breakfast, and of the box of chocolates on his table. He thought of young girls who exhaled the fresh sweetness of linen, of all pleasant fragrances, of Ariel’s smile and Rumpelstilzkin’s gaiety, and of the express train that was to have taken him to Vienna. He thought of all these things as though his last hour had come.

Two sailors came in dragging between them a girl who was pale and stiff with drunkenness. Roughly they threw her on the floor. The creature moaned, and had an expression of ghastly voluptuousness, of strange lasciviousness on her face. She lay there stiff as a board. The sailors, with a challenge in their voices, asked after Mesecke. He had evidently met them and complained to them. They wanted to get even with the proprietor. One of them had a scarlet scratch across his forehead; the other’s arms were naked up to his shoulders and tattooed until they were blue all over. The tattooing represented a snake, a winged wheel, an anchor, a skull, a phallus, a scale, a fish, and many other objects.

Both sailors measured Christian and Crammon with impudent glances. The one with the tattooed arms pointed to the revolver in Crammon’s hand, and said: “If you don’t put up that there pistol I’ll make you, by God!”

The other went up to Christian and stood so close to him that he turned pale. Vulgarity had never yet touched him, nor had the obscene things of the gutter splashed his garments. Contempt and disgust arose hotly in him. These might force him to abandon his new road; for they were more terrible than the vision of evil he had had in the house of Szilaghin.

But when he looked into the man’s eyes, he became aware of the fact that the latter could not endure his glance. Those eyes twitched and flickered and fled. And this perception gave Christian courage and a feeling of inner power, the full effectiveness of which was still uncertain.

“Quiet there!” the proprietor roared at the two sailors. “I want order. You want to get the police here, do you? That’d be fine for us all, eh? You’re a bit crazy, eh? The girl can go with the gentlemen, if they’ll pay her score. Two glasses champagne--that’s one mark fifty. And that ends it.”

Crammon laid a two-mark piece on the table. Karen Engelschall had put on her hat, and turned toward the door. Christian and Crammon followed her, and the proprietor followed them with sarcastic courtesy, while the two sturdy bar-tenders formed an additional bodyguard. A few half-drunken men sent the strains of a jeering song behind them.

The street was empty. Karen gazed up and down it, and seemed uncertain in which direction she should go. Crammon asked her where she lived. She answered harshly that she didn’t want to go home. “Then where shall we take you?” Crammon asked, forcing himself to be patient and considerate. She shrugged her shoulders. “It don’t matter,” she said. Then, after a while, she added defiantly. “I don’t need you.”

They went toward the harbour, Karen between the two men. For a moment she stopped and murmured with a shudder of fear: “But I mustn’t run into him. No, I mustn’t.”

“Will you suggest something then?” Crammon said to her. His impulse was simply to decamp, but for Christian’s sake, and in the hope of saving him uninjured from this mesh of adventures, he played the part of interest and compassion.

Karen Engelschall did not answer, but hurried more swiftly as she caught sight of a figure in the light of a street lamp. Until she was beyond its vision she gasped with terror.

“Shall we give you money?” Crammon asked again.

She answered furiously: “I don’t need your money. I want no money.” Surreptitiously she gazed at Christian, and her face grew malicious and stubborn.

Crammon went over beside Christian, and spoke to him in French. “The best thing would be to take her to an inn where she can get a room and a bed. We can deposit a sum of money there, so that she is sheltered for a while. Then she can help herself.”

“Quite right. That will be best,” Christian replied. And, as though he could not bear to address her, he added: “Tell her that.”

Karen stopped. She lifted her shoulders as though she were cold, and said in a hoarse voice: “Leave me alone. What are you two talking about? I won’t walk another step. I’m tired. Don’t pay no attention to me!” She leaned against the wall of a house, and her hat was pushed forward over her forehead. She was as sorry and dissipated a looking object as one could possibly imagine.

“Isn’t that the sign of an inn?” Crammon asked and pointed to an illuminated sign at the far end of the street.

Christian, who had very keen eyes, looked and answered: “Yes. It says ‘King of Greece.’ Do go and inquire.”

“A lovely neighbourhood and a lovely errand,” Crammon said plaintively. “I am paying for my sins.” But he went.

Christian remained with the woman, who looked down silently and angrily. Her fingers scratched at her riband. Christian listened to the beating of the tower-clock. It struck two. At last Crammon reappeared. He beckoned from a distance and cried: “Ready.”

Christian addressed the girl for the first time. “We’ve found a shelter for you,” he said, a little throatily, and, quite contrary to his wont, blinked his eyes. His own voice sounded disagreeably in his ears. “You can stay there for some days.”

She looked at him with eyes that glowed with hatred. An indescribable but evil curiosity burned in her glance. Then she lowered her eyes again. Christian was forced to speak again: “I think you will be safe from that man there. Try to rest. Perhaps you are ill. We could summon a physician.”

She laughed a soft, sarcastic laugh. Her breath smelt of whiskey.

Crammon called out again.

“Come on then,” Christian said, mastering his aversion with difficulty.

His voice and his words made the same overwhelming impression on her that his appearance had done. She started to go as though she were being propelled from behind.

A sleepy porter in slippers stood at the door of the inn. His servile courtesy proved that Crammon had known how to treat him. “Number 14 on the second floor is vacant,” he said.

“Send some one to your lodgings to-morrow for your things,” Crammon advised the girl.

She did not seem to hear him. Without a word of thanks or greeting she followed the porter up the soiled red carpet of the stairs. The rubber cherries tapped audibly against the brim of her hat. Her clumsy form disappeared in the blackness.

Crammon breathed a sigh of relief. “My kingdom for a four-wheeler,” he moaned. At a nearby corner they found a cab.

XXI