Part 46

The first time he heard it he was startled. He felt he would have to flee to his friend of former days. Then he was seized with the same fear that had come over Benda: Is our relation to each other the same? The thought of meeting Benda filled him with a sense of shame, to which was added a touch of bitterness as day after day passed by and Benda never called or wrote. “It is all over,” he thought, “he has forgotten me.” He would have liked to forget too; and he could have done it, for his mind was wandering, restless, strayed.

One evening as he crossed the square he noticed that the windows of his house were all brilliantly lighted. He went to the kitchen, where he found Agnes at the table seeding plums.

“Who is here again?” he asked. One could hear laughter, loud and boisterous, in the living room.

Agnes, scarcely looking up, reeled off the names: Councillor Finkeldey, Herr von Ginsterberg, Herr Samuelsky, Herr Hahn, a strange man whose name she did not know, Frau Feistelmann and her sister.

Daniel remained silent for a while. Then he went up to Agnes, put his hand under her chin, lifted her head, and murmured: “And you? And you?”

Agnes frowned, and was afraid to look into his face. Suddenly she said: “To-day is the anniversary of mother’s death.” With that she looked at him fixedly.

“So?” said Daniel, sat down on the edge of the table, and laid his head in his hand. Some one was playing the piano in the living room. Since Daniel had taken the grand piano up to his room, Dorothea had rented a small one. The rhythmical movement of dancing couples could be heard quite distinctly.

“I’d like to leave this place,” said Agnes, as she threw a worm-eaten plum in the garbage can. “In Beckschlager Street there is a seamstress who wants to teach me to sew.”

“Why don’t you go?” asked Daniel. “It would be a very sensible thing to do. But what will Philippina say about it?”

“Oh, she doesn’t object, provided I spend my evenings and Sundays with her.”

The front door bell rang, and Agnes went out: there was some one to see Daniel. He hesitated, started toward the door, shook and stepped back, seized with trembling hand the kitchen lamp in order to make certain that he was not mistaken, for it was dark, but there could be no mistake. It was Benda.

They looked at each other in violent agitation. Benda was the first to reach out his hand; then Daniel reached out his. Something seemed to snap within him. He became dizzy, his tall, stiff body swung back and forth. Then he fell into the arms of his friend, whom he had lived without for seventeen years.

Benda was not prepared for such a scene; he was unable to speak. Then Daniel tore himself loose from the embrace of his old comrade, pushed the dishevelled hair back from his forehead, and said hastily: “Come upstairs with me; no one will disturb us up there.”

Daniel lighted the lamp in his room, and then looked around to see whether old Jordan was at home. Jordan’s room was dark. He closed the door and took a seat opposite Benda. He was breathing heavily.

What meaning can be attached to the preliminary questions and answers that invariably accompany such a meeting after such a long separation? “How are you? How long are you going to stay in town? You still have the same old habits of life? Tell me about yourself.” What do such questions mean? They mean virtually nothing. The protagonists thereby simply remove the rubbish from the channels which have been choked up in the course of years, and try to build new bridges carrying them over abysses that must be crossed if the conversation is to be connected and coherent.

Benda had grown somewhat stout. His face was brownish yellow, about the colour of leather. The deep wrinkles around his forehead and mouth told of the hardships he had gone through. His eye was completely changed: it had the strong, vivacious, and yet quiet appearance of the eye of a hunter or a peasant.

“You may well imagine that I have already told the story of my adventures in Africa a hundred times and in the same way,” said Benda. “It has all been written down, and will shortly appear in book form, where you can read it. It was an unbroken chain of toil and trouble. Frequently I was as close to death as I am to this wall. I devoured enough quinine to fill a freight car, and yet it was always the same old story, fever to-day, to-morrow, for six months in the year. I have, I fear, ruined my health; I am afraid my old heart will not last much longer. The eternal vigilance I was obliged to exercise, the incessant fight for so simple a thing as a path, or for more urgent things such as food and drink, has told on me. I suffered terribly from the sun; also from the rain. I had very few of the comforts of life; I was often forced to sleep on the ground. And there was no one to talk to, no sense of security.”

“And yet,” he continued, “I had my reward. When I look back on it all, there is not an hour that I would care to have wiped from my memory. I accomplished a great deal. I made some important discoveries, brought back enough work to keep me busy for years to come, thirty-six boxes of plant preparations, and this despite the fact that the entire fruit of my first seven years of effort was burned in a tent near Nembos. But apart from what I have actually done, there is something so real and solemn about such a life. You live with the sky above you and savages round about you. These savages are like children. This state of affairs is, to be sure, being rapidly changed: Europe is breathing its pest into the paradise. The wiles and weaknesses of these savages are in a way touching; you feel sorry for them as you feel sorry for a dumb, harassed beast. I had taken a boy along with me from the boundless, primeval forests north of the Congo. He was a little bit of a fellow, almost a dwarf. I liked him; I even loved him. And obedient! I merely had to make a sign, and he was ready. Well, we came back to the Italian lakes, where I wished to remain for a while for the sake of the climate before returning to England. What happened? At the sight of the snow-covered mountain peaks he was seized with deathly fear; he became homesick; and in a few days he died of pneumonia.”

“Why is it that there was such a long period that we never heard from you?” asked Daniel, with a timidity and shyness that made Benda’s heart ache.

“That is a long story,” said Benda. “It took me two years to get through that fearful forest and out to a lake called Albert-Nyanza. From there I wanted to get over to Egypt, but the country was in a state of revolution and was occupied by the soldiers of the Mahdi. I was forced to take the route to the Northwest, ran into a pathless wilderness, and for five years was a captive of a tribe of the Wadai. The Niam-Niam, who were at war with the Wadai, liberated me. I could move about with relative freedom among them, but I could not go beyond their boundaries, for they held me in high esteem as a medicine man and were afraid I would bewitch them if I ever got out of their personal control. I had lost my guides, and I had no money to hire new ones. The things I needed, because of the delicacy of my constitution, as compared with theirs, I secured through the chieftain from a band of Arabian merchants. This was all very well so far as it went, but the chieftain was careful to keep me concealed from the Arabs. I finally succeeded in coming into personal touch with a Sheik to whom I could make myself understood. It was high time, for I could not have stood it another year.”

Daniel was silent. It was all so strange; he could hardly adapt himself to Benda’s voice and manner. Memory failed him. The world of Benda was all too foreign, unknown to him. What he himself felt had no weight with his friend; it did not even have meaning. With the old sense of dim defiance, he coaxed the ghost of disappointment into his soul; and his soul was weighed down by the nocturnal darkness like the glass of his window.

“Now I am enjoying my home,” said Benda thoughtfully, “I am enjoying a milder light, a more ordered civilisation. I have come to look upon Germany as a definite figure, to love it as a composite picture. Nature, really great, grand nature such as formerly seemed beyond the reach of my longings, such as constituted my idea, my presentiment of perfection, I have experienced in person; I have lived it. It enticed me, taught me, and almost destroyed me. All human organisation, on the contrary, has developed more and more into an idea. In hours that were as full of the feeling of things as the heart is full of blood, I have seen the scales of the balance move up and down with the weight of two worlds. The loneliness, the night, the heavens at night, the forest, the desert have shown me their true faces. The terribleness that at times proceeds from them has no equal in any other condition of existence. I understood for the first time the law that binds families, peoples, states together. I have repudiated all thought of rebellion, and sworn to co-operate, to do nothing but co-operate.

“I want to make a confession to you,” he continued. “I never had the faintest conception of the rhythm of life until I went to Africa. I had known how long it takes to grow a tree; I was familiar with the metamorphoses through which a plant must pass before it attains to perfection and becomes what it is; but it had never occurred to me to apply these laws and facts to our own lives; this had never entered my mind. I had demanded too much; I had been in too much of a hurry. Egoistic impatience had placed false weights and measures in my hands. What I have learned during these seventeen years of trial and hardship is patience. Everything moves so slowly. Humanity is still a child, and yet we demand justice of it, expect right and righteous action from it. Justice? Oh, there is still a long, long road to be travelled before we reach Justice! The way is as long and arduous as that from the primeval forest to the cultivated garden. We must exercise patience—for the benefit of the many generations of men that are to come after us.”

Daniel got up and began to walk back and forth. After a silence that was exceedingly painful to Benda, he said: “Let’s go out. Let’s go to a café, or take a long walk on the streets, or go wherever you would like to go. Or if I am a burden to you, I will accompany you for a short stretch and then remain alone. The point is, I cannot stay here any longer; I cannot stand it here.”

“A burden to me?” replied Benda reproachfully. That was the tone, the look of years gone by. Daniel felt at once that he was personally under no obligation to talk. He saw at once that Benda knew a great deal and suspected the rest. He felt his heart grow lighter.

They went downstairs.

XV

Daniel asked Benda to wait on the stairs, locked the door, and took his hat from the hook. In the living room there was a great deal of noise punctuated with laughter. Philippina came out of her room, and snarled: “The way they’re carrying on in there! You’d think they wuz all drunk!”

“What is going on?” asked Daniel timidly, merely to have something to say.

“They are playing blindfold,” replied Philippina contemptuously, “every one of them is an old bird, and they’re playing blindfold!”

There was a sound as if a plate had been broken; a piercing scream followed, and then silence. But the silence was of momentary duration: that vulgar, slimy laughter soon broke out again.

Above the din of screaming voices, Daniel heard Dorothea’s. He hastened to the door and opened it.

His enraged eye fell on the table covered with pots, empty cups, and pastry. The chairs had been pushed to one side; the new gas chandelier with its five frosted globes was functioning at full force; there were seven or eight persons grouped around Dorothea, laughing and looking at something that had fallen on the floor.

Dorothea had pushed the white sash she had been wearing while playing blindfold back on her forehead. She was the first to see Daniel; she exclaimed: “There is my husband. Now don’t get angry, Daniel; it’s nothing but that idiotic plaster mask.”

Councillor Finkeldey, a white-bearded man, nodded at Daniel, or at least at the spot where he was standing, with marked enthusiasm. It was his way of paying homage to Dorothea: everything she said he accompanied with an inspired nod of approval.

Daniel saw that the mask of Zingarella had been broken to pieces.

Without greeting a single person present, without even looking at a single one of them, he stepped into the circle, knelt down, and tried to put the broken pieces of the mask together. But there were too many small shreds. The nose, the chin, parts of the glorious forehead, a piece with the mouth arched in sorrow, another piece of the cheek—there were too many; they could not be put together.

He hurled the fragments to one side, and straightened up. “Philippina! The broom!” His command was given in a loud tone. And when Philippina came in with the broom, he added: “Sweep the dirt up on a pile, and then throw it in the garbage can.”

Philippina swept up, while Daniel, as silent and unsocial on going as he had been on coming, left the room.

Frau Feistelmann made an indignant face, Edward Hahn breathed through his nose, Herr Samuelsky, a fat man with a red beard, made a contemptuous remark, Dorothea, vexed and annoyed, stood and looked on while the tears took their unrestrained course.

Benda had been waiting down at the front door. “She has broken my mask,” said Daniel with a distorted smile, as he came down to his old friend, “the mask you gave me. You remember! Strange that it should have been broken to-day of all days, the very day you come to see me after so long a separation.”

“Possibly it can be glued together again,” said Benda, trying to console Daniel.

“I am not in favour of glueing things together,” replied Daniel. His eyes flashed green behind his glasses.

XVI

When the guests left, Philippina came in and cleaned up the room. Dorothea sat on the sofa. Her hands were lying in her lap; she was unusually serious.

“Why don’t your American ever come to see us?” asked Philippina, without apparent motive.

Dorothea was terrified. “Lock the door, Philippina,” she whispered, “I have something to tell you.”

Philippina locked the door, and went over to the sofa. “The American has to see me,” continued Dorothea, as her eyes roamed about the room in timid waywardness. “He says he wants to talk to me about something that will be of very great importance to me the rest of my life. He is living in a hotel, but I can’t go to a hotel. It will not do to have him come here, nor do I wish to be seen on the street with him. He has suggested a place where we might meet, but I am afraid: I do not know the people. Can’t you help me out, Philippina? Don’t you know some one to whom we can go and in whose house we can meet?”

Philippina’s eyes shone with their veteran glitter. She thought for a second or two, and then replied: “Oh, yes, I’ll tell you what you can do. Go down to Frau Hadebusch’s! She’s a good friend of mine, and you c’n depend on her. It don’t make no difference what takes place in her house; it won’t bother even the cat. You know Frau Hadebusch! Of course you do. What am I talking about! She is a widow, and lives all alone in a little house. She won’t rent; she says she don’t want the trouble. You know she’s no young woman any more. She is all alone, mind you. No one there but her son, and he’s cracked. Honest, the boy ain’t right.”

“Well, you go and talk it over with Frau Hadebusch, Philippina,” said Dorothea timidly.

“Very well, I’ll go see her to-morrow morning,” replied Philippina, smiled subserviently, and laid her horny hand on Dorothea’s tender shoulder.

“But listen, Philippina, be very, very careful. Do you hear?” Dorothea’s eyes became big and threatening. “Swear that you will be as silent as the tombs.”

“As true as I’m standing here!” said Philippina. Just then she bent over to pick up a hair pin from the floor.

The next morning Philippina ran over to Frau Hadebusch’s. The whole way she kept humming to herself; she was happy; she was contented.

THE DEVIL LEAVES THE HOUSE IN FLAMES

I

Despite the rain, Daniel and Benda strolled around the city moat until midnight.

The very thing that lay heaviest on Daniel’s heart, as was obvious from the expression on his face, he never mentioned. He told of his work, his travels in connection with the old manuscripts, his position as organist and in the conservatory, but all in such a general, detached, and distraught way, so tired and bewildered, that Benda was filled with an embarrassed anguish that made courteous attention difficult if not impossible.

In order to get him to talk more freely, Benda remarked that he had not heard of the death of Gertrude and Eleanore until his return. He said he was terribly pained to hear of it, and, try as he might, he could not help but brood over it. But he had no thought of persuading Daniel to give him the mournful details. He merely wished to convince himself that Daniel had become master of the anguish he had gone through,—master of it at least inwardly.

Instead of making a direct and logical reply, Daniel said with a twitching of his lips: “Yes, I know, you have been here for quite a while already. Inwardly I was surprised at your silence. But it is not easy to start up a renewed friendship with such a problematic creature as I am.”

“You know you are wrong when you say that,” responded Benda calmly, “and therefore I refuse to explain my long waiting. You never were problematic to me, nor are you now. I find you at this moment just as true and whole as you always were, despite the fact that you avoid me, crouch before me, barricade yourself against me.”

Daniel’s breast heaved as if in the throes of a convulsion. He said falteringly: “First let that old confidence return and grow. I must first become accustomed to the thought that there is a man near me who feels with me, sympathises with me, understands me. To be sure, you want me to talk. But I cannot talk, at least not of those things about which you would like to hear. I am afraid: I shudder at the thought; I have forgotten how; words mock me, make me feel ashamed. Even when I have good dreams, I personally am as happily and blessedly silent in them as the beast of the field. I shudder at the thought of reaching down into my soul and pulling out old, rusty things and showing them to you—mouldy fruit, slag, junk—showing them to you, you who knew me when all within me was crystal.”

He fixed his eyes on the clouds and then continued: “But there is probably another means, Friedrich. Look, friend, look! It was always your affair to look, to behold. Look, but see to it that you do not make me writhe before you like a worm in the dust! And when you have looked—wisdom needs only one spoken word for ten that are unspoken. This one word you will surely draw from me.”

Benda, deeply moved, remained silent: “Is it the fault of a woman?” he asked gently, as they crossed the drawbridge and entered the desolate old door leading to the castle.

“The fault of a woman? No! Not really the fault of a woman. It is rather the fault of a man—my fault. Many a fate reaches the decisive point in happiness, many not until coloured with guilt. And guilt is bitter. The fault of a woman!” he repeated, in a voice that threw off a gruesome echo in the vaulted arch of the gateway to the castle. “There is to be sure a woman there; and when one has anything to do with her, he finds himself with nothing left but his eyes for weeping.”

They left the gateway. Benda laid one hand on Daniel’s shoulder, and pointed in silence at the sky with the other. There were no stars to be seen; nothing but clouds. Benda however had the stars in mind. Daniel understood his gesture. His eyelids closed; around his mouth there was an expression of vehement grief.

II

Benda was convinced, not merely that one great misfortune had already taken place, but that a still greater was in the making.

Whenever he thought of Dorothea, the picture that came to his mind was one that filled him with fear. And yet, he thought, she must have some remarkable traits, otherwise Daniel would never have chosen her as his life companion. He wanted to meet her.

He had Daniel invite him in to tea. He called one evening early in the afternoon.

She received him with expressions of ostentatious joy. She said she could hardly wait until he came, for there was nothing in the world that made such an impression on her as a man who had really run great risks, who had placed his very life at stake. She could not become tired of asking him questions. At each of his laconic replies she would shake her head with astonishment. Then she rested her elbows on her knees, placed her head in her hands, bent over and stared at him as though he were some kind of prodigy—or monster.

She asked him whether he had been among cannibals, whether he had shot any savages, whether he had hunted lions, and whether it was really true that every Negro chieftain had hundreds of wives. When she asked this question she made an insidious face, and remarked that Europeans would do the same thing if the law allowed.