Chapter XVI
I was sitting on the beach, watching the sun go down. Pat had not come. She had not been well all day.
It grew darker and I rose to go home. As I did I saw through the trees the maid coming towards me. She was signalling and shouting something. I did not understand; the wind and the sea were too loud. I waved back that she should stay where she was; I would be there in a minute. But she continued to run, her hands to her mouth.
"Wife . . ." I heard. "Quick . . ."
I ran. "What's the matter?"
She was panting for breath. "Quick . . . wife . . . accident . . ."
I tore along the sandy track through the wood to the house. The wooden gate into the garden was jammed; I sprang over it and burst into the room. There lay Pat, blood all over her chest, fists clenched, blood running from her mouth. Beside her stood Fräulein Müller with cloths and a basin of water.
"What is it?" I cried, pushing her aside.
She said something. "Bring some bandages!" I cried. "Where's the wound?"
She looked at me with trembling lips. "There is no wound . . ."
I straightened. "A haemorrhage," said she.
I felt as if I had been struck with a hammer. "A haemorrhage!" I got up and took the basin of water from her hand. "Bring some ice, quickly, some ice."
I dipped the towel in the basin, and laid it on Pat's chest.
"We haven't any ice in the house," said Fräulein Müller.
I swung round. She stepped back. "Ice, damn you! Send to the nearest pub. And telephone at once for a doctor."
"But we have no telephone . . ."
"Hell! Where is the nearest telephone?"
"At Massmann's."
"Go. Quick! Run! Telephone the nearest doctor. What is his name? Where does he live?"
Before she could answer I had pushed her out. "Quick, quick, run, as quick as you can. How far is it?"
"Three minutes," said the woman and hurried out.
"Bring some ice with you," I called after her.
She nodded and ran.
I fetched more water and dipped the towel again. I did not dare to disturb Pat. I did not know whether she was lying properly or not; I was desperate because I did not know the one thing I ought to have known—whether to put pillows under her head, or lie her flat.
She choked, then lifted herself and a shot of blood welled from her mouth. Her breath came high and wailing, her eyes were filled with terror, she swallowed and choked and coughed, and again the blood spouted. I held her tight, passing an arm under her shoulders. I felt the quaking of her poor, tortured back—it seemed to last endlessly. Then she fell back limp . . .
Fräulein Müller came in. She looked at me like a ghost.
"What must we do?" I shouted.
"The doctor's coming at once," she whispered. "Ice . . . on her chest—and in her mouth, if you can . . ."
"Sit her up or lie her down? My God, can't you talk a bit quicker?"
"As she is, let her lie—he's coming at once."
I packed pieces of ice on Pat's chest, relieved at last to have something to do. I broke the ice up small for compresses and put them on, and all the time saw only the sweet, dear, tortured lips, the lips, the bleeding lips . . .
There, the rattle of a motor-bike. I jumped up. The doctor.
"Can I help?" I asked. He shook his head and unpacked his case. I stood at the bed beside him, gripping the posts. He looked up. I stepped back, strll keeping my eye upon him. He looked at Pat's ribs. Pat groaned.
"Is it dangerous?" I asked.
"Where was your wife being treated?" he replied.
"What? Treated?" I stammered.
"What doctor?" he asked impatiently.
"I don't know . . ." I answered. "No, I know nothing . . . I don't believe . . ."
He looked at me. "But you must know."
"But I don't know. She never said anything about it to me."
He bent over Pat and asked. She tried to answer. But again the red coughing broke through. The doctor lifted her. She bit the air and drew a long piping breath.
"Jaffé," she gasped, gurgling.
"Felix Jaffé? Professor Felix Jaffé?" asked the doctor. She nodded with her eyes. He turned to me. "Could you telephone him? It would be as well to ask him."
"Yes, yes," I replied. "At once. Then I'll fetch you . . . Jaffé?"
"Felix Jaffé," said the doctor. "Ask the exchange the number."
"Will she come through?" I still asked.
"She must stop bleeding," said the doctor.
I found the maid and set off down the path. She pointed out the house with the telephone. I ran on and knocked at the door. A small company of people was sitting over coffee and beer. I took them in with one swift glance and could not understand that people could drink beer while Pat was bleeding. I put through an urgent call and waited by the instrument. As I listened into the humming darkness, I saw with strange vividness over the glass top of the door part of the other room. I saw a bald head bobbing to and fro, yellow under the light; I saw a brooch on the black taffeta of a tight-laced dress, a double chin with a pair of pince-nez and a towering bun of hair—a bony old hand with thick veins drumming on the table . . . I wanted not to see, but I could not help it; it bored into my eyes like a too strong light.
At last the number answered. I asked for the professor. "I'm sorry," said, the nurse. "Professor Jaffé is out."
My heart stopped, then pounded again like a sledge-hammer. "Where is he? I must speak to him at once."
"I don't know. He may have gone to the clinic."
"Please telephone the clinic. I'll wait. You have a second telephone, of course?"
"One moment." The roar began again, the bottomless darkness, over it the thin swinging metal thread. I gave a startled jump. In a covered cage beside me a canary chirped. The sister's voice came again. "Professor Jaffé has already left the clinic."
"Where for?"
"I really can't say, sir."
Beaten. I leaned against the wall.
"Hello!" said the sister. "Are you there?"
"Yes. Listen, nurse—you don't know when he will be back?"
"That is quite uncertain."
"Surely he says before he goes out? He must surely! In case anything should happen, surely it must be possible to get in touch with him?"
"There is a doctor at the clinic."
"Would you . . . no, that wouldn't help, he wouldn't know. . . . All right, nurse," said I, dead-tired. "When Professor Jaffé does come in, ask him to ring here at once, urgently." I told her the number. "But most urgently, nurse, please. A matter of life and death."
"You can rely on that, sir." She repeated the number and rang off.
I stood there, alone. The swaying heads, the bald pate, the brooch, the other room, all so much shiny rubber, very far away. I looked about. There was nothing more I could do here. Only tell the people to fetch me if a call should come. But I could not make up my mind to leave the telephone. It was like letting go of a life belt. Then all at once I had it. I took up the receiver again and asked for Köster's number. He must be there. It was simply not possible that he was not there.
And there it came, out of the tumult of the night, Köster's quiet voice. And I myself became calm at once, and told him everything. I was aware of his making notes.
"Right," said he. "I'll go at once and find him. I'll ring again. Don't worry, I'll find him."
Pat? The world stood still. The spell was broken. I ran back.
"Well?" asked the doctor, "did you get him?"
"No," said I, "but I got Köster."
"Köster? Never heard of him. What did he say? What's his treatment?"
"Treatment? He isn't treating her. He's looking for him."
"For whom?"
"Jaffé."
"God in heaven—who is this Köster, then?"
"Ach, so—pardon! Köster is my friend. He is looking for Professor Jaffé. I couldn't get hold of him."
"That's a pity," said the doctor, turning again to Pat.
"He'll find him," said I. "If he isn't dead, he'll find him."
The doctor looked at me as if I were crazed, then gave a shrug.
The light of the lamp brooded in the room. I asked if I could help. The doctor shook his head. I stared out of the window. Pat choked. I shut the window and took up my stand in the doorway. I kept an eye on the path.
All at once I heard a shout. "Telephone!"
I swung round. "Telephone! Shall I go?"
The doctor jumped up. "No, I'll go. I'll be better able to ask him. You stay here. Don't do anything. I'll be back in a minute."
I sat on the bed beside Pat. "Pat," said I softly, "we are here. We will see to it! No harm will come to you. No harm dare come to you. The professor is talking now. He'll tell us what to do. He's coming to-morrow himself, we've fixed that. He will help you. You will soon be better. Why did you never tell me that you were ill? A little bit of blood doesn't count, Pat. We will give it to you again. Köster has found the professor, Pat. Now we'll be all right."
The doctor came back. "It wasn't the professor."
I stood up.
"It was a friend of yours—Lenz."
"Köster hasn't found him?"
"Yes. Jaffé gave him the instructions. Your friend Lenz telephoned them to me. Quite clear and correct, too. Is your friend a doctor?"
"No. He wanted to be. And Köster?"
The doctor looked at me. "Lenz said to tell you Köster had left a few minutes before. With the professor. He would be here in two hours."
I leant against the bed. "Otto," said I.
"Yes," said the doctor, "that was the one point he was wrong on. I know the road. At the quickest they'll need over three hours. All the same. . . ."
"If he said two hours, then you can be sure, doctor, he'll be here in two hours."
"I tell you it's not possible. The road's nothing but bends, and besides it's dark."
"You wait," said I.
"All the same . . . if he could get here . . . It is good he is coming." ,
At last I could stand it no longer. I went into the open. Outside it had turned misty. The sea was booming in the distance. Moisture dripped from the trees. I looked about me. I was no longer alone. To the south beyond the horizon somewhere an engine was whining. Beyond the mist help was racing over the pallid roads, headlamps spouting light, tyres whistling and two hands holding the wheel in an iron grip, two eyes boring into the darkness, cold, sure—the eyes of my comrade. . .
I learned afterwards from Jaffé how it had been.
Immediately, upon my call, Köster had rung Lenz and told him to hold himself in readiness. Then he had got Karl and with Lenz raced to Jaffé's clinic. The nurse on duty there thought the professor had gone out for supper. She gave Köster the names of a few likely places. Köster set off. He ignored all traffic signals—he took no heed of gesticulating policemen. He steered the car through the traffic like a runaway horse. At the fourth restaurant he found the professor. Jaffé "remembered at once. He left his meal unfinished and came. They drove to his house for the necessary things. And this was the only stretch where Köster drove merely fast, and did not race. He did not want to alarm the doctor beforehand. On the way Jaffé asked where Pat was. Köster named a place some forty kilometres out. He meant to get the professor into the car first. The rest would take care of itself. While packing his case Jaffé gave Lenz instructions as to what he should telephone. Then he got in with Köster.
"Is it dangerous?" asked Köster.
"Yes," said Jaffé.
From that moment Karl was transformed into a flying white ghost. With a bound he leapt from the start and swept away. He forced a way through, rode with two wheels on the footway, dashed contrariwise up one-way streets, seeking the shortest way out of the city.
"Are you crazy?" shouted the professor as Köster shot out from under the high fenders of a bus, slackened an instant, then let the engine roar again.
"Drive slower," bawled the professor, "what good will it do if we have an accident?"
"We won't have an accident."
"We will, inside two minutes, if you go on driving like this."
Köster swung the car to the left past an electric tram. "We won't!" He now had to negotiate a long street. He looked at the doctor. "I know I must get you there safely. You leave the rest to me."
"But what's the point of racing? You'll only save a few minutes."
"No," said Köster, dodging a lorry laden with ballast; "we have still two hundred and forty kilometres."
"What?"
"Yes . . ." The car darted between a mail van and a motorbus. . . . "I didn't want to tell you before."
"It would have made no difference," growled Jaffé. "I don't reckon my services by kilometres. Drive to the railway station. It will be quicker by train."
"No." Köster had reached the suburbs. The wind snatched the words from his mouth. "Asked about that already—train leaves too late." He looked at Jaffé again.
The doctor probably saw something in his face. "Is she your girl?" he shouted.
Köster shook his head. He answered no more questions. He had now left the allotment gardens behind and was entering the open country. The car was travelling at top speed. The doctor huddled down behind the narrow windscreen.Köster passed him his leather helmet.
The horn bayed unceasingly. The woods flung back the cry. Köster slowed up in villages only when there was nothing else for it. Behind the thunderous echo of the un-throttled explosions the rows of houses flapped like a shadow line of washing, the car swept through them, plucked them an instant into the livid glare of the headlights and with its beam before it devoured its way farther into the night.
The tyres began to snarl, to hiss, to whine, to whistle; the engine was giving all that was in it. Köster lay, his whole being intent on what was ahead, his body one mighty ear, a filter sifting the thunder and the whistling for every tiniest other noise, for every suspicious purr or knock or drag that might mean a puncture and death.
The road became wet. On one clayey stretch the car skidded and hurtled sideways. Köster was compelled to slacken speed. Afterwards, to make up, he took the corners still more sharply. He was driving no longer with his head, but by instinct. The headlights showed up the bend in two halves; the moment of the actual turn was black and blind. Köster helped himself out with the spotlight, but the beam was narrow.
The doctor was silent.
All at once the air glistened in the line of the headlamps; the beam coloured—a pale silver, a cloudy veil. That was the only time Jaffé heard Köster swear. A minute later they were in thick fog.
Köster dipped the lights. They were now swimming through cotton wool, shadows drove silently by, trees, phantoms in a milky sea; there was no road any more, only guesswork and luck, shadows that loomed and dwindled to the accompanying roar of the engine.
After ten minutes, when they came out of it, Köster's face was haggard. He looked at Jaffé and murmured something. Then at full speed he drove on, crouching, cold and self-possessed once more. . .
The sticky warmth weighted in the room like lead.
"Has it stopped yet?" I asked.
"No," said the doctor.
Pat looked at me. I smiled. It fixed in a grimace. "Half an hour more," said I.
The doctor looked at his watch. "An hour and a half, if not two. It's raining."
The drops were rustling lightly down among the leaves and shrubs of the garden. I peered into the dark with blinded eyes. How long ago was it since we had got up, Pat and I, in the night and gone out into the garden and sat among the stocks and wallflowers and Pat had hummed children's lullabies? How long since the moon shone so white on the pathway and Pat, like a lithe animal, ran down it between the bushes?
For the hundredth time I went to the door. I knew it was useless; but it shortened the waiting. The air was misty. I cursed; I knew what that would mean for Köster. A bird cried out of the darkness.
"Shut up," I growled. Bird of ill omen! it flashed through my mind. "Rubbish," said I aloud. A beetle was droning somewhere—but it did not come nearer—it did not come nearer. It kept up an even, steady hum; now it stopped— now it was there again—and again. I suddenly trembled. That wasn't a beetle; that was a car a long way off, going into the curves at top speed. I stood stock-still—I held my breath and opened my mouth to hear better. Again . . . again . . . the light, high-pitched buzzing, as of an angry wasp . . . And now, stronger, I could clearly detect the sound of the compressor—then the sky line, stretched to breaking-point, suddenly broke into a soft infinity, burying under it might and fear and terror. . . .
I ran back to the house. Supporting myself in the doorway, "They're coming!" I said. "Doctor, Pat, they're coming! I can hear them already!"
The doctor had treated me as if I were half-crazed the whole evening. He came too and listened. "It'll be some other car," said he at last.
"No, I know the engine."
He looked at me irritably. He thought himself something of a car fan, apparently. With Pat he was patient and thoughtful as a mother; but when I mentioned cars he would glare at me through his spectacles and know better. "Impossible," said he shortly and went inside again.
I remained outside. I was trembling with excitement. "Karl! Karl!" said I. Muffled sounds, whining sounds in quick succession—the car must be in the village, going at breakneck speed between the houses. The whine grew fainter; it was behind the wood—and now it swelled again, racing, triumphant—a bright beam swept through the mist: the headlights; a roar like thunder . . . Incredulous, the doctor was beside me. Suddenly the full piercing light quite blinded us and with a scream of brakes the car pulled up at the garden gate.
I ran towards it. The professor stepped out at once. He took no notice of me, but went straight to the doctor. After him came Köster.
"How is she?" said he.
"Still bleeding."
"She'll be all right now," said he. "You. don't need to worry now."
I said nothing, just looked at him . . .
"Have you a cigarette?" he asked.
I gave him one. "It was good of you to come, Otto."
He smoked in long pulls. "I thought it might be as well."
"You must have driven fast."
"Not so bad. Only one patch of fog."
We sat down side by side on the garden seat and waited.
"Do you think she'll come through?"
"Of course she will. A haemorrhage isn't dangerous."
"She never told me a word about it."
Köster nodded.
"She must come through, Otto," said I.
He did not look up. "Give us another cigarette," said he, "I forgot to put mine in."
"She must come through," said I, "else all is filth."
The professor came out. I stood up. "Damn me if I ever ride with you again," said he to Köster.
"Sorry," said he, "but she's my friend's wife."
"So?" said Jaffé, looking at me.
"Is she safe?" I asked.
He looked at me coldly. I shifted my gaze.
"Do you think I'd be standing here, if she wasn't?"
I bit my lip. I clenched my fists. My eyes filled with tears.
"I beg your pardon," said I, "but you've been so quick."
"That sort of thing can't be quick enough," said Jaffé, smiling.
"I can't help worrying, Otto," said I.
He took me by the shoulders, turned me about, and gave me a gentle push toward the door. "If the professor allows it?"
"I'm right now," said I. "Can I go in?"
"Very well, but no talking," replied Jaffé. "And only for a moment. She must not be excited."
I could see only a haze of light swimming in water. I blinked. The light danced and sparkled. I did not dare to wipe my eyes lest Pat should think I was crying because things were so bad. I ventured only a smile into the room. Then I turned quickly away.
"Was it right to bring you?" Köster asked the professor.
"It was as well," said Jaffé.
"I can take you back first thing in the morning."
"I'd sooner not," said Jaffé.
"I'll drive reasonably this time, of course."
"I think I'll stay here the day just to keep an eye on things.. Is your bed available?" he asked me. I nodded.
"Good. Then I'll sleep here. Can you get put up in the village?"
"Yes. Shall I get you a toothbrush and pyjamas?"
"Not necessary. I have everything. I am always prepared for emergencies—if not exactly for racing."
"I apologise," said Köster. "I don't wonder if you are annoyed."
"I'm not," said Jaffé.
"Then I'm sorry I didn't tell you the truth at once."
Jaffé laughed. "You have a poor opinion of doctors. Well, off you go. I'll stay here."
I hastily assembled a few things for Köster and myself. We walked in to the village.
"Are you tired?" I asked.
"No," said he. "Let us sit awhile somewhere."
After an hour I began to get restive. "If he stays, then it must be dangerous, Otto," said I. "Why should he else.
"I guess it's just a precaution," answered Köster. "He is very fond of Pat. He told me so, as we were coming. He attended her mother, too."
"Did she . . ."
"I don't know," said Köster quickly. "May have been something quite different. Feel like sleep yet?"
"You go, Otto. I'd like just once more . . . You know, from a distance . . ."
"Right. I'll come with you."
"Listen, Otto. Don't you trouble—I like sleeping out— in warm weather. I've dofte quite a bit of it lately."
"It's pretty wet."
"That's nothing. I'll put up Karl's hood and sit there awhile."
"Very good. I rather like sleeping out myself."
I saw there was no getting rid of him. We gathered up a few blankets and cushions and went back to Karl. We unlashed the cover and pushed back the seats. One could lie quite comfortably so.
"Better than at the Front sometimes," said Köster.
The bright patch of window glowed in the misty air. From time to time I saw Jaffé's shadow move across it. We smoked a packet of cigarettes. At last the light was turned out and only the little night-light still burned.
"Thank God," said I.
The rain trickled off the hood. A slight breeze was blowing. It turned cooler. "You can have my blanket if you like, Otto," said I.
"No—what do you think? I'm warm enough."
"Good sport, Jaffé, eh?"
"Yes. Clever, too, I believe."
"Sure."
I sat bolt upright out of a restless half-sleep. It was grey and cold outside. Köster was already awake.
"Haven't you slept, Otto?"
"Yes."
I climbed out of the car and went stealthily down the garden path to the window. The little night-light was still burning. I saw Pat lying in bed with closed eyes. For a moment I was afraid she was dead. Then I saw her right hand move. She was very pale. But she was not bleeding any more. Then again she made the same movement. At the same moment Jaff6, who was in my bed, opened bis eyes. I stepped back. I was reassured; he knew his job.
"I think we ought to shove off, Otto," said I to Köster; "he mustn't see we have been keeping a check on him."
"All in order inside?" asked Otto.
"So far as one can see. He has the right sleep, the professor. Sleeps through a bombardment, but wakes if a mouse nibbles at his haversack."
"What do you say to a swim?" said Köster. "Wonderful air here." He stretched himself.
"You go," said I.
"Come on," he insisted.
The grey sky parted. Streaks of orange-red light poured through. The curtain of cloud lifted along the horizon, and beyond showed a clear apple-green.
We sprang into the water and swam. The sea was grey and red.
Then we went back. Fräulein Müller was already up. She was picking parsley in the garden. She started when I spoke to her. Rather awkwardly I tried to apologise if I had perhaps sworn overmuch yesterday.
She started to cry. "Poor lady. So beautiful, and so young."
"She's going to live to a hundred," said I, vexed that she should weep as if Pat were going to die. Pat wasn't going to die. The cool morning, the quick sea-whipped life in me, told me so; Pat could not die. She could die only if I lost heart. Köster was here—I was here: Pat's comrades . . . we would die first. As long as we lived, she would pull through. It had been before. While Köster lived, I did not die. And so while we two lived, Pat could not die.
"One must submit to fate," said the old woman, and looked at me rather reproachfully out of her brown, wrinkled baked-apple face. She meant my cursing, apparently.
"Submit?" said I. "Why submit? Small good that will do. Everything in life has to be paid for, twice, thrice over. Then why submit?"
"Yes, yes—it is the best."
Submit! thought I. A lot that would help. Fight, fight, was the only thing in this struggle, where one would go under in the end anyway. Fight for the little that one loved. At seventy one might begin to think about submitting.
Köster spoke to her. Soon she was smiling again and asking him what he would like for lunch.
"You see," said Otto. "That's the gift of age. Tears and laughter—quick changes. No resentments. Something one might well learn," he observed meditatively.
We took a turn round the house. "Every minute she can sleep is to the good," said I. We came back into the garden. Fräulein Müller had spread the breakfast. We drank hot black coffee. The sun came up, and at once it was warm. The leaves of the trees glistened with the light and the wet. From the sea came the cry of the gulls.
Fräulein Müller placed a bunch of roses on the table. "We will give them to her afterwards," said she. The roses were fragrant of childhood and garden walls.
"Do you know, Otto," said I, "I feel as if I had been ill myself . . . I'm not the man I used to be. I ought to have been calmer. Cooler. The calmer a man is the more help he can be."
"One can't always be so, Bob. I have had times myself. The longer one lives the more fearful one gets. It's like a gambler who is always having new losses."
The door opened. Jaffé came out in his pyjamas. "It's all right, all right," he signalled as he saw me about to overturn the breakfast table. "As right as can be expected."
"Can I go in?"
"Not yet. The maid's there now. Washing and all that."
I poured him some coffee. He blinked in the sunlight and turned to Köster. "I ought to be grateful to you really. It has at least given me one day in the country."
"But you could do it often," said Köster. "Leave one evening and return the next."
"Could, could," answered Jaffé. "Haven't you ever observed how we live in an age of self-persecution? What a lot of things there are one might do that one doesn't—and yet why, God only knows. Work has become so tremendously important to-day, because so many have none, I suppose, that it kills everything else. How lovely it is here! Yet it's years since I have seen it. I have two cars, a ten-roomed house and money to burn . . . and what do I do with it? What is it all to this summer morning in the country? Work, work, work . . . an abominable obsession—and always under the illusion it will be different later. And it never is different. Queer, isn't it, that anyone should do that with his life?"
"A doctor, it seems to me, is one of the few who do know what they are living for," said I. "Take a bank clerk, for instance."
"My dear friend," replied Jaffé, "it's a mistake to think that all men have the same tastes."
"Yes," said Köster. "But neither do men get jobs in accord with their tastes."
"True," replied Jaffé. "It's all very difficult." He nodded to me. "Now. But easy—no touching and no letting her talk. . . ."
She lay among the pillows, helpless, as one stricken. Her face had lost its colour; blue, deep shadows were under her eyes and her lips were pale. Only her eyes were big and shining. Too big and shining . . .
I took up her hand. It was cold and limp.
"Pat, old man," said I awkwardly and was about to sit down beside her when by the window I caught sight of the dough-faced maid staring at me inquisitively.
"Go, can't you?" said I with annoyance.
"I have to draw the curtains," she replied.
"Very well, do so then, and go."
She tugged the yellow curtains over the window. And still she did not go. She set about slowly fastening the curtains together with a pin.
"Look," said I, "this isn't a play. Hop it, quick."
She turned on me haughtily. "I'll go when I have pinned them—and not then perhaps."
"Did you ask her to do it?" I asked Pat.
She nodded.
"Does the light hurt you?" I asked.
She shook her head. "It's better you shouldn't see me too clearly to-day . . ."
"Pat," said I horrified, "you're not to talkl But if that's all. . . ."
I opened the door and the maid vanished at last. I went back. I was no longer disconcerted. I was even quite glad
for the maid; it had brought me safely over the first moment. For it was damnable business to see Pat lying there like that.
I sat beside the bed. "You'll be right again soon, Pat."
She moved her lips. "To-morrow, do you think?"
"Not to-morrow perhaps, but in a few days. Then you ought to be able to get up and we'll drive home. We shouldn't have come down here, the air is much too strong for you—"
"Yes," she whispered. "But I'm not sick, Robby. It was just an accident—"
I looked at her. Didn't she really know, then, that she was ill? Or did she not want to know? Her eyes moved restlessly to and fro. "You don't need to be afraid—" she whispered.
I did not understand what she meant at first and why it should be important that I particularly should not be afraid. I saw only that she was agitated, her eyes had a strangely , troubled, urgent expression. And suddenly a thought came to me. I knew what she was thinking: she imagined I was afraid of her because she was ill.
"Good gracious, Pat," said I, "is that the reason, perhaps, you never told me anything?"
She did not answer, but I saw that that was it.
"Damn it all," said I; "what do you take me for, then?"
I stooped over her. "Now lie quite still a moment, but don't move." I kissed her. Her lips were dry and hot.
When I straightened up I saw that she was crying. She was crying soundlessly, with wide-open eyes, and her face did not move. The tears just welled out.
"For God's sake, Pat—"
"I'm so happy," said she.
I stood there and looked at her. It was only a word, but a word I had never heard said like that before. I had known women, but they had only been fleeting affairs, adventures, a gay hour occasionally, a lonely evening, escape from oneself, from despair, from vacancy. And I had never even wanted anything else, for I had learned that there is nothing else one can trust but oneself, and one's comrades perhaps. Now I suddenly saw that I could be something to someone, simply because I was there, and that that person was happy because I was with her. Said like that, it sounds very simple; but when you think about it, it is a tremendous thing, a thing that knows no end. It is something that can break and transform one. It is love and yet something more —something for which one can live. A man cannot live for love. But for a human being, perhaps . . .
I wanted to say something, but I could not. It is difficult to find words when one really has something to say. And even if one knows the right words, then one is ashamed to say them. All these words belong to other, earlier centuries. Our time has not the words yet to express its feelings. We can only be offhand—anything else rings false.
"Pat," said I, "brave old lad—"
At that moment Jaffé entered. He immediately took in the situation. "Nice behaviour," he growled. "I guessed something of the sort."
I was about to make some excuse, but he turned me out without more ado.