Chapter XX
August was warm and clear, and in September too the weather was still almost summery—but then, toward the end of September, it started to rain. Clouds hung low all day over the city, the eaves dripped, then the storms began and, one Sunday when I waked early and went to the window, I saw in the trees of the graveyard sulphur-yellow flecks and the first bare branches.
I remained some time standing at the window. It had been curious, these months since we had come back from the sea; I had always, every hour, been conscious that Pat must go away in the autumn, but I had known it as one knows so many things—that the years are passing, that one is getting older, that one cannot live forever. The present had been stronger; it had always thrust aside every other thought, and as long as Pat was there, and the trees still green, words such as "autumn" and "going away" and "parting" had been no more than pale shadows on the horizon, making one feel only the more intensely the joy of being near, of being still together.
I looked out on the damp, rain-drenched graveyard, at the gravestones covered with dirty, brown leaves.
Like some bloodless beast the mist overnight had sucked the green sap from the leaves of the trees; feeble and limp they hung from the twigs; each new gust of wind that passed through them tore off fresh ones, and drove them before it—and like a sharp, cutting pain I was suddenly aware for the first time that the parting would soon be there, soon become a reality, even as the autumn that had crept through the tree tops outside and left behind its yellow traces had become a reality.
I listened into the next room. Pat was still asleep. I went to the door and stood there awhile. She was sleeping quietly, not coughing. For an instant a sudden hope rose up: I pictured to myself that to-day, or to-morrow, or in the next few days, Jaffé would ring up to tell me she need not go away. Then I remembered the nights when I had heard the rustle of her breathing, the regular, muffled, grating noise that came and went like the sound of a very distant, thin saw—and the hope was extinguished again as swiftly as it had flickered up.
I went back to the window and again looked out into the rain. Then I sat down at the writing-table and began counting my money. I reckoned how long it would last for Pat, but that made me miserable and I shut it away again.
I looked at the clock. It was shortly before seven. It wanted at least two hours before Pat would wake. So I hastily dressed to go out and do a bit more driving. That was better than sitting about in the room with one's thoughts.
I went to the garage, took out the cab, and drove slowly through the streets. There were few people about. In the working-class districts the long rows of apartment houses stood bald and desolate, like sad old pros'titutes, in the rain. The fronts were decayed and dirty, the murky windows stared cheerlessly in the morning light, and the peeling plaster of the walls showed in many places deep, yellow-grey holes, as if they had the pox.
I made my way across the Old Town to the cathedral. I pulled the car up outside the little entry and got out. Through the heavy oak door I heard the subdued peal of the organ. It was the hour of morning Mass, and I listened to the organ which had just begun the offertory—that meant it would be twenty minutes at least before the Mass ended and the people came out.
I went into the cloister garden. It lay in grey light. The rosebushes were dripping with rain, but most were still loaded with blooms. My raincoat was fairly big and I could hide under it the sprays I cut off. Though it was Sunday nobody came, and I took out the first armful of roses to the car unhindered. Then I went back for another. Just as I had got them safely stowed under my coat, I heard somebody coming through the cloister. I clamped the bunch tightly against me with my arm and remained standing before one of the Stations of the Cross, as if lost in prayer.
The footsteps came nearer; they did not pass, they stopped. I began to feel a bit hot. I gazed at the stone picture with an air of deep reverence, made the sign of the Cross, and walked slowly toward the next Station, which was nearer the exit. The footsteps followed me and stopped again. I didn't know what to do. I could not move on immediately; I should have to stick it long enough to say at least ten Ave Marias and a paternoster—else I should give myself away at once. So I continued to stand there and looked up cautiously to see what was up, with a disapproving expression as if I had been interrupted in my devotions.
I looked into the friendly, round face of a priest and breathed again. I knew he would not interrupt me while I was praying and was already counting myself saved when I noticed that unfortunately I had picked on the last Station. No matter how slowly I might pray, I would have to be through in a few minutes, and that was what he was waiting for, obviously. There was no point prolonging the business. So I walked off slowly and unperturbed toward the exit.
"Good morning," said the priest. "Jesus Christ be praised."
"Forever, amen," I responded. That was the Catholic greeting.
"It is unusual to see anyone here at this time," said he amiably, looking at me out of bright, blue, childlike eyes.
I mumbled something.
"Very unusual, unfortunately," he went on, rather troubled. "Men especially one hardly ever sees doing the Stations. For that reason I rejoice over you, and have ventured to speak to you. You have some special request I am sure, that brings you so early and in this weather."
Yes, that you go away, thought I, and nodded, relieved. So far he seemed not to have noticed the flowers. The thing now was to get shot of him quickly so that he might not notice them.
He smiled at me again. "I am just about to read my Mass. I will include your request in my prayers."
"Thanks," said I, surprised and embarrassed.
"Is it for the soul of someone departed?" he asked.
I stared at him a moment and my flowers began to slip. "No," said I then quickly, pressing my arm firmly against my coat.
He looked into my face innocently searching with his clear eyes. He was waiting apparently for me to tell him what it was about. But nothing suitable occurred to me on the spur of the moment, and besides I had something against telling him any more lies than were necessary. So I said nothing.
"Then I will pray for help in trouble for someone unknown," said he at last.
"Yes," I replied, "if you would do that. And I thank you very much."
He smiled. "You don't need to thank me. We are every one of us in God's hands." He looked at me a moment, his head bowed a little to one side, and it seemed as if something passed over his face. "Only trust," said he. "The Heavenly Father helps. He always helps, even when sometimes we do not understand." Then he nodded to me and went.
I followed him with my eyes until I heard the door shut behind him. Yes, thought I, if it were so simple. He helps, He always helps—but did He help Bernhard Wiese when he lay wounded in the .stomach, yelling in Houthoulst Wood? Did He help Katczinsky, who fell at Handzaeme, leaving a sick wife and a child he had never seen? Did He help Müller and Leer and Kemmerich? Did He help little Friedmann and Jurgens and Berger, and millions more? No, damn it, too much blood had flowed in the world for that sort of belief in the Heavenly Father.
I took the flowers home, then I drove the car to the workshop and walked back. From the kitchen was now issuing the smell of freshly brewed coffee and I heard Frida rumbling about. It was curious, but the smell of coffee made me more cheerful. I knew that from the war; it was never the big things that consoled one—it was always the unimportant, the little things.
I had hardly closed the passage door when Hasse shot out of his room. His face was yellow and puffy, his eyes red and stained, and he looked as if he had slept in his clothes. When he caught sight of me an immense disappointment passed over his face.
"Ach, so, it's you," he murmured.
I looked at him in surprise. "Were you expecting somebody at this time?"
"Yes," said he softly, "my wife. She hasn't come home yet. Haven't you seen her?"
I shopk my head. "I've only been out an hour."
He nodded. "I just thought—you might have happened to see her."
I gave a shrug. "She'll probably be in later. Didn't she telephone?"
He looked at me a bit embarrassed. "She went last night to her friends. I don't know where they live."
"Do you know the name, then? In that case you could ask 'Enquiries.'"
"I've tried that already. They don't know the name."
He had the expression of a beaten dog. "She was always so mysterious about the people; if I so much as asked she would flare up at once. So I let her alone. I was glad she had someone to go to. She was always saying, surely I didn't grudge her that too."
"Perhaps she'll come yet," said I. "In fact I'm pretty certain she'll come soon. Have you tried the casualty wards and the police? You never know."
He nodded. "Everything. They know nothing."
"Well, in that case," said I, "you don't need to get excited. Perhaps she didn't feel well during the evening and has stayed the night. That sort of thing often happens. She'll probably be here again in an hour or two."
"Do you think so?"
The kitchen door opened and Frida appeared with a tray. "Who's that for?" I asked.
"For Fräulein Hollmann," she replied, slightly incensed at my glance.
"Is she up then?"
"She must be, of course," retorted Frida promptly, "else she wouldn't have rung for breakfast."
"God bless you," I replied. "You're a perfect angel some mornings, Frida. Do you think you could bring yourself to make my coffee right away too?"
She growled something and strode off down the passage, wagging her bottom contemptuously as she went. She was good at that. I had never seen anybody who could put so much expression into it.
Hasse had waited. I was suddenly ashamed when I turned and saw him there beside me, so resigned and still.
"All your troubles will be over in an hour or two," said I, offering him my hand.
He did not take it, but looked at me strangely. "Do you think we could look for her?" he asked softly.
"But you don't even know where she is!"
"Still, one could look for her, perhaps," he repeated. "If we took your car—I would pay everything, of course," he added hastily.
"That's not the point," I replied. "It's just hopeless. Where would we drive to? She wouldn't be about the street at this hour."
"I don't know," said he, still ever so softly. "I only thought we could try."
Frida came back with the empty tray. "I must go now," said I, "and I think you are worrying unnecessarily. Still, I'd willingly do you the favour, but Fräulein Hollmann has to go away soon and I rather wanted to be with her to-day. This is perhaps her last Sunday here. You will understand, I'm sure?"
He nodded.
It pained me the way he stood there, but I was impatient to get to Pat. "But if you want to go off immediately, you can always get a taxi below, of course," I went on, "but I don't advise it. You wait a bit, rather—then I can ring up my friend Lenz and he'll look with you."
I had the feeling he wasn't listening.
"You did not see her this morning?" he then asked suddenly.
"No," said I, mystified. "Else I would have told you long ago."
He nodded again and then went absently, without a word, back into his room.
Pat had already been into my room and found the flowers. She laughed as she came back. "Robby," she said, "I am innocent, though. Frida has just been telling me that fresh roses on Sunday morning early, at this time of year, must have something to do with stealing. She told me too this sort isn't to be had in any of the florists about here."
"Think what you like," I replied. "The main thing is that they give you some pleasure."
"More now than ever, darling. You've run a risk to get them."
"Yes, and what risk!" I thought of the priest. "But what are you doing up so early?"
"I couldn't sleep any more. And besides I dreamed. Nothing nice."
I glanced at her. She looked tired and had shadows under the eyes. "Since when have you been dreaming like that?" said I. "I thought that was my specialty."
She shook her head. "Did you see that autumn has arrived outside?"
"With us that's called late summer," I replied. "Why, the roses are still flowering. It is raining, that's all I can see."
"It is raining," she repeated. "It has been raining for too long already, darling. At night sometimes when I wake, I imagine I'm quite buried under all the rain."
"You must come to me at night," said I. "Then you won't have such thoughts any more. On the contrary, it's nice if you're with somebody and it's dark and it's raining outside."
"Perhaps," she replied leaning against me.
"I quite like it when it rains on a Sunday," said I. "You see then so much better how lucky you are. We're here together, have a good warm room and a free day ahead—that seems to me a lot already."
Her face brightened. "Yes, we are lucky, aren't we?"
"It seems to me we are marvellously lucky. When I think of before—my God I I never thought I would be so lucky again."
"It's lovely when you say that. Then I believe it too. You must say it oftener."
"Don't I say it often enough?"
"No."
"Maybe," said I. "I think I'm not very loving. I don't know why, but I just can't be. Yet I would like to be."
"You don't have to be, darling, I understand you as you are. Only sometimes one does like to hear it, all the same."
"From now on I'll tell you every time. Even though it makes me feel absurd."
"Ach, absurd," she replied. "In love there is nothing absurd."
"No, thank God," said I. "Otherwise it would be dreadful to think what it turns you into."
We had breakfast together, then Pat lay down in bed again. Jaffé had ordered it so. "Will you stay here?" she. asked from under her covers.
"If you like," said I.
"Of course, I like; but you don't have to—"
I sat down by the bed. "I didn't mean it that way. I only remember you said once you didn't like people watching while you were asleep."
"Once, yes—but now I'm frightened sometimes, by my-• self."
"I was that way too, once. In hospital, after an operation. I used to be frightened to go to sleep at night. I would always stay awake and read or think about something, and only fall asleep when it grew light. But that passes."
She laid her cheek on my hand. "You get frightened you won't come back, Robby."
"Yes," said I, "but you do come back, and it passes. I'm proof of it. You always come back—if not quite to the same place."
"That's just it," she replied already a bit sleepy, her eyes half-closed. "I'm afraid of that too. But you'll see to it, won't you?"
"I'll see to it," said I, stroking her forehead and her hair, which also seemed to be tired. "I'm an old, wakeful soldier."
She breathed deeper and turned a bit on her side. A minute later she was fast asleep.
I sat by the window and looked again out into the rain. It was now driving in grey gusts past the window panes, and the house was like a little island in the endless dreariness. I was anxious, for it was rare for Pat to be dispirited and sad in the morning. But then I remembered that only a few days ago she had been still lively and gay, and that it would perhaps be all different when she woke again. I knew she thought a lot about her illness, and I knew too from Jaffé that it had not improved—but I had seen so many dead in my time, that any illness was for me still life and hope. I knew a man could die from wounds—I had had ample experience of that—but for that very reason I often found it hard to believe that an illness in which one remained exteriorly whole could be dangerous too. So I always got fairly quickly over such attacks of depression.
There was a light knock on the door. I went across and opened. Hasse was standing outside. I put a finger to my lips and went out into the passage.
"Excuse me," he stammered.
"Come into my room," said I and opened the door.
Hasse stopped on the threshold. His face seemed to have become smaller. It was white as chalk. "I only wanted to tell you, we don't need to go out any more," said he almost without moving his lips.
"It's all right, come in," I replied. "Fräulein Holl-mann's asleep, I have time."
He had a letter in his hand and looked like a man who had been shot but still imagined it had been only a blow. "You read it, if you don't mind," said he and handed me the letter.
"Have you had coffee yet?" I asked.
He shook his head. "Read the letter—"
I went out and gave Frida the order. Then I read the letter. It was from Frau Hasse and consisted of a few lines. She informed him that she meant to get something out of life still, so she was not coming back any more. There was somebody who understood her better than Hasse. It was no use his trying to do anything about it; she wouldn't come back under any circumstances. It was best for him too probably. He wouldn't have to worry any more now if his salary was enough or not. She had taken part of her things—she would collect the rest when it was convenient.
It was a clear, matter-of-fact letter. I folded it and gave it back to Hasse. He looked at me as if everything depended on me.
"What should I do?" he asked.
"First of all drink this cup, and then have something to eat," said I. "There's no point running around and knocking yourself up. Then we'll think about it. You must try and get quite calm, then you'll make the best decision."
Obediently he emptied the cup. His hand shook and he could eat nothing. "What shall I do?" he asked again.
"Nothing at all," said I. "Wait."
He made a movement.
"What do you want to do, then?" I asked.
"I don't know. I can't grasp it."
I said nothing. It was difficult to say anything to him. One could only reassure him; the rest he must find for himself. He did not love the woman any more, that was obvious—but he was used to her, and for a bookkeeper habit can be more than love.
After a while he started to talk, confused stuff that only showed how he was shaken. Then he began blaming himself. He did not say one word against his wife. He only tried to make it quite clear that the fault was his.
"Hasse," said I, "what you're saying is just nonsense. In these things there is neither guilt nor innocence. Your wife has left you, not you her. You've no need to blame yourself."
"Oh, yes," he replied and looked at his hands. "I haven't made a do of it."
"What?"
"I haven't made a do of it. That's something for blame, not to make a do."
I glanced in surprise at the pitiful little figure in the red plush armchair.
"Hasse," said I then, quietly, "that may be a reason, if you like, but not a matter for blame. And anyway you have made-a do of it, up to now."
He shook his head vigorously. "No, no, I drove my wife crazy with my everlasting fear of getting the sack. And I haven't made a do of it. What was I able to offer her? Nothing-"
He sank into a brown study. I got up and fetched the cognac bottle.
"Let's have a drink," said I. "Nothing is lost yet."
He raised his head.
"Nothing is lost yet," I repeated. "A human being is lost only when he is dead."
He nodded hastily and reached for the glass. But he put it down again without drinking.
"I was made head clerk yesterday," said he softly. "Chief accountant and head clerk. The manager told me last night. I got it because I worked overtime all these last months. They've merged two offices. The other head clerk has been sacked. I get a rise of fifty marks." He suddenly looked at me desperately. "Do you think she would have stayed if she'd known that?"
"No," said I.
"Fifty marks more. I could have given them to her. She would have been able to buy things for herself. And I have twelve hundred marks in the savings bank, too. What was the use of saving now? I wanted to have something to put by for her, if things went bad with us. And now she has gone away because I did save for that."
He stared ahead once more. "Hasse," said I, "I believe that has less to do with it than you think. You mustn't brood over it, that's all. You've only to get over the next few days. Then you'll know better what you want to do. Your wife may even be^back here this evening, or to-morrow. She will be thinking about it just as you-are."
"She will never come back," he answered.
"You don't know that."
"If I could tell her that I had got a rise and that we could have a holiday and take a trip on the savings—"
"You'll be able to tell her all that. People don't part just like that, you know."
It surprised me that he did not seem to recognise at all that there was another man in the show. But he had apparently not got that far; he only knew that his wife was gone —all the rest lay hidden still behind a dim mist. I should have liked to tell him that in a week or two he would perhaps even be glad she was gone—but to have said so now in the midst of his trouble seemed to me unnecessarily brutal. The truth is always too brutal, almost intolerable, to injured feelings.
I talked with him a while longer—only to let him talk I did not achieve anything—he merely went round in circles, but I had the feeling he was a bit calmer. And he drank a cognac. Then I heard Pat call next door.
"One moment," said I and got up.
"Yes," he replied like an obedient child and stood up likewise.
"You stay, I'll be back in a minute."
"Forgive me—"
"I'll be back immediately," said I and went in to Pat.
She was sitting upright in bed and looked fresh and well. "I've had a wonderful sleep, Robby. Is it midday already?"
"You have been asleep exactly one hour," said I and showed her the watch.
She looked at the hands. "So much the better; we have lots of time to ourselves still. I'll get up at once."
"Fine. I'll come again in ten minutes."
"Have you a visitor?"
"Hasse," said I. "But it won't take long."
I went back, but Hasse was not there. I opened the door into the corridor, but the passage was also empty. I went down the passage and knocked on his door. He did not answer. I opened the door and saw him standing by the chest of drawers. Some of the drawers were pulled out.
"Hasse," said I, "take a sleeping draught and lie down and sleep on the business awhile. You're overexcited now."
He turned slowly toward me. "Always alone, every night! Sitting around always like last night; think of it."
I told him that would soon change, that there were lots of people who were alone at night. He made no real response. I told him again he should go to sleep, perhaps it would all turn out quite harmless yet and his wife be back by evening. He nodded and gave me his hand.
"I'll look in again this evening," said I and went. I was glad to get away.
Pat had the newspaper spread out before her. "We could go to the museum this morning, Robby," she suggested.
"To the museum?" I asked.
"Yes. There's an exhibition of Persian Carpets. You haven't often been to the museum, perhaps?"
"Never," I replied. "What should I be doing there?"
"True," said she laughing.
"But that doesn't matter." I stood up. "In wet weather you can afford to do something for your education."
We dressed and went. The air outside was lovely. It smelt of the forest and dampness. As we passed the International I saw through the open door Rosa sitting by the bar. It being Sunday, she had her cup of chocolate in front of her. On the table lay a little parcel. Evidently she intended going afterwards to see her child as usual. It was a long time since I had been in the International, and it struck me as odd that Rosa should still be sitting there, placid as ever. So much had changed with me that I thought it must have been so everywhere else.
We arrived at the museum. I had supposed we would be pretty much alone, but to my amazement there were a great number of people there. I asked a warder what was doing.
"Nothing," he replied. "It's always like this on free days."
"You see," said Pat. "There are still lots of people who are interested in such things."
The warder pushed his cap back on his head. "It's not quite that way, lady. They are mostly unemployed. They don't come for the art, but because there's nothing else they can do. Here they do at least have something to look at."
"That is an explanation I understand better," said I.
"This is nothing yet," replied the warder. "You should come in the winter, though. It's jam full everywhere then. On account of the heating."
We went to the gallery where the carpets were hanging. It was a quieter room, off the beaten track. Through the tall windows you could look out into a garden, where there was an immense plane tree. It was quite yellow, and even the light in the room had a subdued yellow glow because of it.
The carpets looked wonderful. There were two animal carpets of the sixteenth century, some Ispahans, and a few silk, lacquerlike Polish carpets with emerald-green borders. Age and the sun had lent to their tones a soft patina, so that they resembled great, fairylike pastels. They gave to the room a timelessness and a harmony, such as pictures could never have given. The window with the autumn foliage of the plane tree and the pearl-grey sky behind joined in, as if it also were an old carpet.
We remained there some time, then went back into the other galleries of the museum. In the interval more people had arrived, and it was now obvious that they did not really belong here. With pale faces and threadbare clothes, they wandered, hands behind their backs, rather diffidently through the rooms, with eyes that were seeing something far other than the Renaissance pictures and the still, marble antique figures. Many were sitting on the red upholstered seats that were placed around. They sat wearily there, as if prepared to stand up at once, should anyone come to move them on. You could see in their attitudes that upholstered seats were something which it was quite incredible it should cost nothing to sit on. They were used to receiving nothing for nothing.
It was very quiet in all the rooms, and despite all the visitors one hardly heard a word; and yet it seemed to me as if I were looking on at an enormous struggle—the soundless struggle of men who were stricken down, but did not mean to give in yet. They had been thrown out from the fields of their work, their striving, their callings; now they had pome into the quiet rooms of Art, in order not to fall into paralysis and despair. They were thinking of bread, always and only of bread and occupation; but they came here to escape from their thoughts for a few hours—and amongst the clean-cut Roman heads and the imperishable grace of white, Greek female figures they wandered around with the dragging gait, the bowed shoulders of men who have no purpose—a shocking contrast, a cheerless picture of what humanity had been able, and unable, to achieve in a thousand years—the summit of eternal works of art, but not even bread enough for each of their brothers.
In the afternoon we went to a movie. When we came out the sky had cleared. It was apple-green and very bright. In the streets and shops, lights were already burning. We walked slowly home, looking in the windows as we went.
Before the brightly lit window of a big furrier's I halted. It was already cool in the evenings, and here were displayed thick bundles of silver fox and warm coats for the winter. I looked at Pat; she was still wearing her short fur jacket and was altogether much too lightly clad.
"If I were the hero in the film," said I, "I would go in there and choose a coat for you."
She smiled. "Which then?"
"That one." I pointed to the one that looked warmest.
She laughed. "You've good taste, Robby. That is a very lovely Canadian mink."
"Would you like to have it?"
She looked at me. "Do you know what a coat like that costs, darling?"
"No," said I, "and I don't want to know. I would sooner think I could give you whatever I like. Why should only other people be able to do that?"
She looked at me closely. "But I don't want any such coat, Robby."
"Oh, yes," I replied, "you're going to have it. Let's not have another word about it. We'll have it sent to-morrow."
She smiled. "Thank you, darling," said she, and kissed me in the middle of the street. "And now your turn." She stopped outside a gentlemen's outfitters. "Those tails nowl You'll need that to go with the mink. And that bell-topper you must have, too. What would you look like in a bell-topper, I wonder?"
"Like a chimneysweep." I looked at the tails. They lay spread in a window lined with grey velvet. I looked again at the shop. It was the same in which I had bought the tie in the spring, after that first time I had been alone with her ahd had got drunk. Suddenly, I don't know why, I had a choking feeling in the throat. In the spring—I little dreamed of all this then.
I took Pat's slender hand and for a second laid it to my cheek. "You need something with it too." said I then; "a mink by itself like that is like a car without an engine. Two or three evening dresses—"
"Evening dresses," she replied stopping in front of a large window, "evening dresses, that's true—I can't very well do without them."
We selected three wonderful dresses. I saw how Pat enjoyed this game. She entered into it completely, for evening dresses were her weakness. We chose also at the same time the things to go with them, and she became even more lively. Her eyes were shining. I stood by and listened to her and laughed and thought what a damned business it was to love a woman and yet be poor.
"Come," said I at last, in a sort of desperate gaiety, "if you do a thing you might as well do it thoroughly." I led her to a jeweller's. "There, that emerald bracelet. The two rings, and the earrings to match. No argument now. Emerald is the right stone for you."
"Then you must have that platinum watch and the pearl studs there for your shirt."
"And you the whole shop. Less than that, and I have nothing to do with it."
She laughed and with a deep sigh leaned against me. "Enough, darling, enough. Now we have to buy only a few trunks and go to the travel bureau, and then we will pack and set off, away from this city and autumn and the rain."
Yes, thought I; my God, yes, and then you would soon get well. "Where shall we go?" I asked. "To Egypt? Or farther still? To India, or China?"
"Into the sun, darling, anywhere in the sun and the South and the warm. Roads with palm trees, rocks, white houses by the sea and aloes . . . But perhaps it rains there too. Perhaps it rains everywhere."
"In that case we just move on," said I, "till we come to some place where it doesn't rain—in the middle of the tropics or the Pacific Islands."
We stopped in front of the window of the Hamburg-Amerika Line. In the middle was the model of a liner. It floated on blue papier-mache waves and immense behind it rose an enlarged photograph of the skyscrapers of Manhattan. Around the window hung big, brightly coloured maps with routes marked in red.
"We'll go to America too," said Pat. "To Kentucky and Texas and New York and San Francisco and Hawaii. And then on to South America. By Mexico and the Panama Canal to Buenos Aires. And then back by Rio de Janeiro."
"Yes—"
She looked at me, beaming.
"I've never been there," said I. "I was pretending then."
"I know," she replied.
"You knew?"
"But Robby, of course I knew. I knew at once."
"I was a bit crazy, then. Unsure and stupid and crazy. That's why I pretended."
"And now?"
"Still more now," said I. "There you see it." I pointed to the liner in the window. "It's the devil not to be able to go in it."
She smiled and put her arm in mine. "Ach, darling, why aren't we rich? We have such marvellous ideas of what to do with it. There are so many rich people who can do no better than go backwards and forwards to their banks and offices."
"That's why they are rich, of course," said I. "If we were rich we certainly wouldn't be so for long."
"I believe that too. We would be sure to lose it one way or another."
"And perhaps from worrying about losing it we would get nothing out of it at all. These days being rich is a profession in itself. And not such an easy one, either."
"The poor rich," said Pat. "We'd probably do better to pretend we've been it already and lost everything. You simply went bankrupt a week ago and had to sell everything —our house and my jewels and your car. What do you say to that?"
"It fits with the times, at least," I replied.
She laughed. "Then come. We two poor bankrupts will go now to our little furnished room and tell each other stories of the good old times."
"That's a fine idea."
We walked on slowly through the darkening street. More and more lights flamed up. As we reached the graveyard we saw an aeroplane, with cabins lighted, move across the green sky. It flew, solitary and beautiful, through the clear, high, lonely heavens—like some wonderful bird of desire out of an old fairy tale. We stood and watched it till it disappeared.
We had hardly been home half an hour when there was a knock on my bedroom door. I thought it must be Hasse again and went to open. But it was Frau Zalewski. She looked agitated.
"Come out quickly," she whispered.
"What's the matter?"
"Hasse."
I looked at her.
She gave a shrug. "He has shut himself in and won't answer."
"One moment."
I went back and told Pat she should rest a bit; I had to discuss something with Hasse in the meantime.
"All right, Robby. I do feel a bit tired again."
I followed Frau Zalewski down the passage. Outside Hasse's door the entire pension was already standing—Erna Bönig in her bright dragon-kimono, with red hair; the stamp-collecting accountant in smoking jacket of military cut; Orlow, pale and calm, just returned from a tea-dancing; Georg, timidly knocking and calling Hasse in a subdued voice; and lastly Frida, squinting with excitement, fear, and curiosity.
"How long have you been knocking, Georg?" I asked.
"Over a quarter of an hour," Frida, a bright crimson, immediate burst out, "and he is home, he hasn't been outside once, not since midday, only running around all the . time, everlastingly backwards and forward, and then it was quiet."
"The key's stuck on the inside," said Georg. "It's locked."
I looked at Frau Zalewski. "We must knock the key out and open. Have you a second key?"
"I'll get the bunch," announced Frida, unusually ready to assist. "Perhaps one of them will fit."
I got a piece of wire and with it turned the key into the straight and jabbed it out of the lock. It fell with a clatter to the floor on the other side. Frida screamed and put her hands over her face.
"You get out of the road, as far away as you can," said I to her, trying the keys. One of them fitted. I unlocked and opened the door.
The room lay in semi-darkness and at a first glance nothing was to be seen. The two beds gleamed grey-white, the chairs were empty, the cupboard doors shut.
"There he is!" hissed Frida, who had pushed her way forward again, over my shoulder. Her onion breath blew hot past my cheek. "There behind, at the window."
"No," said Orlow, who had advanced swiftly a few paces into the room and come back again. He bumped into me, reached for the handle and pulled the door to. Then he turned to the others. "You had better go. It may not be good to see."
He spoke slowly, in his harsh, Russian German, and remained standing across the door.
"O God!" stammered Frau Zalewski and stepped back. Erna Bönig also stepped back a few paces. Only Frida tried to push past and get hold of the handle. Orlow pushed her away. "It really is best," said he once more.
"Sir!" snorted the accountant suddenly, drawing himself up. "What a liberty! For a foreigner!"
Orlow looked at him unmoved. "Foreigner?" said he. "Foreigner doesn't signify here. Doesn't arise—"
"Dead, eh?" hissed Frida.
"Frau Zalewski," said I, "I agree it would be best if only you and perhaps Orlow and myself stayed here."
"Telephone for a doctor, immediately," said Orlow.
Georg already had the receiver off. The whole affair had lasted only five seconds. "I'm stopping," announced the accountant, red as a beetroot. "As a German citizen I have the right—"
Orlow gave a shrug and opened the door again. Then he switched on the electric light. With a scream the two women started back. With blue-black face, black tongue between the teeth, Hasse was hanging by the window.
"Cut him down," I cried.
"No use," said Orlow slowly, harsh and sorrowful. "I know that—this face—dead, some hours already—"
"We could try at least—"
"Better not. Let the police come first."
At that moment the door bell rang. The doctor who lived near by was there. He took one glance at the thin, broken body. "Nothing to be done now," said he. "Still, we have to attempt artificial respiration. Ring the police at once and give me a knife."
Hasse had hanged himself with a thick, pink silk cord girdle. It belonged to a morning dress of his wife's, and he had fastened it very skilfully to a hook over the window. It had had soap rubbed into it. He must have stood on the window ledge and then apparently let himself slip from there. His hands were clenched and his face looked terrible. It was odd at such a moment, but it struck me that he was wearing a different suit from this morning. It was his best, a blue worsted suit that I knew of old. He was shaved too, and had clean linen on. On the table in a pedantic order lay his pass, his bankbook, four ten-mark notes and some silver. Alongside these, two letters—one to his wife and another to the police. Next the letter to his wife lay a silver cigarette case and his wedding ring.
He must have considered it a long while and put every-'thing in order; for the room was perfectly tidy, and when we examined more closely we found on the washstand some more money and a slip of paper on which was written: "Balance of rent for this month." He had added the extra, as if he wanted to make it clear that it had nothing to do with his death.
The bell rang and two police in civilian clothes came in. The doctor who had cut down the body in the meantime, stood up. "Dead," said he; "suicide without doubt."
The officers did not reply. After shutting the door they searched the whole room. They took a few letters from a drawer in the cupboard and compared the writing with the letters on the table. The younger of the two nodded. "Anyone know the reason?"
I told what I knew. He nodded again and wrote down my address.
"Can we have him taken away?" asked the doctor.
"I've ordered an ambulance from the infirmary," replied the younger officer. "It should be here any minute."
We waited. It was quiet in the room. The doctor was kneeling on the floor beside Hasse. He had opened all his clothes and was alternately rubbing his chest with.a towel and making attempts at resuscitation. Only the whistle and gurgle of the air streaming in and out of the dead lungs was to be heard.
"The twelfth this week," said the younger officer.
"For the same reason?" I asked.
"No. Nearly all on account of unemployment. Two families, one with three children. Gas, of course. Families almost always take gas."
The bearers came with their stretcher. Frida slipped in with them. With a sort of lust she stared at Hasse's pitiful body. She had red flecks in her cheeks and was perspiring.
"What do you want here?" asked the elder officer gruffly.
She started back. "I have to make my statement," she stuttered.
"Out," snorted the officer.
The bearers laid a blanket over Hasse and took him out. Then the two officers left also. They took the papers with them. "He has left money for the burial," said the younger. "We will pass it to the proper quarter. If the wife comes, please tell her she should report to the district police station. He has left her his money. Can the rest of the things stay here for the time being?"
Frau Zalewski nodded. "The room will never let again."
"Very good."
The officers said good day, and went. We went out likewise. Orlow locked the door and gave Frau Zalewski the key. "It would be as well if as little as possible were said about the whole affair," said I.
"I think so, too," said Frau Zalewski.
"I mean you, particularly, Frida," I added.
Frida waked out of a sort of absent-mindedness. Her eyes were shining. She did not answer.
"If you say one word to Fräulein Hollmann," said I, "then God help you."
"Think I don't know that?" She spat. "The poor lady is much too ill."
Her eyes flashed. I had to control myself not to box her ears.
"Poor Hasse," said Frau Zalewski.
It was quite dark in the passage.
"You were pretty rude to Count Orlow," said I to the accountant. "Wouldn't you like to apologise to him?"
The old man stared at me. Then he exploded, "A German never apologises. Certainly not to an Asiatic," and slammed the door of his room behind him.
"What's come over our old stamp-collector?" I asked in amazement. "Why, he used to be as mild as a lamb!"
"He's been running round to every political meeting there has been, for months now," replied Georg out of the dark.
"Ach, so!"
Orlow and Erna Bönig had gone already. Frau Zalewski started to weep.
"Don't take it to heart too much," said I. "It's all past mending now."
"It is too dreadful," she sobbed. "I must move, I will never get over the sight."
"You'll get over it all right," said I. "I saw some hundreds of people like that once. Gassed Englishmen. I got over it all right."
I shook hands with Georg and went to my room. It was dark. Involuntarily I glanced toward the window before I switched on the light. Then I listened across into Pat's room. She was asleep. I went to the cupboard, took out the bottle of cognac and poured myself a glass. It was good cognac, and it was good to have it. I put the bottle on the table. The last glass out of it Hasse had drunk. I reflected that it would have been better not to have left him by himself. I felt depressed, but I could not reproach myself. I had done so many things that I knew either everything one did was cause for reproach, or there was none at all. It had been Hasse's bad luck that it had happened to him on a Sunday. On a weekday he would have gone to the office and perhaps have gotten over it.
I drank another cognac. There was no use thinking about it. Who knows what may not be in store for himself? No man knows but that the person he is sorry for, now, may not some day be thought lucky.
I heard Pat stir, and went across. She looked up at me. "I'm past praying for, Robby," said she. "There I've been fast asleep again."
"That's good, though," I replied.
"No." She propped herself on her elbows. "I don't want to sleep so much."
"Why not? There are times when I'd like to sleep right through the next fifty years."
"But you wouldn't like being fifty years older when you waked up."
"I don't know. You could only tell that afterwards."
"Are you depressed?" she asked.
"No," said I. "The contrary. I've just decided that we are going to dress and go out and have a perfectly marvellous supper. Everything that you most like. And we'll get a bit drunk as well."
"That's fine," she replied. "But does that belong to our bankrupt state, do you think?"
"Yes," said I, "a direct consequence."