The Sleepwalkers (12 page)

Joachim had returned to Stolpin. While he was still on his way from the station, just after he had passed through the village and reached the first fields on the estate, a new feeling had unexpectedly risen in him: he tried to find words for it and found them: my property. When he got down at the manor-house he was furnished with a new sentiment of home.

Now he was with his father and mother, and if their company had been restricted to the breakfast-hour it would have been very tolerable; it was a pleasure to sit out under the great lime-trees, the cool sunny garden stretching before him; and the rich yellow butter, the honey and
the big basket of fruit, were all in pleasing contrast to his hurried breakfasts in the army. But already the midday and evening meals were an affliction; the more the day advanced the more their companionship weighed on all three, and if in the mornings the old people felt happy at the reappearance of their absent son, and, it may be, daily expected something beautiful and life-giving from him, yet the day—punctuated by the meals—turned stage by stage into a disappointment, and towards late afternoon Joachim’s presence had grown almost into an intensification of their mutual unendurable loneliness; indeed even the prospect of the post, the one ray of light in the monotony of the day, was made poorer by their son’s presence, and if the old man in spite of this still went out every morning to meet the messenger, it was almost an act of despair, was almost like a veiled appeal to Joachim to go away for heaven’s sake and send a few letters. And yet Herr von Pasenow himself seemed to know he was awaiting something quite different from Joachim’s letters, and that the messenger for whom he was looking was not the messenger with the letter-bag.

Joachim made a few faint attempts to become more intimate with his parents. He went to see his father in the room decorated with the antlers, and inquired about the harvest and the shooting, and hoped perhaps that the old man might be gratified by this indirect attempt to follow his request to “work himself in.” But either his father had forgotten his request, or did not himself know very much about what was happening on the estate; for he gave only reluctant or evasive responses and once actually said: “You needn’t trouble yourself about that so early in the day,” and Joachim, though relieved from a burdensome obligation, could not help thinking again of the time when he had been sent to the cadet school and robbed for the first time of his home. But now he had returned and was awaiting a guest of his own. It was a pleasant sensation, and though it hid within it a good deal of hostility towards his father, Joachim was not aware of this; indeed he hoped that his parents would be delighted with this interruption of their growing boredom and look forward with the same impatience as himself to Bertrand’s arrival. He submitted to his father’s going through his correspondence, and when finally the old man handed it over to him with the words: “Unfortunately there still seems to be no news of your friend, that is, if he’s coming at all,” Joachim refused to read anything but regret into the sentence, although it had a malicious ring. His irritation
did not come to a head until once he saw a letter from Ruzena in his father’s hands. Yet the old man made no comment, but only stuck his monocle in his eye and observed: “Really, you must pay the Baddensens a visit soon; it’s high time you did.” Well, that might be taken as sarcasm, or it might not: but in any case it was sufficient to spoil so completely Joachim’s pleasure at the prospect of seeing Elisabeth that he kept putting off the visit again and again; and though her image and her fluttering handkerchief had faithfully accompanied him till now, he felt himself filled more and more urgently with the wish, which he pictured in his imagination, that Eduard von Bertrand should be sitting beside him on the seat of the carriage when he drew up before the front door at Lestow.

But that did not happen, at least to begin with, for one day Elisabeth and her mother paid a belated visit of condolence to Herr and Frau von Pasenow. Elisabeth felt disappointed, and yet in some way relieved, that Joachim was not there when they arrived; she felt also a little offended. They sat in the smaller drawing-room, and the ladies learned from Herr von Pasenow that Helmuth had died for the honour of his name. Elisabeth involuntarily remembered that perhaps in no very long time she too would bear this name for which someone had fallen, and with an access of pride and pleased astonishment she realized that Herr and Frau von Pasenow would then become new relations. They talked about the melancholy occurrence, and Herr von Pasenow said: “That’s how it is when one has sons; they die for honour or for their king and country—it’s stupid having sons,” he added sharply and challengingly. “Oh, but daughters get married, and before you know they’re away,” responded the Baroness with an almost meaning smile, “and we old people are always left behind alone.” Herr von Pasenow did not reply, as would have been polite, that the Baroness could not by any means be regarded as old, but became quite still, staring fixedly in front of him, and after a short silence said: “Yes, we’re left behind alone, left behind alone,” and after he had reflected a little longer with obvious concentration, “and we die alone.” “But, Herr von Pasenow, we have no need to think of dying yet!” the Baroness brought out in a dutifully cheerful voice. “Oh, we needn’t think of that for a long time yet: the rain brings sunshine, my dear Herr von Pasenow; you must always try to remember that.” Herr von Pasenow found his way back to reality and became again the cavalier: “Provided that the sunshine comes
to us in your person, Baroness,” he said, and without waiting for the Baroness’s flattered response he went on: “yet how strange things are now … the house is empty, and even the post brings nothing. I’ve written Joachim, but I don’t hear much from him; he’s at the manœuvres.” Frau von Pasenow turned in dismay to her husband: “But … but, you know Joachim is here.” A venomous glance was her punishment for this correction. “Well, did he write, yes or no? And where is he now?” and there would have been a mild squabble if the canary in its cage had not released its quiver of golden notes. They gathered round it as round a fountain and for a few moments forgot everything else: it was as though this slender golden thread of sound, rising and falling, were winding itself round them and linking them in that unity on which the comfort of their living and dying was established; it was as though this thread which wavered up and filled their being, and yet curved and wound back again to its source, suspended their speech, perhaps because it was a thin, golden ornament in space, perhaps because it brought to their minds for a few moments that they belonged to each other, and lifted them out of the dreadful stillness whose reverberations rise like an impenetrable wall of deafening silence between human being and human being, a wall through which the human voice cannot penetrate, so that it has to falter and die. But now that the canary was singing not even Herr von Pasenow himself could hear that dreadful stillness, and they all had a feeling of warmth when Frau von Pasenow said: “But now we must have some coffee.” And when they went through the big drawing-room, whose curtains were drawn to keep out the afternoon sun, none of them remembered that Helmuth had lain there on his bier.

Then Joachim arrived and Elisabeth had a second disappointment, for her memory held an image in uniform, and now he was dressed in hunting kit. They were distant and embarrassed towards each other, and even when with the others they had returned to the drawing-room, and Elisabeth was standing before the canary’s cage amusing herself by pushing a finger through the wires and seeing the little creature pecking wrathfully at it, even while she was deciding that in her own drawing-room—if she ever should marry—she would always have a little yellow bird such as this one, even then she could no longer associate Joachim with the idea of marriage. Yet that was actually rather pleasant and reassuring and made it easier for her as she said good-bye to arrange
that they should at an early date go out riding together. Before that, of course, he must pay them a call.

Bertrand had at last found time to comply with Pasenow’s invitation, and on the way down stepped out of the evening train for a two days’ stay in Berlin. Naturally enough he wanted to have news of Ruzena; so he made straight for the theatre and sent his name, along with a bouquet of flowers, to her dressing-room. Ruzena was delighted when she got his card, delighted too with the flowers, and it flattered her that Bertrand should be waiting for her at the stage door at the end of the performance: “Well, little Ruzena, how are you getting on?” And Ruzena replied in one breath that she was getting on splendidly, splendidly, oh, really very badly, because she longed so much for Joachim; but now of course she felt all right because she was so delighted that Bertrand had called for her, for he was such an intimate friend of Joachim’s. But when they were sitting opposite each other in the restaurant, having talked a great deal about Joachim, Ruzena, as often happened with her, became suddenly sad: “Now you go to Joachim and I have stay here: world is unjust.” “Of course world is unjust, and far worse than you have any conception of, little Ruzena”—it seemed to both of them natural that he should address her as “du”—“and it was partly my anxiety about you that brought me here.” “What you mean by that?” “Well, I don’t like your being in this stage business.” “Why? It very nice.” “I was too hasty in giving in to you both … just because you were romantic and had formed God knows what picture of the stage.” “I not understand what you mean.” “Well, never mind, but it’s out of the question for you to stay in it. What can it lead to finally? What is to become of you, child? Someone must look after you, and that can’t be done with romantic notions.” Ruzena replied stiffly and on her dignity that she could quite well look after herself, and Joachim could just go if he wanted to be rid of her, he could just go, “and you bad man, to come here just to speak ill of friend”; then she cried and gave Bertrand hostile looks through her tears. He found it difficult to reassure her, for she persisted that he was a bad man and a bad friend who wanted to spoil her happy evening. And all at once she grew very pale and fixed terrified eyes upon him: “He sent you to say he finish with me: all over!” “But, Ruzena!” “No, you can say ten time no, I know it; oh, you bad, both two of you. You brought me here, so to shame me.”
Bertrand saw that by rational means nothing could be done; yet in her untutored suspicions there was perhaps a divination of the real state of affairs and its hopelessness. She looked as desperate as a little animal that does not know where to turn. And yet perhaps it would be good for her to regard the future more soberly. So he merely shook his head and replied: “Tell me, child, couldn’t you go back to your own home and stay there while Joachim is away?” All that she could draw from this was that she was going to be sent away. “But, Ruzena, who wants to send you away? Only it would be much better for you to be with your people than alone here in Berlin in this silly stage life.…” She would not let him finish: “I have nobody, all bad to me … I have nobody, and you want send me away.” “But be reasonable, Ruzena: when Pasenow is in Berlin again you can come back too.” Ruzena would not listen any more to him and said she was going. But he did not want to let her go like that, and considered how he could turn her thoughts in a happier direction; at last he hit upon the idea that they should write Joachim a letter between them. Ruzena agreed at once; so he had notepaper brought and wrote: “In warm remembrance of a happy evening with you, kindest greetings from Bertrand,” and she added: “And lots of luv from Ruzena.” She pressed a kiss on the letter, but she could not restrain her tears. “All over,” she repeated again and asked him to take her home. Bertrand gave in. But so that he might not have to leave her too soon to her melancholy fancies he suggested that they should go on foot. To calm her—for words were useless—he took her hand like a kind and skilful doctor; she snuggled close to him gratefully and as if seeking support and with a faint pressure left her hand in his. She’s just a little animal, thought Bertrand, and hoping to cheer her he said: “Yes, Ruzena, am I not a bad friend and an enemy of yours?” But she did not reply. A slight but tender irritation at her confused thinking arose in him and extended to take in Joachim too, whom he held responsible for Ruzena and her fate, and who yet seemed no less confused than the girl herself. It may have been because he could feel the warmth of her body that, at any rate for the space of a moment, he had the malicious thought that Joachim deserved to be betrayed with Ruzena: but he did not entertain this seriously and soon found again the affectionate good will which he had always cherished for Joachim. To him Joachim and Ruzena seemed creatures who lived only with a small fraction of their being in the time to which they
belonged, the age to which their years entitled them; and the greater part of them was somewhere else, perhaps on another star or in another century, or perhaps simply in their childhood. Bertrand was struck by the fact that the world was full of people belonging to different centuries, who had to live together, and were even contemporaries; that accounted perhaps for their instability and their difficulty in understanding one another rationally; the extraordinary thing was that, nevertheless, there was a kind of human solidarity and an understanding that bridged the years. Probably Joachim, too, only needed to have his hand stroked. What should and what could he talk to him about? What object was there really in this visit to Stolpin? Bertrand felt irritated, but then he remembered that he would have to talk to Joachim of Ruzena’s future; that gave a rational meaning to the journey and the waste of time, and once more restored to good spirits he squeezed Ruzena’s hand.

They said good-night before her door; then they stood facing each other dumbly for a few moments, and it looked as though Ruzena were still expecting something. Bertrand smiled and before she could give him her mouth kissed her somewhat avuncularly on the cheek. She touched his hand lightly and was about to slip away, but he kept her for a moment in the doorway: “Well, Ruzena, I’m leaving to-morrow morning. What message am I to give to Joachim?” “Nothing,” she replied quickly and crossly, but then she reflected: “You bad, but I come to station.” “Good-night, Ruzena,” said Bertrand, and again the slight feeling of exasperation rose in him, but as he could still feel on his lips the downy softness of her cheek he continued walking to and fro in the dark street, gazing up at the block and waiting for a light to appear behind one of the windows. But either her light had been burning before or her room looked out on the back yard—Joachim might surely have got her better lodgings—at any rate Bertrand waited in vain, and after he had regarded the block for some time, he decided that he had done quite enough for the cause of romanticism, lit a cigar and went home.