The Sleepwalkers (19 page)

In the afternoon he met Ruzena. He said: “Bertrand is right; the
theatre is no fit place for you. Would you not like to have a shop and sell pretty things, lace, for instance, and fine embroidery?” And in his mind’s eye he saw a glass door with a homely lamp burning behind it. But Ruzena looked at him quietly, and, as now often occurred, tears rose into her dark eyes. “Bad men you are,” she said, and held his hand.

In view of his patient’s fresh relapse the doctor had asked for a consultation, and it fell to Joachim, as a matter of course, to escort the nerve specialist to Stolpin. He regarded it as a part of the penance he was to undergo, and was more strongly confirmed in this belief when the doctor, with an amiable detachment, set to questioning him about the nature of the illness, the course it had previously run, and the general family situation. For these questions appeared to Joachim an inquisition, courteous enough, but none the less a keen and probing inquisition, and he expected the inquisitor suddenly to give him a severe look through his eyeglasses and to point an outstretched finger at him; already he heard the accusing damning sound of the frightful word: murderer. Yet the amiable old gentleman with the spectacles showed no disposition to utter that frightful but emancipating word, remarking merely that the shock of his son’s death had certainly occasioned the deplorable symptoms that were now afflicting Herr von Pasenow, although the original roots of the malady might lie deeper. Joachim began to regard the specialist with mistrust and yet with a certain satisfaction, being convinced that a man who expressed such opinions was incapable of helping the sufferer.

Then conversation died away, and Joachim saw the familiar fields and trees gliding past. The rhythm of the train had set the specialist nodding drowsily, his chin between the points of his stiff collar, and his white beard spread over his shirt-front. It was unimaginable to Joachim that he also might be as old as that one day, unimaginable too that the other had once been young and that a woman might have looked for kisses in his beard; surely some trace of that would still have been perceptible in the beard, like a feather or a straw. He drew his hand over his own face; it was an imposture on Elisabeth that of the kisses which Ruzena had given him in farewell not a trace remained: God was merciful to mankind in drawing a veil over the future, but pitiless in that He removed all traces of the past; would it not be merciful to
brand a man’s deeds on him? But God seared the brand only on a man’s conscience, and not even a nerve specialist could discover it. Helmuth had been branded, and that was why he could not be looked at in his coffin. But his father too was branded; anyone who behaved as he did could not but look furtive.

Herr von Pasenow was out of bed, but in a state of complete apathy; nevertheless Joachim’s presence was concealed from him in case he should have a fresh outbreak of rage. He met the strange doctor with indifference, but presently took him for a notary and broached the subject of making a new will. Joachim was to be disinherited for dishonourable conduct, yes, but he wasn’t a hard father, he only wanted Joachim to beget him a grandson on Elisabeth. The child must thereupon be brought into the house and become the heir. After some reflection he added that Joachim must not be permitted to see the child, or it would be disinherited too. His mother hesitatingly informed Joachim of this, and, contrary to her custom, fell into lamentation: where was all this going to lead to! Joachim shrugged his shoulders; he merely felt again what a disgrace it was to have a parent who dared to mention the possibility of children by himself and Elisabeth.

The nerve specialist too had shrugged his shoulders; there was no need to give up hope, he said; Herr von Pasenow was still extraordinarily vigorous, but for the present there was nothing to do but await developments; only the patient should not be allowed to stay too much in bed, for that might lower his vitality, considering his years. Frau von Pasenow objected that her husband was very desirous of staying in bed, for he always felt cold, and it seemed, too, that he was tormented by some secret fear that abated only when he was in his bedroom. Well, of course, one must act according to the patient’s condition, observed the nerve specialist; all he could say was that in the care of his colleague—here the local doctor bowed his thanks—Herr von Pasenow was in the very best of hands.

It had grown late, the pastor had turned up, and the evening meal was served. Suddenly Herr von Pasenow appeared in the doorway: “So, there are supper-parties here without my knowledge; apparently because the new master of the house has arrived.” Joachim made to leave the room. “Stay where you are and keep your seat,” commanded Herr von Pasenow, setting himself down at the head of the table in the big chair that was left vacant for him even in his absence; obviously he
was somewhat conciliated by this discovery. He insisted on having the courses served to him again: “Things need setting in order here. Herr Notary, have you been properly looked after? Have you been offered your choice of red or white wine? I see nothing but red wine. Why is there no champagne? A will should have a bottle of champagne cracked upon it.” He laughed to himself. “Well, what about that champagne?” he hectored the parlourmaid. “Must I go foraging myself?” The nerve specialist was the first to regain his composure, and to save the situation said he would gladly accept a glass of champagne. Triumphantly Herr von Pasenow surveyed the table: “Yes, things need setting in order again. Nobody has any sense of honour …” then in a low voice to the specialist, “Helmuth, you know, died for honour. But he never writes to me. Perhaps he’s still resentful …” he thought it over, “or this pastor here intercepts the letters. Wants to keep his own secrets, doesn’t want laymen to get a peep behind the scenes. But as soon as there’s any disorder in the churchyard he’ll take to his heels, the man of God. That I’ll go bail for.” “But, Herr von Pasenow, the churchyard is in the best of order.” “Apparently, Herr Notary, apparently, but it’s nothing but eyewash, only it’s not so easy for us to discover it because we don’t understand their language; they’re quite obviously hiding from us. We others only hear how silent they are, and yet they’re complaining to us all the time. That’s why everybody’s so afraid, and when a guest comes I have to take him out myself, old as I am,” he, darted a hostile look at Joachim, “a man without honour of course can’t screw up his courage to it and sneaks out of sight in the byre.” “Well, Herr von Pasenow, you must yourself have to see often enough that everything’s all right and inspect the fields; you must in any case go out.” “I like doing it, Herr Notary, and I do it too. But as soon as one sets foot outside the door they often block the road completely, the air’s so full of them, so full that not a sound can find its way past them.” He shuddered, seized the physician’s glass, and before anyone could hinder him emptied it at a gulp. “You must visit me often, Herr Notary, we’ll make wills together. And meanwhile won’t you write to me?” he implored. “Or will you disappoint me too,” he looked suspiciously at him, “and perhaps conspire with the others? … he has tricked me already with someone, that creature there.…” He had sprung to his feet, and his finger pointed at Joachim. Then he seized a plate, and, shutting one eye as if he were taking aim, screamed:
“I’ve ordered him to get married.…” But the specialist was already beside him and laid a hand on his arm: “Come with me, Herr von Pasenow; we’ll go to your room and talk there for a little longer.” Herr von Pasenow gazed at him blankly; the other met his eye steadily: “Come along, we’ll have a little talk all by ourselves.” “All by ourselves, really? And I shan’t be afraid any more.…” He smiled helplessly and patted the doctor’s cheek. “Yes, we’ll let them see.” He made a contemptuous gesture towards the company and suffered himself to be led away.

Joachim had buried his face in his hands. Yes, his father had branded him; the blow had fallen now, and yet he rebelled against it. The pastor came up to him, and as if from afar he heard the banal words of comfort; his father was right in that, too: this minister of the Church was a poor makeshift, or else he would have known that the curse of a father lies irremediably upon his children; he would have known that it is the voice of God Himself that speaks through one’s father’s mouth and proclaims the hour of trial. Oh, that was why his father’s wits were clouded now, for no man could be God’s mouthpiece and not suffer for it. And of course the pastor must be a commonplace creature; for if he were really an instrument of God on earth he too would mouth strange sayings. Yet God had pointed the way to His grace without the mediation of priests; there was no getting away from that, one must win that grace alone and in suffering. Joachim said: “I thank you for your kindly words, Pastor; we shall certainly be often in need of your consolation.” Then the doctor returned; Herr von Pasenow had been given an injection and was now asleep.

The nerve specialist stayed in the house for two more days. And when shortly afterwards a profoundly disquieting telegram of Bertrand’s arrived from Berlin, and the invalid’s condition remained obviously unchanged, Joachim too was enabled to depart.

Bertrand had come back to Berlin. In the afternoon he went to visit Joachim, but found only Ruzena in the flat. She was tidying up the bedroom, and when Bertrand appeared she said: “I not speak to you.” “Hallo, Ruzena, you’re very amiable.” “I not speak to you, know what you are.” “Am I a bad friend again, my little Ruzena?” “Not your little Ruzena.” “Very well, then, what’s the matter?” “What’s matter! … know it all, you send him away. I spit on your lace-shop.” “All right, a
lace-shop I may have, I don’t mind, but that’s no reason for not speaking to me. What’s the matter with my lace-shop?” In silence Ruzena went on putting underlinen into the chest of drawers; Bertrand drew up a chair and waited with amusement for what was to come. “If it was my flat, throw you out, not let you sit.” “Look here, Ruzena, in all seriousness what’s gone wrong? Has the old man been taken bad again, so that Pasenow had to go off?” “Not pretend you not know; I not so stupid.” “I’m afraid you are, little one.” She turned her back on him and went on with her task. “Not let you laugh over me … not let anybody laugh over me.” Bertrand went up to her and took her head between his hands to look into her face. She tore herself away. “Not touch me. First you send him away and then laugh over me.” Bertrand understood it all, except for the reference to the lace-shop. “Well, Ruzena, so you don’t believe that old Herr von Pasenow is ill?” “Believe nothing, you. all against me.” Bertrand grew a little impatient. “Apparently if the old man dies it will be just to spite the little Ruzena.” “If you kill him he die.” Bertrand would have liked to help her, but it was not easy; he knew that there was not much to be done with her in that mood, and he rose to go. “You should be killed,” said Ruzena in conclusion. Bertrand was amused. “All right,” he remarked, “I have no objection, but will that make things any better?” “So you have no objection, no objection?” Ruzena hunted excitedly in a drawer, “but make mock at me, yes?” … she went on hunting, “… no objection …” and found what she was looking for. Bristling with hostility, Joachim’s army revolver in her hand, she faced up to Bertrand. This is too silly, thought Bertrand. “Ruzena, put that down at once.” “You have no objection.” A touch of anger and even of shame prevented Bertrand from simply quitting the room; he took a step towards Ruzena with the idea of seizing the weapon, and all at once a shot rang out, followed by a second when the revolver that she had let fall hit the floor. “That’s really too stupid,” said Bertrand, and bent down to pick it up. The valet came rushing in, but Bertrand explained that the thing had fallen on the floor and gone off. “Tell the Lieutenant that he shouldn’t keep pistols lying about loaded.” The valet went out again. “Well, Ruzena, are you a silly goose or not?” Ruzena stood white and petrified, pointed to Bertrand and said: “There!” Blood was dripping from his sleeve. “Let me locked up,” she stammered. Bertrand took off his coat and undid the shirtsleeve; he had felt nothing; his arm seemed only grazed, but it would
be necessary to see a doctor about it. He ordered the valet to call a cab. With some linen of Joachim’s he made a provisional bandage and bade Ruzena wash away the blood, but she was so upset and confused that he had to help her. “So, Ruzena; and you’d better come with me, for now I can’t let you stay here alone. You won’t be locked up if you’ll admit that you are a silly goose.” She followed him mechanically. At his doctor’s door he enjoined her to wait for him in the cab.

He told the doctor that by a clumsy accident he had had his arm grazed by a bullet. “Well, you’ve been lucky, but don’t treat the matter too lightly; you’d better lie up for a day or two in hospital.” Bertrand thought that this was exaggerated caution, but as he went down the steps he became aware that he felt dizzy. To his amazement he found no trace of Ruzena in the cab. Not very nice of her, he thought.

He drove home first and collected everything that a practical man of some standing needs for a sojourn in hospital, and after being admitted to a ward he sent a note to Ruzena with the request that she should come and visit him. The messenger returned with the news that the lady hadn’t come home yet. That was strange and almost disquieting; but he was not in the mood to take any fresh step that day. Next morning he sent another message; she had still not come home, nor had she been seen in Joachim’s flat. That decided him to send a wire to Stolpin, and two days later Joachim arrived.

Bertrand felt no call to give Joachim a truthful account of what had happened; the tale of an accident caused by Ruzena’s clumsiness sounded plausible enough. He ended up: “Since then she’s vanished completely. That might mean nothing at all, but a girl in such an excited state might easily do something foolish.” Joachim thought: what has he been doing to her? But he was suddenly horrified to remember that often enough, sometimes in jest, but sometimes in deadly earnest, Ruzena had threatened to throw herself into the water. He saw the grey willows on the banks of the Havel, the tree under which they had once sheltered; yes, she must be lying there in the river. For the space of a heart-beat he felt flattered by this romantic situation. But then the horror of it flooded over him again. Inevitable fate, inescapable discipline of God! And if he had prayed in the church, while still full of hope before his visit to Stolpin, that his father’s illness might not be a penance laid upon him, the son, but merely one of the chances of life, the finger of God now
showed him that even that prayer had been sinful. One dared not question God’s discipline; there was no such thing as chance; for Bertrand, although he had parted in apparent enmity from Herr von Pasenow and was now depreciating the revolver incident as a stupid accident, was only trying to disguise the fact that he was an emissary of evil, deliberately chosen by God and by Herr von Pasenow to discipline the penitent, to lure him into temptation, to lead him into snares, so that in his extremity he might learn that the tempted is as much to blame as the tempter, and with the same fatality, now and always, brings ruin on those nearest him, and that no effort of his can avail to cheat the Tempter of his victims. When a man has come to such knowledge, is it not better for him to destroy himself? How much better it would have been if the bullet had killed him instead of Helmuth! But now it was too late, now Ruzena was lying at the bottom of the river, staring with glazed eyes at the fishes darting over her in the grey water. Quite unexpectedly her drowned image blended again with that of the Italian at the opera; but that too vanished when Joachim discovered that the man under the water was really himself. Yes, in his own blue eyes was the unlucky evil glance that the Italians believed in, and it would serve those eyes right if the fishes were darting over them. Bertrand said: “Have you any idea where she might be? Let’s hope that she has simply gone back to her home. I suppose she would have enough money for that?” Joachim felt annoyed by this question; it had a touch of the inquisitorial detachment of a doctor. What was Bertrand hinting at? Of course she had money on her. Bertrand did not remark his annoyance. “All the same, we’d better inform the police; it’s not impossible that she may be wandering about.” Of course they must inform the police; Bertrand was right, yet Joachim shrank from doing so; he would be questioned about his connection with Ruzena, and even though he told himself that it was unimportant, yet he feared that vague and mysterious consequences might follow. His connection with Ruzena had been all too long sinfully concealed; perhaps God had planned to have it brought to His notice by means of the police; perhaps this was another of the penances he must do, made still harder by the fact that the police office was situated in the Alexanderplatz, which he shrank more than ever from entering. Yet he rose to his feet. “I shall drive round to the police.” “No, Pasenow, I’ll arrange that for you; you’re still too upset, and anyhow they’ll suspect melodrama.” Joachim was sincerely grateful. “Yes, but your arm …” “Oh, that doesn’t matter;
they’re just going to discharge me here.” “But I’ll come with you.” “All right, then, and I hope I’ll still find
you
in the cab when I get into it again.” Bertrand was once more gay, and Joachim felt secure. In the cab he begged Bertrand to tell the police to search the banks of the Havel. “Very well, Pasenow, but in my opinion Ruzena’s long since back in Bohemia; a pity you don’t know the name of her village, but we’ll soon unearth it.” Joachim himself was now surprised that he did not know the name of Ruzena’s native village, scarcely, indeed, her family name. She had often in fun tried to make him pronounce these names, but he could never get his tongue round the foreign words and could not remember them. It occurred to him now that he had never really wanted to know them or to keep them in his memory; yes, almost as if he had been a little afraid of those harmless names.