A weakness overcame Amadeus Voss. He looked about him with unquiet eyes, and saw a low post to which the ships’ hawsers were made fast. He sat down on it, and buried his face in his hands. Then he spoke through his hands: “Look you, dear brother, I am a beaten dog; that and nothing else. I feel as though I had leaned too long against a cold, hard, tinted church wall. The chill has remained in my very marrow, and I struggle because I don’t want that feeling to enslave me. Often I think I should like to love a woman. I cannot live without love; and yet I live on without it, day after day. Always without love! The accursed wall is so cold. I cannot and would not and must not live without love. I am only human, and I must know woman’s love, or I shall freeze to death or be turned to stone or utterly destroyed. Yet I am a Christian, and it is hard for a Christian who bears a certain image in his heart to give himself up to woman. Help me to find a woman, brother, I beseech you.”
Christian looked out upon the dark sea. “How can I help him?” he thought, and felt all the coldness of the world and the confusion of mortal things.
While he stood and reflected he heard from afar across the dunes a cry, first dulled by the distance, then nearer and clearer, and then farther away again. It was such a cry as a man might utter, at his utmost need, in the very face of death. Amadeus Voss also lifted his head to listen. They looked at each other.
“We must go,” said Christian.
They hurried in the direction of the cry, but the dunes and the beach were equally desolate. Thrice again they heard the cry in the same fashion, approaching and receding, but their seeking and listening and hurrying were in vain. When they were about to return Voss said: “It was not human. It came from something in nature. It was a spirit cry. Such things happen oftener than men believe. It summons us somewhere. One of us two has received a summons.”
“It may be,” said Christian, smiling. His sense for reality could accept such an interpretation of things only in jest.
XXII
On his way to Scotland Crammon stopped over for a day in Frankfort. He informed Christian’s mother of his presence, and she begged him with friendly urgency to come to her.
It was the end of June. They had tea on a balcony wreathed in fresh green. Frau Wahnschaffe had ordered no other callers to be admitted. For a while the conversation trickled along indifferently, and there were long pauses. She wanted Crammon to give her some news of Christian, from whom she had not heard since he had left Christian’s Rest. But first, since Crammon was a confidant and a witness in the suit, it was necessary to mention Judith’s divorce and approaching remarriage to Edgar Lorm, and Frau Wahnschaffe’s pride rebelled at touching on things that could, nevertheless, not be silently passed over.