Lorm would confirm these reasons. He had no doubt of any of them; he gave her opportunities to produce them. He was remarkably inventive in making excuses for her when he saw in others’ faces astonishment or disapproval of her behaviour. He said: “Don’t bother her. She is an airy creature. She has her own way of showing devotion, and her own way of feeling grief. You must not apply ordinary standards.”
Crammon said to Letitia: “I didn’t know that this Judith was one of those soulless creatures of porcelain. It was always my opinion that the phrases concerning the superior tenderness of the female soul—that’s the official expression, isn’t it?—constituted one of those myths by which men, the truly more delicate and noble organs of creation, were to be deceived into undue indulgence. But such spiritual coarseness as hers would make a cowboy blush. Go to her and try to stir her conscience. A great artist is leaving us, and his last sigh will be given to a popinjay, who bears his name as a fool might wear the robes of a king. Let her at least appear to do her duty, else she is worthy of being stoned. One should follow the ancient Hindoo custom, and burn her on her husband’s pyre. What a pity that these pleasant laws have gone out of use.”
When Letitia next saw Judith she reproached her gently. Judith seemed overwhelmed by remorse. “You are quite right, dear child,” she answered. “But you see I can’t, I just can’t bear to be around sick people. They always seem to wear a mask; they don’t seem to be the same people at all; and there’s such a terrible odour. They remind one of the most frightful thing in the world—of death. You’ll reply, of course, that he’s my husband, my own husband. That makes it all the worse. It creates a tragic conflict for me. One should rather have pity on me than accuse me of things. He hasn’t the right to demand that I do violence to my nature, and as a matter of fact, he doesn’t. He’s far too subtle and too magnanimous. It’s only other people who do. Well, what do they know about us? What do they know of our married life? What do they know of my sacrifices? What do they know of a woman’s heart? And furthermore”—she went on hastily, becoming aware of Letitia’s inner estrangement from her—“so many things are happening just now, so many horrid things. My father has just arrived. I haven’t seen him since my marriage to Imhof. Do you know, by the way, that Imhof is dying? They say, too, that he’s utterly ruined. I have been spared a great deal; but wouldn’t it make you think that it is unlucky to love me? Why do you suppose that is? My life is as harmless as the playing of a little girl, and yet.... Why do you suppose it is?” She wrinkled her forehead and shivered. “Well, my father is here. There will be an interview—he, Wolfgang, and I. And oh, my dear, it’s such a hideous affair that has to be discussed.”
“It concerns Christian, doesn’t it?” Letitia asked, and it was the first time that she had uttered his name in Judith’s presence. She had forgotten again and again; she had abandoned her purpose over and over. She had felt Judith’s mysterious spite and hate against her brother, and had not had the courage to face it. Always something more important and more amusing had seemed to appear on the gay stage of life. Now she repeated hesitantly: “It concerns Christian, doesn’t it?”
Judith lapsed into sombre silence.
But from that hour Letitia was tormented by a secret curiosity, and this curiosity forbade forgetfulness. She had lost her way. Oh, she had lost her way long ago, and daily she stumbled farther into the pathless wild. Lost, confused, entangled,—thus did she seem to herself, and she had many minutes of a fleeting melancholy. All the things that happened in her life became too much for her, and yet all the trivialities of the day disappeared as water does in sand, leaving no form, no echo, no purpose. And in these moments of her sadness, she had the illusion of a new beginning, and yearned for a hand to lead her forth from these thickets of her life. She remembered that far night when her full heart had been rejected, and nursed the ecstatic dream that now, when it was used up and a little weary, it might find acceptance.
But she delayed and played with the vision in her mind. And then she had a dream. She dreamed that she was in the lobby of a magnificent hotel among many people; but she was clothed only in her shift, and could scarcely move for shame. No one appeared to observe this. She wanted to flee, but saw no door at all. While she looked about her in her misery, the lift suddenly came down from the upper storeys. She rushed into it and the door closed and the lift rose. But her dread did not leave her, and she had a sense of approaching disaster. Voices from without came to her: “There is some one dead—dead in the house.” To stop the lift, she groped for the electric button, but she could not find it. The lift rose higher and higher, and the voices died away. Without knowing how she had come there, she stood in a long corridor along which were the doors of many rooms. In one of the rooms lay a crucifix about two yards long; it was of bronze covered with a patina. She went in, and men moved respectfully aside. Now suddenly she was clothed in a garment of white satin. She kneeled down beside the crucifix. Someone said: “It is one o’clock, we must go to luncheon.” Her heart was like a wound with compassion and yearning. She pressed her lips against the forehead of the image of Christ. The metal body stirred and grew and grew, and assumed the stature of life; and she, more and more tenderly giving herself, infused blood into the image, and gave its skin the colour of life, so that even the wounds of the nails flushed red. Her feeling rose to an ardent pitch of gratitude and adoration. She encircled the body and the feet of the rising Christ, who lifted her as he rose. But one of the gentlemen said: “The gong is sounding for the last call to table.” And at that she awoke.
Next morning she went to Crammon, and persuaded him to drive with her to Stolpische Street.
XXXII
When Christian opened the door, his father stood before him. It was he who had rung the bell.