We took a turn round the house. "Every minute she can sleep is to the good," said I. We came back into the garden. Fräulein Müller had spread the breakfast. We drank hot black coffee. The sun came up, and at once it was warm. The leaves of the trees glistened with the light and the wet. From the sea came the cry of the gulls.
Fräulein Müller placed a bunch of roses on the table. "We will give them to her afterwards," said she. The roses were fragrant of childhood and garden walls.
"Do you know, Otto," said I, "I feel as if I had been ill myself . . . I'm not the man I used to be. I ought to have been calmer. Cooler. The calmer a man is the more help he can be."
"One can't always be so, Bob. I have had times myself. The longer one lives the more fearful one gets. It's like a gambler who is always having new losses."
The door opened. Jaffé came out in his pyjamas. "It's all right, all right," he signalled as he saw me about to overturn the breakfast table. "As right as can be expected."
"Can I go in?"
"Not yet. The maid's there now. Washing and all that."
I poured him some coffee. He blinked in the sunlight and turned to Köster. "I ought to be grateful to you really. It has at least given me one day in the country."
"But you could do it often," said Köster. "Leave one evening and return the next."
"Could, could," answered Jaffé. "Haven't you ever observed how we live in an age of self-persecution? What a lot of things there are one might do that one doesn't—and yet why, God only knows. Work has become so tremendously important to-day, because so many have none, I suppose, that it kills everything else. How lovely it is here! Yet it's years since I have seen it. I have two cars, a ten-roomed house and money to burn . . . and what do I do with it? What is it all to this summer morning in the country? Work, work, work . . . an abominable obsession—and always under the illusion it will be different later. And it never is different. Queer, isn't it, that anyone should do that with his life?"
"A doctor, it seems to me, is one of the few who do know what they are living for," said I. "Take a bank clerk, for instance."
"My dear friend," replied Jaffé, "it's a mistake to think that all men have the same tastes."
"Yes," said Köster. "But neither do men get jobs in accord with their tastes."
"True," replied Jaffé. "It's all very difficult." He nodded to me. "Now. But easy—no touching and no letting her talk. . . ."
She lay among the pillows, helpless, as one stricken. Her face had lost its colour; blue, deep shadows were under her eyes and her lips were pale. Only her eyes were big and shining. Too big and shining . . .
I took up her hand. It was cold and limp.
"Pat, old man," said I awkwardly and was about to sit down beside her when by the window I caught sight of the dough-faced maid staring at me inquisitively.
"Go, can't you?" said I with annoyance.
"I have to draw the curtains," she replied.
"Very well, do so then, and go."
She tugged the yellow curtains over the window. And still she did not go. She set about slowly fastening the curtains together with a pin.
"Look," said I, "this isn't a play. Hop it, quick."
She turned on me haughtily. "I'll go when I have pinned them—and not then perhaps."
"Did you ask her to do it?" I asked Pat.
She nodded.
"Does the light hurt you?" I asked.
She shook her head. "It's better you shouldn't see me too clearly to-day . . ."
"Pat," said I horrified, "you're not to talkl But if that's all. . . ."
I opened the door and the maid vanished at last. I went back. I was no longer disconcerted. I was even quite glad
for the maid; it had brought me safely over the first moment. For it was damnable business to see Pat lying there like that.
I sat beside the bed. "You'll be right again soon, Pat."
She moved her lips. "To-morrow, do you think?"
"Not to-morrow perhaps, but in a few days. Then you ought to be able to get up and we'll drive home. We shouldn't have come down here, the air is much too strong for you—"
"Yes," she whispered. "But I'm not sick, Robby. It was just an accident—"
I looked at her. Didn't she really know, then, that she was ill? Or did she not want to know? Her eyes moved restlessly to and fro. "You don't need to be afraid—" she whispered.
I did not understand what she meant at first and why it should be important that I particularly should not be afraid. I saw only that she was agitated, her eyes had a strangely , troubled, urgent expression. And suddenly a thought came to me. I knew what she was thinking: she imagined I was afraid of her because she was ill.
"Good gracious, Pat," said I, "is that the reason, perhaps, you never told me anything?"
She did not answer, but I saw that that was it.
"Damn it all," said I; "what do you take me for, then?"
I stooped over her. "Now lie quite still a moment, but don't move." I kissed her. Her lips were dry and hot.
When I straightened up I saw that she was crying. She was crying soundlessly, with wide-open eyes, and her face did not move. The tears just welled out.
"For God's sake, Pat—"
"I'm so happy," said she.
I stood there and looked at her. It was only a word, but a word I had never heard said like that before. I had known women, but they had only been fleeting affairs, adventures, a gay hour occasionally, a lonely evening, escape from oneself, from despair, from vacancy. And I had never even wanted anything else, for I had learned that there is nothing else one can trust but oneself, and one's comrades perhaps. Now I suddenly saw that I could be something to someone, simply because I was there, and that that person was happy because I was with her. Said like that, it sounds very simple; but when you think about it, it is a tremendous thing, a thing that knows no end. It is something that can break and transform one. It is love and yet something more —something for which one can live. A man cannot live for love. But for a human being, perhaps . . .
I wanted to say something, but I could not. It is difficult to find words when one really has something to say. And even if one knows the right words, then one is ashamed to say them. All these words belong to other, earlier centuries. Our time has not the words yet to express its feelings. We can only be offhand—anything else rings false.
"Pat," said I, "brave old lad—"
At that moment Jaffé entered. He immediately took in the situation. "Nice behaviour," he growled. "I guessed something of the sort."
I was about to make some excuse, but he turned me out without more ado.
Chapter XVII
It was two weeks later. Pat had so far recovered that we could travel home. We had packed our things and were waiting for Gottfried Lenz. He was to collect the car. Pat and I were going by train.
It was a warm milky day. The clouds like cotton wool stood motionless in the sky, the hot air quivered above the dunes and the sea lay leaden in a bright shimmering haze.
Gottfried arrived after lunch. From afar I saw his fair head shining above the hedges. Not until he turned into the drive to Fräulein Müller's villa did I notice he was not alone—behind him appeared a miniature imitation racing motorist, an enormous checked cap put on with the peak to the back, immense dust goggles, a white overall and a couple of out-size, ruby-red, glowing ears.
"My hat, but it's Jupp!" said I in astonishment.
"The same, Herr Lohkamp," replied Jupp, grinning.
"And the rig! What's that for?"
"Did you ever see the like of it?" said Lenz delighted, shaking me by the hand. "He's being coached for a racer. Eight days now I've been giving him driving lessons. He begged me to let him come to-day. A good opportunity to make his first cross-country tour."
"Going to break the record, Herr Lohkamp," Judd assured me eagerly.
"And how he'll break it!" Gottfried smirked. "I've never seen the like of him for persecution mania. The first les
son he tried to overtake a Mercedes-Compressor in our good old taxi. A perfect little demon."
Jupp was perspiring with happiness and looked at Lenz adoringly.
"I thought I could eat the cheeky blighter, Herr Lenz. Meant to snap him up in the curve, like Herr Köster."
I could not help laughing. "You're starting well, Jupp."
Gottfried looked with paternal pride at his pupil. "First, you snap up that luggage and take it to the station."
"By myself?" Jupp almost exploded with excitement. "Can I drive the bit to the station quite by myself, Herr Lenz?"
Gottfried nodded and Jupp dashed into the house.
We passed up the trunks. Then we collected Pat and drove to the station. We were a quarter of an hour too early when we got there. The platform was empty, only a few milk cans were standing about.
"You'd better push off," said I. "Otherwise you'll never get home."
Jupp at the wheel looked at me, offended.
"You resent such observations, eh?" Lenz asked him.
Jupp sat up. "I've reckoned it all out most carefully, Herr Lohkamp," said he reproachfully. "We will be in the workshop comfortably by eight."
"Quite right." Lenz patted him on the shoulder. "Offer to take him on in a bet. For a bottle of seltzer water."
"Not seltzer water," replied Jupp, "but I'll risk a packet of cigarettes any day."
He looked at me challengingly.
"I suppose you know the road is pretty bad?" I asked.
"All reckoned in, Herr Lohkamp."
"What about the corners, have you thought of them?"
"Corners mean nothing to me. I have no nerves."
"Good, Jupp," said I. "Then I take on the bet. But Herr Lenz mustn't drive on the way."
Jupp laid his hand on his heart. "My word of honour."
"Very good, very good. But say, what's that you've got there in your hand?"
"My stop watch. I'm going to time it as we go. Just like to see what the sleigh can do."
Lenz grinned. "Yes, boys, Jupp is fully armed. I dare say the jolly old Citroën is quivering in every cylinder al ready."
Jupp ignored the irony. He plucked excitedly at his cap. "Then we'll start, Herr Lenz, eh? A bet's a bet."
"Of course, you little compressor. Au revoir, Pat. See you later, Bob." Gottfried climbed into the seat. "Now, Jupp, show the lady how a cavalier and future ruler of the world starts."
Jupp adjusted the goggles over his eyes, waved like an old hand, and in first gear pulled out smartly over the curb onto the road.
Pat and I sat awhile on a seat in front of the station. The hot white sun lay full on the wooden wall that shut off the platform. There was a smell of resin and salt. Pat leaned
back her head and closed her eyes. She sat perfectly still, her face turned to the sun.
"Are you tired?" I asked.
She shook her head. "No, Robby."
"There comes the train," said I.
The engine came stamping along, black, little and forlorn against the quivering, great waste. We got in. The train was almost empty. It moved' off puffing. The smoke of the engine hung thick and black in the air. Slowly the landscape revolved past—the village with the brown thatched roofs, the meadows with cows and horses, the wood, and then, peaceful and sleepy in the hollow behind the dunes, Fräulein Müller's house.
"There is Fräulein Müller," said Pat.
"So she is."
She was standing at the front door waving. Pat took out her handkerchief and let it flutter from the window.
"She won't see that," said I, "it's too small and thin. Here, have mine."
She took it and waved. Fräulein Müller waved back vigorously.
The train gradually gained the open country. The house vanished and the dunes were left behind. Beyond the black strip of the wood the sea looked out from time to time—the glance of a watching tired eye. Then came the soft golden green of the fields and the ears of corn dipping in the gentle breeze to the horizon.
Pat gave me back my handkerchief and sat in a corner. I pulled up the window. That's over, thought I, thank God, that's over. It had been only a dream. A damned bad dream.
Shortly before six we reached the city. I took a taxi and loaded the luggage. Then we drove to Pat's place.
"Are you coming up?" she asked.
"Of course."
I saw her up, then went down again to fetch the luggage with the driver. When I returned Pat was still in the hall. She was talking with Lieutenant Colonel Hake and his wife.
We went into her room. It was light, early evening outside. On the table was a glass vase with pale red roses. Pat went to the window and looked out. Then she turned round. "How long were we away actually, Robby?"
"Exactly eighteen days."
"Eighteen days. It seems much longer."
"To me too. But it's always like that when you come out of it."
She shook her head. "I don't mean that."
She opened the balcony door and went out. There folded up against the wall leaned a white lounge deck-chair. She pulled it out and looked at it in silence.
When she came in again her expression had altered and her eyes were dark.
"Just look at the roses," said I. "They are from Köster. His card is beside them."
She picked up the card and then put it down again on the table. She looked at the roses, but I saw that she hardly noticed them. She was still in her thoughts with the lounge deck-chair. She had imagined.she had escaped it, and now once more perhaps it was to be part of her life. .
I let her be and said no more. There was no point in trying to divert her. She would have to face it, and it was as well it should happen now, while I was still there. One could only postpone it with words; sooner or later it was bound to come, and then perhaps it would only be harder.
She stood awhile by the table, her face lowered, her hands leaning upon it. Then she lifted her head and looked at me. I said nothing. She walked slowly round the table and put her hands on my shoulders.
"Old boy," said I.
She leaned against me. I held her tight. "Now we're going to deal with the business, eh?"
She nodded. Then she smoothed back her hair. "It was only a moment, Robby."
"I know."
There was a knock. The maid entered with the tea trolley. "That's good," said Pat.
"Will you have tea?" I asked.
"No, coffee. Good, strong coffee."
I stayed for half an hour. Then she grew tired; I saw it in her eyes.
"You ought to sleep a bit," said I.
"And you?"
"I'll go home and sleep too a bit. Then in two hours I'll fetch you for supper."
"You are tired?" she asked doubtfully.
"Yes, a little. It was hot in the train. And afterwards I must go for a while to the shop."
She asked no more questions. She was very tired and just sank down. I put her to bed and covered her well. She fell asleep immediately. I put the roses near her and Köster's card alongside, that she should have something to think about when she waked. Then I left.
On the way I stopped at a telephone box. I decided to 'phone Jaffé at once. At home it would be too difficult, the entire pension would be listening in.
I took up the receiver and gave the number of the clinic. After a time Jaffé came to the instrument.
"Lohkamp speaking," said I, clearing my throat. "We returned to-day. We have been back an hour."
"Did you come by car?" asked Jaffé.
"No, by train."
"So, and how is it?"
"All right," said I.
He considered a moment. "I want to examine Fräulein Hollmann to-morrow. At eleven, say. Would you tell her?"
"No," said I. "I don't want her to know I have 'phoned you. She is sure to ring you herself to-morrow. Perhaps you would tell her then."
"Very well. Let it stand at that. I will tell her."
Mechanically I shoved aside the fat, greasy telephone book. It lay o
n a little wooden pulpit. Telephone numbers were scribbled over the walls in pencil.
"Then can I come and see you in the afternoon?" I asked.
Jaffé did not answer.
"I'd like to know how things are with her," said I.
"I won't be able to tell you that to-morrow," Jaffé replied. "I shall have to observe her for at least a week. But I will let you know how "things stand then."