"This is nothing yet," replied the warder. "You should come in the winter, though. It's jam full everywhere then. On account of the heating."
We went to the gallery where the carpets were hanging. It was a quieter room, off the beaten track. Through the tall windows you could look out into a garden, where there was an immense plane tree. It was quite yellow, and even the light in the room had a subdued yellow glow because of it.
The carpets looked wonderful. There were two animal carpets of the sixteenth century, some Ispahans, and a few silk, lacquerlike Polish carpets with emerald-green borders. Age and the sun had lent to their tones a soft patina, so that they resembled great, fairylike pastels. They gave to the room a timelessness and a harmony, such as pictures could never have given. The window with the autumn foliage of the plane tree and the pearl-grey sky behind joined in, as if it also were an old carpet.
We remained there some time, then went back into the other galleries of the museum. In the interval more people had arrived, and it was now obvious that they did not really belong here. With pale faces and threadbare clothes, they wandered, hands behind their backs, rather diffidently through the rooms, with eyes that were seeing something far other than the Renaissance pictures and the still, marble antique figures. Many were sitting on the red upholstered seats that were placed around. They sat wearily there, as if prepared to stand up at once, should anyone come to move them on. You could see in their attitudes that upholstered seats were something which it was quite incredible it should cost nothing to sit on. They were used to receiving nothing for nothing.
It was very quiet in all the rooms, and despite all the visitors one hardly heard a word; and yet it seemed to me as if I were looking on at an enormous struggle—the soundless struggle of men who were stricken down, but did not mean to give in yet. They had been thrown out from the fields of their work, their striving, their callings; now they had pome into the quiet rooms of Art, in order not to fall into paralysis and despair. They were thinking of bread, always and only of bread and occupation; but they came here to escape from their thoughts for a few hours—and amongst the clean-cut Roman heads and the imperishable grace of white, Greek female figures they wandered around with the dragging gait, the bowed shoulders of men who have no purpose—a shocking contrast, a cheerless picture of what humanity had been able, and unable, to achieve in a thousand years—the summit of eternal works of art, but not even bread enough for each of their brothers.
In the afternoon we went to a movie. When we came out the sky had cleared. It was apple-green and very bright. In the streets and shops, lights were already burning. We walked slowly home, looking in the windows as we went.
Before the brightly lit window of a big furrier's I halted. It was already cool in the evenings, and here were displayed thick bundles of silver fox and warm coats for the winter. I looked at Pat; she was still wearing her short fur jacket and was altogether much too lightly clad.
"If I were the hero in the film," said I, "I would go in there and choose a coat for you."
She smiled. "Which then?"
"That one." I pointed to the one that looked warmest.
She laughed. "You've good taste, Robby. That is a very lovely Canadian mink."
"Would you like to have it?"
She looked at me. "Do you know what a coat like that costs, darling?"
"No," said I, "and I don't want to know. I would sooner think I could give you whatever I like. Why should only other people be able to do that?"
She looked at me closely. "But I don't want any such coat, Robby."
"Oh, yes," I replied, "you're going to have it. Let's not have another word about it. We'll have it sent to-morrow."
She smiled. "Thank you, darling," said she, and kissed me in the middle of the street. "And now your turn." She stopped outside a gentlemen's outfitters. "Those tails nowl You'll need that to go with the mink. And that bell-topper you must have, too. What would you look like in a bell-topper, I wonder?"
"Like a chimneysweep." I looked at the tails. They lay spread in a window lined with grey velvet. I looked again at the shop. It was the same in which I had bought the tie in the spring, after that first time I had been alone with her ahd had got drunk. Suddenly, I don't know why, I had a choking feeling in the throat. In the spring—I little dreamed of all this then.
I took Pat's slender hand and for a second laid it to my cheek. "You need something with it too." said I then; "a mink by itself like that is like a car without an engine. Two or three evening dresses—"
"Evening dresses," she replied stopping in front of a large window, "evening dresses, that's true—I can't very well do without them."
We selected three wonderful dresses. I saw how Pat enjoyed this game. She entered into it completely, for evening dresses were her weakness. We chose also at the same time the things to go with them, and she became even more lively. Her eyes were shining. I stood by and listened to her and laughed and thought what a damned business it was to love a woman and yet be poor.
"Come," said I at last, in a sort of desperate gaiety, "if you do a thing you might as well do it thoroughly." I led her to a jeweller's. "There, that emerald bracelet. The two rings, and the earrings to match. No argument now. Emerald is the right stone for you."
"Then you must have that platinum watch and the pearl studs there for your shirt."
"And you the whole shop. Less than that, and I have nothing to do with it."
She laughed and with a deep sigh leaned against me. "Enough, darling, enough. Now we have to buy only a few trunks and go to the travel bureau, and then we will pack and set off, away from this city and autumn and the rain."
Yes, thought I; my God, yes, and then you would soon get well. "Where shall we go?" I asked. "To Egypt? Or farther still? To India, or China?"
"Into the sun, darling, anywhere in the sun and the South and the warm. Roads with palm trees, rocks, white houses by the sea and aloes . . . But perhaps it rains there too. Perhaps it rains everywhere."
"In that case we just move on," said I, "till we come to some place where it doesn't rain—in the middle of the tropics or the Pacific Islands."
We stopped in front of the window of the Hamburg-Amerika Line. In the middle was the model of a liner. It floated on blue papier-mache waves and immense behind it rose an enlarged photograph of the skyscrapers of Manhattan. Around the window hung big, brightly coloured maps with routes marked in red.
"We'll go to America too," said Pat. "To Kentucky and Texas and New York and San Francisco and Hawaii. And then on to South America. By Mexico and the Panama Canal to Buenos Aires. And then back by Rio de Janeiro."
"Yes—"
She looked at me, beaming.
"I've never been there," said I. "I was pretending then."
"I know," she replied.
"You knew?"
"But Robby, of course I knew. I knew at once."
"I was a bit crazy, then. Unsure and stupid and crazy. That's why I pretended."
"And now?"
"Still more now," said I. "There you see it." I pointed to the liner in the window. "It's the devil not to be able to go in it."
She smiled and put her arm in mine. "Ach, darling, why aren't we rich? We have such marvellous ideas of what to do with it. There are so many rich people who can do no better than go backwards and forwards to their banks and offices."
"That's why they are rich, of course," said I. "If we were rich we certainly wouldn't be so for long."
"I believe that too. We would be sure to lose it one way or another."
"And perhaps from worrying about losing it we would get nothing out of it at all. These days being rich is a profession in itself. And not such an easy one, either."
"The poor rich," said Pat. "We'd probably do better to pretend we've been it already and lost everything. You simply went bankrupt a week ago and had to sell everything —our house and my jewels and your car. What do you say to that?"
"It fits with the times, at le
ast," I replied.
She laughed. "Then come. We two poor bankrupts will go now to our little furnished room and tell each other stories of the good old times."
"That's a fine idea."
We walked on slowly through the darkening street. More and more lights flamed up. As we reached the graveyard we saw an aeroplane, with cabins lighted, move across the green sky. It flew, solitary and beautiful, through the clear, high, lonely heavens—like some wonderful bird of desire out of an old fairy tale. We stood and watched it till it disappeared.
We had hardly been home half an hour when there was a knock on my bedroom door. I thought it must be Hasse again and went to open. But it was Frau Zalewski. She looked agitated.
"Come out quickly," she whispered.
"What's the matter?"
"Hasse."
I looked at her.
She gave a shrug. "He has shut himself in and won't answer."
"One moment."
I went back and told Pat she should rest a bit; I had to discuss something with Hasse in the meantime.
"All right, Robby. I do feel a bit tired again."
I followed Frau Zalewski down the passage. Outside Hasse's door the entire pension was already standing—Erna Bönig in her bright dragon-kimono, with red hair; the stamp-collecting accountant in smoking jacket of military cut; Orlow, pale and calm, just returned from a tea-dancing; Georg, timidly knocking and calling Hasse in a subdued voice; and lastly Frida, squinting with excitement, fear, and curiosity.
"How long have you been knocking, Georg?" I asked.
"Over a quarter of an hour," Frida, a bright crimson, immediate burst out, "and he is home, he hasn't been outside once, not since midday, only running around all the . time, everlastingly backwards and forward, and then it was quiet."
"The key's stuck on the inside," said Georg. "It's locked."
I looked at Frau Zalewski. "We must knock the key out and open. Have you a second key?"
"I'll get the bunch," announced Frida, unusually ready to assist. "Perhaps one of them will fit."
I got a piece of wire and with it turned the key into the straight and jabbed it out of the lock. It fell with a clatter to the floor on the other side. Frida screamed and put her hands over her face.
"You get out of the road, as far away as you can," said I to her, trying the keys. One of them fitted. I unlocked and opened the door.
The room lay in semi-darkness and at a first glance nothing was to be seen. The two beds gleamed grey-white, the chairs were empty, the cupboard doors shut.
"There he is!" hissed Frida, who had pushed her way forward again, over my shoulder. Her onion breath blew hot past my cheek. "There behind, at the window."
"No," said Orlow, who had advanced swiftly a few paces into the room and come back again. He bumped into me, reached for the handle and pulled the door to. Then he turned to the others. "You had better go. It may not be good to see."
He spoke slowly, in his harsh, Russian German, and remained standing across the door.
"O God!" stammered Frau Zalewski and stepped back. Erna Bönig also stepped back a few paces. Only Frida tried to push past and get hold of the handle. Orlow pushed her away. "It really is best," said he once more.
"Sir!" snorted the accountant suddenly, drawing himself up. "What a liberty! For a foreigner!"
Orlow looked at him unmoved. "Foreigner?" said he. "Foreigner doesn't signify here. Doesn't arise—"
"Dead, eh?" hissed Frida.
"Frau Zalewski," said I, "I agree it would be best if only you and perhaps Orlow and myself stayed here."
"Telephone for a doctor, immediately," said Orlow.
Georg already had the receiver off. The whole affair had lasted only five seconds. "I'm stopping," announced the accountant, red as a beetroot. "As a German citizen I have the right—"
Orlow gave a shrug and opened the door again. Then he switched on the electric light. With a scream the two women started back. With blue-black face, black tongue between the teeth, Hasse was hanging by the window.
"Cut him down," I cried.
"No use," said Orlow slowly, harsh and sorrowful. "I know that—this face—dead, some hours already—"
"We could try at least—"
"Better not. Let the police come first."
At that moment the door bell rang. The doctor who lived near by was there. He took one glance at the thin, broken body. "Nothing to be done now," said he. "Still, we have to attempt artificial respiration. Ring the police at once and give me a knife."
Hasse had hanged himself with a thick, pink silk cord girdle. It belonged to a morning dress of his wife's, and he had fastened it very skilfully to a hook over the window. It had had soap rubbed into it. He must have stood on the window ledge and then apparently let himself slip from there. His hands were clenched and his face looked terrible. It was odd at such a moment, but it struck me that he was wearing a different suit from this morning. It was his best, a blue worsted suit that I knew of old. He was shaved too, and had clean linen on. On the table in a pedantic order lay his pass, his bankbook, four ten-mark notes and some silver. Alongside these, two letters—one to his wife and another to the police. Next the letter to his wife lay a silver cigarette case and his wedding ring.
He must have considered it a long while and put every-'thing in order; for the room was perfectly tidy, and when we examined more closely we found on the washstand some more money and a slip of paper on which was written: "Balance of rent for this month." He had added the extra, as if he wanted to make it clear that it had nothing to do with his death.
The bell rang and two police in civilian clothes came in. The doctor who had cut down the body in the meantime, stood up. "Dead," said he; "suicide without doubt."
The officers did not reply. After shutting the door they searched the whole room. They took a few letters from a drawer in the cupboard and compared the writing with the letters on the table. The younger of the two nodded. "Anyone know the reason?"
I told what I knew. He nodded again and wrote down my address.
"Can we have him taken away?" asked the doctor.
"I've ordered an ambulance from the infirmary," replied the younger officer. "It should be here any minute."
We waited. It was quiet in the room. The doctor was kneeling on the floor beside Hasse. He had opened all his clothes and was alternately rubbing his chest with.a towel and making attempts at resuscitation. Only the whistle and gurgle of the air streaming in and out of the dead lungs was to be heard.
"The twelfth this week," said the younger officer.
"For the same reason?" I asked.
"No. Nearly all on account of unemployment. Two families, one with three children. Gas, of course. Families almost always take gas."
The bearers came with their stretcher. Frida slipped in with them. With a sort of lust she stared at Hasse's pitiful body. She had red flecks in her cheeks and was perspiring.
"What do you want here?" asked the elder officer gruffly.
She started back. "I have to make my statement," she stuttered.
"Out," snorted the officer.
The bearers laid a blanket over Hasse and took him out. Then the two officers left also. They took the papers with them. "He has left money for the burial," said the younger. "We will pass it to the proper quarter. If the wife comes, please tell her she should report to the district police station. He has left her his money. Can the rest of the things stay here for the time being?"
Frau Zalewski nodded. "The room will never let again."
"Very good."
The officers said good day, and went. We went out likewise. Orlow locked the door and gave Frau Zalewski the key. "It would be as well if as little as possible were said about the whole affair," said I.
"I think so, too," said Frau Zalewski.
"I mean you, particularly, Frida," I added.
Frida waked out of a sort of absent-mindedness. Her eyes were shining. She did not answer.
"If you sa
y one word to Fräulein Hollmann," said I, "then God help you."
"Think I don't know that?" She spat. "The poor lady is much too ill."
Her eyes flashed. I had to control myself not to box her ears.
"Poor Hasse," said Frau Zalewski.
It was quite dark in the passage.
"You were pretty rude to Count Orlow," said I to the accountant. "Wouldn't you like to apologise to him?"
The old man stared at me. Then he exploded, "A German never apologises. Certainly not to an Asiatic," and slammed the door of his room behind him.
"What's come over our old stamp-collector?" I asked in amazement. "Why, he used to be as mild as a lamb!"