We climbed up a while longer, then put on our skis and ran down. The white slopes undulated up and down, and after us, barking, every now and then sinking to the chest in the snow, raced Billy like a red brown ball.
He had got used to me again, though he would still often turn in his tracks and race back hell-for-leather with flying ears to the sanatorium.
I was practising Christianias, and each time as I glided down the slope and prepared for the swing and relaxed my body, I would think: If I do it this time without falling, Pat will get better. The wind whistled past my face, the snow was heavy and sticky, but I persisted. I sought out ever steeper descents, ever more difficult ground; and when it succeeded again and again, I thought saved!—and knew it was foolish, and yet was happier than I had been for a long time.
On Saturday evening there was a big, secret exodus. Antonio had ordered sleighs to be ready a short distance below and somewhat aside from the sanatorium. Himself he tobogganed off, yodelling happily, down the slope in his dancing pumps and open coat, from under which gleamed the white waistcoat of his dress suit.
"He's crazy," said I.
"He often does that," replied Pat. "He's quite irresponsible. It helps him through. He wouldn't always be so good-humoured otherwise."
"To make up we're going to pack you in all the more."
I wrapped her in every rug and shawl that we had. Then the sleighs tramped off down the hill. It was a long procession. Everybody who could, had escaped. One might have thought we were a wedding party going down into the valley, so festively nodded the plumes on the horses' heads in the moonlight, and there was such laughter and shouting from sleigh to sleigh.
The Kursaal was lavishly decorated. The dancing had already begun when we arrived. A corner sheltered from draughts from the windows was reserved for the guests from the sanatorium. It was warm and smelt of flowers, perfume and wine.
A crowd of people sat at our table—the Russian, Rita, the violinist, an old woman, a bejewelled death's head, a gigolo who belonged to it, Antonio and some more.
"Come on, Robby," said Pat, "let's see if we can't dance."
The floor revolved slowly around us. The violin and cello rose in liquid melody above the whispering orchestra. Lightly the feet of the dancers glided over the floor.
"But my dearest darling, you dance marvellously all of a sudden," said Pat in surprise.
"Well, hardly marvellously—"
"But yes. Where did you learn?".
"Gottfried showed me," said I.
"In the workshop?"
"Yes, and the Café International. We had to have ladies, naturally. Rosa, Marian and Wally put the finishing touches. But I'm afraid the result isn't exactly what would be called elegant."
"Oh yes!" Her eyes were shining. "The first time we've ever danced together, Robby."
Alongside us the Russian was dancing with the Spanish girl. He smiled and nodded to us. The Spaniard was very pale. Her black, glistening hair encircled her brow like the raven's wing. She danced with a fixed, solemn face. On her wrist was a bracelet of big, square emeralds. She was eighteen. From the table the violinist followed her with lustful eyes.
We went back again. "Now I'd like a cigarette," said Pat.
"You oughtn't to, you know," I replied prudently.
"Only a few draws, Robby. It's so long since I had a smoke."
She took the cigarette but soon laid it aside. "I don't like the taste, Robby. I just don't like it any more."
I laughed. "It's always so when you've been deprived of anything for a long time."
"You were deprived of me for a long time," said she..
"It's so only with poisons," I replied: "Schnapps and tobacco."
"Human beings are a much worse poison than schnapps or tobacco, darling."
I laughed. "You are a clever child, Pat."
She propped her arms on the table and looked at me. "You have never taken me really seriously, have you?"
"I've never taken myself really seriously," I replied.
"Nor me. Be truthful for once."
"I don't know about that. But the two. of us together I've always taken terribly seriously, I do know that."
She smiled. Antonio invited her to dance. The two walked to the dance floor. I watched while they danced. She smiled at me each time as she passed. Her silver shoes hardly touched the floor. She had the movements of an antelope.
The Russian was dancing with the Spanish girl again. Both were silent. His big, dark face was filled with an overshadowing tenderness. The violinist had made an effort to dance with the Spaniard. She merely shook her head and walked to the dance floor with the Russian.
The violinist broke a cigarette in his long, bony fingers. I suddenly felt sorry for him. I offered him a cigarette. He declined. "I must take care of myself," said he in a jagged voice.
I nodded. "That chap," he went on, with a snigger, pointing to the Russian, "smokes fifty a day."
"One does one thing, another another," I replied.
"She may not want to dance with me now, but I'll get her yet."
"Who?"
"Rita."
He edged nearer. "I was well in with her once. We used to play together. Then the Russian came and pinched her with his speechifyings. But I'll get her again."
"Then you'll have to overexert yourself," said I. I didn't like him.
He broke into feeble laughter. "Exert myself, you poor simp? I've only to wait."
"Then wait by all means."
"Fifty cigarettes," he whispered, "daily. I saw his X ray yesterday. Cavity beside cavity. Finished." He laughed again. "We were alike at the start. You might have interchanged the X rays. You ought to see the difference now! I've put on two pounds. No, my boy, I've only to wait, and take care of myself. I'm looking forward already to the next picture. The nurse always shows them to me. Wait, that's all. When he's out of the way, then will be my turn."
"One way, I suppose," said I.
"One way," he mimicked; "the only way, you fathead. If I tried to cut across him now, I'd only spoil my chances for later. No—quite friendly, calmly—to wait—"
The air grew thick and heavy. Pat coughed. I noticed that she looked at me anxiously, so I pretended I had not heard. The old woman with the many pearls just sat quietly sunken in upon herself. Now and then she would give a shrill laugh. The death's head was quarrelling with the gigolo. The Russian smoked one cigarette after another.
The violinist lit them for him. A girl gave a sudden convulsive sob, held her handkerchief to her mouth, gazed into it and turned pale.
I looked along the room. Yonder were the tables of the winter sports people, there the tables of the solid burghers, there sat the French, there the English, and Dutchmen with the homely syllables of their speech, recalling meadows and the sea—and among them this little colony of sickness and death. I looked at Pat—meadows and sea—surf and sand and swimming—ach, thought I, dear frail brow! dear hands I dear life—that I can only love and cannot save.
I got up and went outside. I was stifled with oppression and impotence. I walked slowly along the path. I shivered with the cold, and the wind behind the houses made my flesh creep. I clenched my fists and stared at the hard, white mountains in a wild mixture of helplessness, anger and pain.
A sleigh tinkled past on the road below. I went back. Pat was coming toward me.
"Where have you been?"
"Only outside."
"Are you vexed?"
"Not at all."
"Be gay, darling! Be gay to-day. For my sake. Who knows when I'll be able to go to a ball again?
"You'll go very often."
She laid her head on my shoulder. "If you say so, it must be true. Come, let's dance again. We've never danced together before."
We danced, and the warm, soft light was merciful; it hid all the shadows that the late night had drawn on the faces.
"How do you feel, Pat?" I asked.
"Good, Robby."
"How lovely
you are, Pat."
Her eyes brightened. "It's lovely of you to say that to me."
I felt her warm, dry lips on my cheek.
It was late when we got back to the sanatorium. "See now what he looks like," sniggered the violinist, furtively pointing to the Russian.
"You look just the same," said I irritably.
He eyed me, startled. "Yes—of course—you health-hog," he muttered.
I shook hands with the Russian. He nodded to me, and gently and lightly helped the Spanish girl up the stairs. As they climbed, his big, bowed back and the girl's frail shoulders against the feeble night-lighting looked as if the burden of the whole world lay on them. The death's head dragged the sulking gigolo off down the passage. Antonio said good night to us. It was all rather ghostly, this almost soundless, whispered parting.
Pat pulled her dress over her head. She stood bending over, and tugged at the shoulders. As she did so the stuff tore. Pat examined the place.
"It was probably split already," said I.
"It doesn't matter," said Pat, "I probably shan't ever use it again."
Slowly she folded up the dress, and did not hang it again in the wardrobe. She laid it in her trunk. Her face was suddenly tired.
"Look what I've got here," said I quickly, and produced a bottle of champagne from my coat pocket. "Now for our own little celebration."
I brought glasses and filled them. She smiled again and drank. "To us both, Pat."
"Yes, my darling, to our lovely life."
How queer it all was—this room, the stillness and our misery. And beyond the door did not life stretch away unending, with forests, rivers and strong breath? On the other side of the white mountains was not March already knocking restless on the awakening earth?
"Are you staying with me the night, Robby?"
"Yes, let's go to bed. Let's get as near together as human beings can, and put our glasses on the bedcover and drink."
Drink. . . . Golden-brown skin. . . . Waiting. . . . Lying awake. . . . Stillness and the light wheezing of Pat's chest. . . .
Chapter XXVIII
The föhn blew and it thawed. A babbling muggy warmth filled the valley. The snow became soft and dripped from the roofs. The temperature curves mounted. Pat had to stay in bed. The doctor came every few hours. His expression grew ever more anxious.
One day as I was sitting at lunch, Antonio came and sat beside me.
"Rita is dead," said he.
"Rita? You mean the Russian surely?"
"No, Rita, the Spanish girl."
"But it is impossible," said I and felt my blood freeze. Rita had been far less sick than Pat.
"More surprising things than that are possible here," replied Antonio gloomily. "She died this morning. It was pneumonia as well."
"Pneumonia? That's a different matter," said I relieved.
"Eighteen. Terrible. Died so hard."
"And the Russian?"
"Ach, don't ask. He won't believe she's dead, says she only looks dead. He's sitting by her bed and they can't get him out of her room."
Antonio left again. I stared out the window. Rita was dead; but I just sat arid thought: It isn't Pat, it isn't Pat.
Through the glazed corridor I saw the violinist. Before I could get up he had arrived. He looked awful.
"I see you're smoking," said I, only to say something.
He laughed aloud. "Of course. Why not? Now? It doesn't matter now."
I gave a shrug.
"Think it's funny do you, you Holy Joe?" he asked scornfully.
"You are mad," said I.
"Mad? No, only sold." He leaned well across the table and blew his cognac breath in my face. "Sold I am. Tricked me they have. The swine. Everything swine. You too, you sanctimonious swine."
"If you weren't sick I'd pitch you out the window," said
"Sick? Sick?" he mimicked. "I'm cured, as good as cured; I'm going out soon. Marvellous case of rapid encapsulation! A joke, eh?"
"You be thankful," said I. "Once you're away from here you'll soon forget your troubles."
"So?" he replied. "You think so, do you? You matter-of-fact nit-wit, you healthy bonehead. God preserve your smug soul."
He staggered off, but turned again. "Come along with me. Stay with me, let's drink. I'll pay everything. I can't be by myself."
"Haven't time," said I. "Find somebody else."
I went up again to Pat. She was lying, breathing heavily, with lots of pillows at her back. "Wouldn't you like to go skiing?"
I shook my head. "The snow's too bad. It's thawing everywhere."
"Then wouldn't you play chess with"Antonio?"
"No," said I. "I want to stay here with you."
"Poor Robby!" She tried to move. "Well, get yourself something to drink at least."
"I can do that all right!"
I went to my room and fetched a bottle of cognac and a glass.
"Will you have a little drop?" I asked. "You are allowed to, you know."
She took a little sip, and after a while another. Then she gave me back the glass. I filled it and drank. "You oughtn't to drink from the same glass as I," said Pat.
"Makes it all the nicer." I filled up once more and tipped it down.
She shook her head. "You mustn't, Robby. You oughtn't to kiss me any more either. You oughtn't to be with me at all. You mustn't get sick."
"I will kiss you, and I don't give a brass tack."
"No, you mustn't. And you mustn't sleep in my bed any more."
"All right, then you sleep with me in mine."
She moved her lips in refusal. "Stop, Robby. You have to live a long time yet. I want you to keep well and have children and a wife."
"I'm having neither children, nor wife, except you. You are my child and my wife."
She lay still awhile. "I would like to have had a child of yours, Robby," said she then, leaning her cheek on my shoulder. "I never wanted it before. I just couldn't imagine it. But now I often think about it. It must be nice when something of one remains. Then sometimes when the child would look at you, you would remember me. And I'd be there again for the time being."
"We'll have a child yet," said I. "When you're well again. I'd like to have a child of yours, Pat. But it must be a girl, and be called Pat."
She took the glass from my hand and drank a sip.
"Perhaps it's as well we haven't one, darling. You must forget me. And if you do think of me, it must only be to think it was a good time with us—nothing else. It's over, that we'll never understand. But you mustn't be sad."
"I'm sad when you talk so."
She looked at me for some time. "When you lie like this, you do think a lot. And all sorts of things strike you as strange that you wouldn't even have noticed otherwise. Do you know what I can't understand now? That two people should love as we do, and yet one die."
"Be still," said I. "In life one or the other has to die first. But we're not that far by a long way yet."
"People should die, only when they're alone. Or when they hate—not when they love."
I forced a smile. "Yes, Pat," said I, taking her hot hands in mine; "if we had the making of the world it would look better, eh?"
She nodded. "Yes, darling. We wouldn't allow things like that. If only one knew what's behind it. Do you think it goes on, afterwards?"
"Yes," said I. "It's so badly made it doesn't know how to stop."
She smiled. "That's one explanation, I suppose. But do you find this so badly made too?" She pointed to a bunch of yellow roses beside her bed.
"That's just it," I replied; "the details are wonderful, but the whole has no sense. As if it had been made by a madman who could think of nothing better to do with the marvellous variety of life that he had created but to annihilate it again."
"And to make it afresh," said Pat.
"I see no sense in that either. So 'far it hasn't got any better as a result."
"Anyway, darling," said Pat, "he hasn't done so badly by us. That couldn't have be
en better; Only too short. Far too short."
A few days later I felt a prickling in my chest and coughed. The doctor heard the noise as he was going down the corridor and put his head in at my door.
"You come along to the consulting room."
"It's nothing," said I.