‘This time, my child,’ he laughed, stroking her hair again (I realized that he was doing this so that she should not be hurt by his laugh), ‘you were wrong to put the gentleman off. Lieutenant Hofmiller is, I’m glad to say, not a patient, but a friend who has long promised to look me up when in town. He can only get off in the evenings, for he’s on duty all day. And now the main thing is: have you anything nice to give us for supper?’
The anxious, drawn look came back into her face, and I could tell from the way in which she involuntarily started that she wanted to be alone with the husband who had been so long away.
‘Oh, no, thank you,’ I hastened to say. ‘I must go soon. I mustn’t miss the night express. I really only came to bring you greetings from the Kekesfalvas, and that’ll only take a minute or two.’
‘Is everything all right out there?’ asked Condor, gazing searchingly into my eyes. And he must somehow have realized that something was not quite right, for he quickly added: ‘Now listen, my friend, my wife always knows how things are with me, usually better than I do myself. I must confess I am ravenously hungry, and until I’ve had something to eat and have lit a cigar I’m no use to anyone. If you don’t mind, Klara, we two will go and have some supper and let the Herr Leutnant wait a little. I’ll give him a book to read or he can have a rest — you’ve probably had a heavy day,’ he said, turning to me. ‘When I’ve got to the cigar stage I’ll come back to you, in dressing-gown and slippers if you’ve no objection — you won’t expect me to dress formally, will you, Herr Leutnant?’
‘And I’ll really only keep him ten minutes, gnädige Frau. I shall have to rush off to the station then.’
At this her face lit up again. She turned to me almost cordially.
‘What a pity you won’t have supper with us, Herr Leutnant! But I hope you’ll come another time.’
She stretched out her hand towards me, a delicate, slender, somewhat faded and wrinkled hand, and I kissed it respectfully. And with a genuine feeling of reverence I watched Condor cautiously steering the blind woman towards the door, skilfully preventing her from knocking into anything either to left or right; it was as though he were holding something infinitely fragile and precious in his hands.
For two or three minutes the door remained open, and I could hear the shuffling steps recede. Then Condor came back again. There was quite a different expression on his face; that alert, keen expression which I had noticed on his face at moments of mental tension. He had obviously realized that I had not turned up at his house so unceremoniously without some pressing reason.
‘I’ll be back in twenty minutes. Then we can talk the whole thing over quickly. I suggest that in the meanwhile you lie down on the sofa or make yourself comfortable in this armchair. I don’t like the look of you, my boy. You look frightfully fagged out. And we must both be fresh and clear-headed.’
And quickly changing his voice he added loudly, so that he was audible in the room across the passage:
‘Yes, my dear Klara, I’m just coming. I was just giving the Herr Leutnant a book to read, so that he shouldn’t be bored.’
Condor’s trained eye had not deceived him. It was not until he mentioned it that I myself realized how horribly exhausted I was after my disturbed night and all the excitements of the day. Following his advice — I felt myself completely under his sway — I stretched myself out in the big arm-chair in his consulting-room, my head thrown back into its depths, my hand resting slackly on the padded arms. During my uneasy period of waiting night must have fallen; I could make out scarcely anything around me but the silver gleam of the instruments in the tall glass cupboard, and the alcove where I was sitting was a vault of pitch-black darkness. Involuntarily I closed my eyes, and immediately there appeared before them, as though projected by a magic lantern, the face of the blind woman; I beheld once more that unforgettable transition from dismay to sudden rapture as Condor’s hand touched her, as his arm was thrown round her. What a wonderful doctor! I thought. If only he could help me like that! I felt dimly that I was trying to think of someone else, someone who had been just as uneasy and distracted and had had the same worried gaze, to think of a certain definite thing which had been the cause of my coming here. But try as I would I could not.
Suddenly I felt a hand on my shoulder. Condor must have entered the pitch-dark room with the lightest of steps, or perhaps I had really fallen asleep. I was about to get up, but he pushed me down gently, yet vigorously, by the shoulders.
‘Stay where you are. I’ll come and sit by you. It’s easier to talk in the dark. I only beg one thing of you — speak softly. Very softly. In some magical way, you know, the hearing of blind people often becomes more acute, and they acquire, too, a mysterious instinct for putting two and two together. Well then,’ — and his hand brushed my arm hypnotically from the shoulder downwards — ‘tell me all about it, and don’t be shy. I saw at once that something was the matter with you.’
Odd — at that moment a memory suddenly came back to me. At the cadet school I had had a friend, Erwin he was called, frail and fair as a girl; I believe that I was even, unwittingly, a little in love with him. In the daytime we hardly spoke to one another, or else talked merely of casual things; we were probably both ashamed of our secret and unconfessed fondness for each other. Only at night, in the dormitory, when the lights were turned out, did we sometimes pluck up courage. Propping ourselves up on our elbows in our adjoining beds, we spoke to each other in the all-protecting darkness, whilst the others were asleep, of our childish thoughts and dreams, only to fight shy of each other again the next morning and display the same inevitable embarrassment. For years and years I had not thought of those whispered confessions, which had been the secret delight of my boyhood years. But now, as I lay stretched out in the sheltering darkness, I completely forgot my resolve to dissimulate before Condor. Without wishing to be so, I was completely frank; and just as in those far-off days in the cadet school I had told my friend of all the little vexations, the wild, fantastic dreams of childhood, so now did I tell Condor — and it gave me a secret thrill to do so — of Edith’s unexpected outburst, of my dismay, my fear, my distraction. I told him everything in the silent darkness, in which nothing stirred but the lenses of his pince-nez, which, when from time to time he moved his head, flashed out indistinctly.
Then a silence ensued, and after the silence I heard a queer sound. Condor had obviously pressed his fingers so hard against each other that the joints cracked.
‘So that was it!’ he growled in a tone of self-dissatisfaction. ‘And to think I was fool enough not to see it all! It’s always the same — you cease to see the patient for the illness. What with all this careful examining and exploring of the symptoms, the essential feature of the situation, what’s going on inside the patient, eludes you. That is to say — I felt at once that something was the matter with the girl. You remember how after my examination of her the other day I asked the old man whether another doctor had not been called in — I was quite nonplussed by that sudden, feverish desire to be well all in a moment. I had guessed quite rightly that some stranger had been meddling in the case. But, dunderhead that I am, I thought only of a quack or a hypnotist; I imagined that her head had been turned by some sort of hocus-pocus. But I never thought of the most simple, the logical, explanation, the one that was staring me in the face. The girl’s at the very age for falling in love. The pity of it is that it should have to happen just at this moment, and with such violence. Oh God, the poor, poor child!’
He had risen, and I could hear him taking short, sharp steps up and down the room.
‘Dreadful!’ he sighed. ‘To think that this tiresome business should happen just now when we have fixed up the trip to the Engadine. And the devil of it is that no power on earth can put back the clock — now that she has persuaded herself that she must get well for you and not for herself. It’ll be terrible when the reaction sets in. Now that her hopes and expectations are placed so high, she won’t be sa
tisfied with a modicum of improvement, a slight advance in her condition. My God, what a terrible responsibility we have taken upon ourselves!’
A feeling of rebellion suddenly assailed me. I was furious at being dragged into the affair. After all, I’d come here to free myself.
‘I’m entirely of your opinion,’ I broke in resolutely. ‘The consequences are unpredictable. We must put a stop to this madness in good time. You’ll have to be firm. You’ll have to tell her ...’
‘Tell her what?’
‘Why ... that this infatuation is mere childish nonsense. You must talk her out of it.’
‘Talk her out of it? Talk her out of what? Talk a woman out of being in love? Tell her she ought not to feel as she does feel? Not to love when she does love? That would be about the worst thing one could possibly do, and the stupidest into the bargain. Have you ever heard of logic prevailing against passion? Of anyone’s being able to say to a fever: “Fever, cease raging!”, or to a fire, “Fire, stop burning!” A fine, a really kindly thought, to shout at an invalid, a cripple: “For heaven’s sake don’t get it into your head that you can be allowed love like other people! It’s presumptuous of you, a cripple, to show feeling, to expect people to show feeling for you — it’s for you to lie low. Go and stand in the corner. Give up, renounce, all thought of love!” That, apparently, is what you want me to tell the poor girl. But have the goodness to consider the glorious effect of such a step!’
‘But it is you who must ...’
‘Why me? You expressly took all the responsibility on yourself. Why should I now assume it?’
‘Well, I simply can’t tell her myself that ...’
‘Nor should you. Nor must you. First drive her mad, and then expect her at one fell swoop to come to her senses ... that would be the last straw! It goes without saying that you must not by word or sign let the poor child suspect that you find her fondness for you distasteful — that would be tantamount to striking her down with a hatchet.’
‘But ...’ — my voice failed me — ‘someone’s got to make her see ...’
‘See what? Do you mind expressing yourself more precisely.’
‘I mean ... that ... that it’s quite hopeless ... quite absurd ... so that she won’t ... if I ... if I ...’
I faltered. Condor too was silent. He was evidently waiting for me to go on. Then, quite unexpectedly, he took two vigorous strides to the door and put his hand on the electric-light switch. Harsh and pitiless — the shrill blaze forced me to close my eyes — three white flames sprang to life in the bulbs, and the room was bright as day.
‘Aha!’ declaimed Condor. ‘Now we have it, Herr Leutnant! I can see now that it doesn’t do to make you too comfortable. It’s too easy to hide away under cover of the darkness, and in certain cases it’s better for people to look each other straight in the eye. Let’s have no more of this dithering, Herr Leutnant—there’s something wrong here. You’re not going to persuade me you came here merely to show me this letter! There’s something else behind all this. I can tell that you’ve got some definite plan. Either come out with it honestly or I shall have to ask you to take your departure.’
His pince-nez flashed at me; I was afraid of the gleaming lenses, and lowered my eyes.
‘It doesn’t impress me very favourably, this silence of yours, Herr Leutnant. It doesn’t exactly point to a clear conscience. But I have a shrewd idea what’s in the wind. No evasions, if you please. Is it your intention, because of this letter ... or the other, to break off your so-called friendship?’
He waited. I did not raise my eyes. His voice took on the challenging tone of an inquisitor.
‘Do you realize what you would be doing if you suddenly beat a retreat? Now that you’ve turned the girl’s head with your precious pity?’
I was silent.
‘Well, in that case I will venture to give my personal opinion of such behaviour. Running away like that would be a pitiable act of cowardice ... Oh come on, let’s cut out all that military stuff! Let’s leave an officer’s code of honour out of it! There’s more at stake here than all that mumbo-jumbo. The happiness of a young, living, valuable human being is at stake, of someone, what is more, for whom I am responsible. In such circumstances I am in no mind to be polite. In any case, so that you may be under no misapprehension as to what you will be taking on your conscience if you make off now, let me tell you quite bluntly: for you to decamp now at this critical moment — please don’t turn away — would be a dastardly crime against an innocent creature, and I fear even more than that — it would be murder!’
Clenching his fists like a boxer, the portly little man advanced upon me. He might perhaps in other circumstances have presented a ridiculous appearance in his woolly dressing-gown and sloppy slippers, but there was something majestic about his genuine indignation as he shouted at me again:
‘It would be murder, murder! Yes, murder, I tell you, and you know it! Do you imagine that that hypersensitive, proud creature could bear to go on living if, the first time she opened her heart to a man, the gallant fellow responded by running away in a panic as though he had caught a glimpse of the devil? A little more imagination, if you please! Didn’t you read her letter, or have you no heart at all? Even a normal, healthy woman would be unable to stand such a slight. A blow like that would upset even her balance for years. And this girl, who is only kept going by the vain hope of a cure which you have dangled before her eyes — this hapless, forlorn creature, do you think she’d ever get over it? If the shock itself didn’t do for her, she would do away with herself. Yes, that is what she’ll do, a creature in her desperate state won’t endure such a humiliation — I’m convinced she won’t get over such brutal treatment, and you, Herr Leutnant, know that as well as I do. And because you know it, to run away now would be not only an act of weakness and cowardice, but vile, wilful murder.’
Involuntarily I retreated still further. At the moment when he had uttered the word ‘murder’ I had seen everything in a lightning vision: seen the balustrade on the terrace of the tower and the poor girl clutching at it with both hands; seen myself seizing her and pulling her back just in time. I knew that Condor was not exaggerating; that was exactly what she would do, hurl herself down — I could see the paving-stones far below, could see everything at that moment as though it were really happening, as though it had already happened, and there was a roaring in my ears as though I myself were plunging down those five storeys into the depths below.
‘Well? Can you deny it?’ Condor went on persistently. ‘Let us see something of that courage which you profess as a soldier!’
‘But, Herr Doktor ... what am I to do? ... I can’t be forced ... can’t say something I don’t mean ... How could I possibly manage to behave as though I encouraged her crazy delusion ...? No, I can’t bear it, I can’t bear it!’ I burst out. ‘I can’t, I won’t and I can’t!’
I must have shouted at the top of my voice, for I felt Condor seize my arm in an iron grip.
‘Quietly, for heaven’s sake!’ He sprang to the switch and turned the light off again. Only the lamp on the desk shed a dim cone of light from beneath its yellowish shade.
‘Damnation take it! One’s got to treat you like a patient. There — sit down quietly; far more serious matters have been discussed in that chair.’
He came closer to me.
‘Now don’t work yourself up, and please — quietly, slowly, one thing at a time. First of all: here are you groaning, “I can’t bear it!” But that doesn’t tell me enough. I must know what it is you can’t bear? What is it you find so horrifying about the fact that this poor child has fallen head over heels in love with you?’
I drew a deep breath and made ready to answer, but Condor quickly went on:
‘Don’t be in a hurry. And above all, don’t be ashamed. I can understand a man’s being horrified when a passionate declaration of love is sprung on him. Only a numskull is pleased at being a so-called “success” with women, only a dunderhead
is puffed up by it. A real man is much more likely to be dismayed at realizing that a woman has lost her heart to him when he can’t reciprocate her feelings. I can understand all that. But since you’re so exceptionally, so very exceptionally upset, I am bound to ask whether there is not some special factor at work in your case — I mean the special circumstances?’
‘What circumstances?’
‘Well ... the fact that Edith ... it’s difficult to put such things into words ... I mean ... does her ... her deformity inspire you with a certain repugnance ... a feeling of physical disgust?’
‘No ... absolutely not,’ I protested vehemently. Had it not been her very helplessness, her defencelessness, that had so irresistibly attracted me to her? And if at certain moments I had felt for her an emotion that in some mysterious way bordered on the tenderness of a lover, it had only been because her suffering, her forlorn and crippled state had so moved me. ‘No, never!’ I repeated in tones of almost indignant conviction. ‘How can you think such a thing!’
‘So much the better. That reassures me to some extent. As a doctor, you see, one has plenty of opportunity of observing such psychological inhibitions in the case of apparently completely normal people. I must admit I have never been able to understand those men in whom the slightest physical abnormality in a woman produces a kind of pathological aversion, but there are a great many men for whom the slightest aberration in a single one of the millions and millions of cells that go to make up a body, a human being, immediately excludes all possibility of a sexual relationship. Unfortunately such aversions, like all the instincts, can never be got over — and that is why I am doubly glad to hear that in your case it is not the fact of her lameness in itself that repels you. In that case, to be sure, I can only assume that ... may I speak frankly?’