Maurice Guest

by Henry Handel Richardson

  XIII.

  He wakened, the next morning, to strange surroundings. Half opening hiseyes, he saw a strip of drab wall-paper, besprinkled with crude pinkroses, and the black and gilt frame of an oblong mirror. He shut themagain immediately, preferring to believe that he was still dreaming.Somewhere in the back of his head, a machine was working, with slow,steady throbs, which made his body vibrate as a screw does a steamer.He lay enduring it, and trying to sleep again, to its accompaniment.But just as he was on the point of dozing off, a noise in the roomstartled him, and made him wide awake. He was not alone. Something hadfallen to the floor, and a voice exclaimed impatiently. Peering throughhis lids, he looked out beyond the will which had first chained hisattention. His eyes fell on the back of a woman, who was sitting infront of one of the windows, doing her hair. In her hand she held apair of curlingtongs, and, before her, on the foot-end of the sofa, ahand-glass was propped up. Her hair was thick and blond. She wore ablack silk chemise, which had slipped low on her plump shoulders; ashabby striped petticoat was bound round her waist, and her naked feetwere thrust into down-trodden, felt shoes. Maurice lay still, in orderthat she should not suspect his being awake. For a few minutes, therewas silence; then he was forced to sneeze, and at the sound the womanmuttered something, and came to the side of the bed. A curl wasimprisoned between the blades of the tongs, which she continued to holdaloft, in front of her forehead.

  "NA, KLEINER! ... had your sleep out?" she asked in a raucous voice. AsMaurice did not reply, but closed his eyes again, blinded by thesunshine that poured into the room, she laughed, and made a sound likethat with which one urges on a horse. "Don't feel up to much thismorning ... eh? HERRJE, KLEINER, but you were tight!" and, at someremembrance of the preceding night, she chuckled to herself. "And now,I bet you, you feel as if you'd never be able to lift your head again.Just wait a jiffy! I'll get you something that'll revive you."

  She waddled to the door and he heard her call: "JOHANN, EINEN SCHNAPS!"

  Feet shuffled in the passage; she handed Maurice a glass of brandy.

  "There you are!--that'll pull you together. Swallow it down," she said,as he hesitated. "You'll feel another man after it.--And now I'll dowhat I wouldn't do for every one--make you a coffee to wash down thenasty physic."

  She laughed loudly at her own joke, and laid the curlingtongs aside. Hewatched her move about the room in search of spirit-lamp andcoffee-mill. Beneath the drooping black chemise, her loose breastsswayed.

  "Not that I've much time," she went on, as she ground the coffee. "It'sgone a quarter to twelve already, and I like fresh air. I don't miss aminute of it.--So up you get! Here, dowse your head in this water."

  Leaning against the table, Maurice drank the cup of black coffee, andconsidered his companion. No longer young, she was as coarsely haggardas are the generality of women of her class, scanned by cruel daylight.And while she could never have been numbered among the handsome ones ofher profession, there was yet a certain kindliness in the smallish blueeyes, and in her jocose manner of treating him.

  She, too, eyed him as he drank.

  "SAG''MAL KLEINER--will you come again?" she broke the silence.

  "What's your name?" he asked evasively, and put the cup down on thetable.

  "Oh ... just ask for Luise," she said. On her tongue, the name hadthree long-drawn syllables, and there was a v before the i.

  She was nettled by his laugh.

  "What's wrong with it?" she asked. "GEH', KLEINER, SEI NETT!--won't youcome again?"

  "Perhaps."

  "Well, ask for Luise, if you do. That's enough."

  He turned to put on his coat. As he did so, a disagreeable thoughtcrossed his mind; he coloured, and ran his hand through his pockets.

  "I've no money."

  "What?--rooked, are you? Well, it wasn't here, then. I'm an honestgirl, I am!"

  She came over to him, not exactly suspicious, still with a slightdiminution of friendliness in eyes and tone; and, as, if there wereroom for a mistake on his part, herself went through the likely pocketsin turn.

  "Not a heller!"

  Her sharp little eyes travelled over him.

  "That'd do."

  She laid her hand on his scarf-pin. He took it out and gave it to her.She stood on tip-toe, for she was dumpy, put her arms round his neck,and gave him a hearty kiss.

  "DU GEFALLST MIR!" she said. "I like you. Kiss me, too, can't you?"

  He looked down on the plump, ungainly figure, and, without feelingeither satisfaction or repugnance, stooped and kissed the befringedforehead.

  "ADIEU, KLEINER! Come again."

  "ADIEU, LUISE!"

  He was eyed--he felt it--from various rooms, the doors of which stoodajar. The front door was wide open, and he left it so. He descended thestairs with a sagging step. Half-way down, he stopped short. He hadspoken the truth when he said that he was without money; every pfennighe possessed, had been in his pocket the night before. Under thesecircumstances, he could undertake nothing. But, even while he thoughtit, his hand sought his watch, which he carried chainless in a pocketof his vest. It was there, and as his fingers closed on it, heproceeded on his way.

  The day had again set in brilliantly; the shadows on roads andpavements had real depth, and the outlines of the houses were hardagainst a cloudless sky. He kept his eyes fixed on the ground; for thecrudeness of the light made them ache.

  His feet bore him along the road they knew better than any other. Anduntil he had been in the BRUDERSTRASSE, he could not decide what was tocome next. He dragged along, with bowed head, and the distance seemedunending. Even when he had turned the corner and was in the streetitself, he kept his head down, and only when he was opposite the house,did he throw a quick glance upwards. His heart gave a terrifying leap,then ceased to beat: when it began again, it was at a mad gallop, whichprevented him drawing breath. All three windows stood wide open; thewhite window-curtains hung out over the sills, and flapped languidly inthe breeze.

  He crossed the road with small steps, like a convalescent. He pushedback the heavy house-door, and entered the vestibule, which was coldand shadowy. Step by step, he climbed to the first landing. The door ofthe flat was shut, but the little door in the wall stood ajar, and hecould see right into the room.

  He leaned against the banisters, where the shadow was deepest. Insidethe room that had been his world, two charwomen rubbed and scoured,talking as they worked in strident tones. The heavy furniture had beenpulled into the middle of the floor, and shrouded in white coverings;chairs were laid on the bed, with their legs in the air. There was notrace of anything that had belonged to Louise; all familiar objects hadvanished. It was a strange, unnatural scene: he felt as one might feelwho, by means of some mysterious agency, found it possible to bepresent at his own burial, while he was still alive.

  One of the women began to beat the sofa; under cover of the blows,which reverberated through the house, he slunk away. But he did not getfar: when he was recalled to himself by a new noise in one of the upperstoreys, he found that he was standing on the bottom step of thestairs, holding fast to the round gilt ball that surmounted the lastpost of the banisters. He moved from there to the warmth of thehouse-door, and, for some time before going out, stood sunning himself,a forlorn figure, with eyes that blinked at the light. He felt verycold, and weak to the point of faintness. This sensation reminded himthat he had had no solid food since noon the day before. His firstbusiness was obviously to eat a meal. Fighting a growing dizziness, hetrudged into the town, and, having pawned his watch, went to arestaurant, and forced himself to swallow the meal that was set beforehim--though there were moments when it seemed incredible that it wasactually he who plied knife and fork. He would have been glad to lingerfor a time, after eating, but the restaurant was crowded, and thewaiter openly impatient for him to be gone. As he rose, he saw the manflicking the crumbs off the cloth, and setting the table anew; some onewas waiting to take his place.

  When he emerged again into the thronged and sl
ightly dusty streets, hisprevious strong impression of the unreality of things was upon himagain. Now, however, it seemed as though some submerged consciousnesswere at work in him. For, though he was not aware of having reviewedhis position, or of having cast a plan of action, he knew at once whatwas to be done; and, as before, his feet bore him, without bidding,where he had to go.

  He retraced his steps, and half-way down the KLOSTERGASSE, entered agunsmith's shop. The owner, an elderly man in a velvet cap andgold-rimmed spectacles, looked at him over the tops of these, then saidcurtly, he could not oblige him. What was more, he came out after him,and, standing in the shop-door, watched him go down the street. At hisrefusal, Maurice had hurriedly withdrawn: now, as he went, he wa'stroubled by the fact that the man's face was vaguely familiar to him.For the length of a street-block, he endeavoured to recollect where hehad seen the face before. And suddenly he knew: it was this very shophe had once been in to inquire after Krafft, and this was the same manwho had then been so uncivil to him. But as soon as he remembered, theknowledge ceased to interest him.

  Rendered cautious by his first experience, he went to anotherneighbourhood, and having sought for some time, found a smaller shop,in a side street. He had ready this time the fiction of a friend and acommission. But a woman regretted wordily that her husband had juststepped out; he would no doubt be back again immediately; if the Herrwould take a chair and wait a little?-- But the thought of waiting madehim turn on his heel. Finally, at his third attempt, a young lad gavehim what he desired, without demur; and, after he had known a quickfear lest he should not have sufficient money for the purchase, thematter was satisfactorily settled.

  On returning to his room, he found a letter lying on the table. Hepounced upon it with a desperate hope. But it was only the monthly billfor the hire of the piano.

  In entering, he had made some noise, and Frau Krause was in the roombefore he knew it. She was primed for an angry scene. But he made shortwork of her complaints and accusations.

  "To-morrow! I'll have time for all that to-morrow."

  He turned the key in the door, and sitting down before thewriting-table, commenced to go through drawers and pigeonholes. It hadnot been a habit of his to keep letters; but nevertheless a certainnumber had accumulated, and these he was averse to let fall into thehands of strangers. He performed his work coolly, with a pedanticthoroughness. He had no sympathy with those people, who, doing what hewas about to do, left ragged ends behind them. His mind had alwaysinclined to law and order. And so, having written a note authorisingFrau Krause to keep his books and clothes, in place of the outstandingrent, he put a match to the fire which was laid in the stove, and, onhis knees before it, burnt all such personal trifles as had value forhimself alone. He postponed, to the last, even handling the smallpacket made up of the letters he had had from Louise. Then their turncame, too. Kneeling before the stovedoor, he dropped them, one by one,into the flames. The last to burn was the first he had received--a merehastily scrawled line, a twisted note, which opened as it blackened. IMUST SPEAK TO YOU. WILL YOU COME TO ME THIS EVENING? As he watched itshrivel, he had a vivid recollection of that long past day. Heremembered how he had tried to shave, and how he had dressed himself inhis best, only to fling back again into his working-clothes, annoyedwith himself for even harbouring the thought. Yes; but that had alwaysbeen his way: he had expended consideration and delicacy where none wasnecessary; he had seen her only as he wished to see her.--After this,the photographs. They were harder to burn; he was forced to tear themacross, in two, three pieces. Even then, the flames licked slowly; hewatched them creep up--over her dress, her hands, her face.

  Afternoon had turned to evening. When, at length, everything was inorder, he lay down on the sofa to wait for it to grow quite dark. Butalmost at once, as if his back had been eased of a load, he fellasleep. When he opened his eyes again, the lamp had burned low, andfilled the room with a poisonous vapour. It was two o'clock. This wasthe time to go. But a boisterous wind had risen, and was blusteringround the house. He said to himself that he would wait still a littlelonger, to see if it did not subside. In waiting, he slept again,heavily, as he had not done for many a night, and when he wakened next,a clock was striking four. He rose at once, and with his boots in hishand, crept out of the house.

  Day was breaking; as he walked, a thin streak of grey in the eastwidened with extreme rapidity, and became a bank of pale grey light. Hemet an army of street-sweepers, indistinguishably male and female,returning from their work, their long brooms over their shoulders. Ithad rained a little, and the pavements were damp and shining. The windhad dropped to a mere morning breeze, which met him at street-corners.Before his mind's eye rose a vision of the coming day. He saw one ofthose early spring days of illimitable blue highness and white, woofyclouds, which stand stationary where the earth meets the sky; thebrightness of the sun makes the roads seem whiter and the grassgreener, bringing out new tints and colours in everything it touches.Over it all would run this light, swift wind, bending the buds, andeven, towards afternoon, throwing up a fine white dust.--And it was tothe thought of the dust that his mind clung most tenaciously, as tosome homely and familiar thing which he would never see again.

  He had made straight for the well-known seat with the bosky background.Arrived at it, he went a few steps aside, into an open space among theundergrowth, which was now generously sprinkled with buds. The leavesthat had fallen during the previous autumn made a carpet under hisfeet. Somewhere, in the distance, a band was playing: a body ofsoldiers was being marched out to exercise. He opened the case he wascarrying, and laid it on the seat. He was not conscious of feelingafraid; if he had a fear, it was only lest, in his inexperience, heshould do what he had to do, clumsily. In loosening the clothes at hisneck, however, he perceived that his hand was shaking, and this madehim aware that his heart also was beating unevenly. He stood andfumbled with his collar-stud, which he could not unfasten at once, and,while he was busied thus, the mists that blinded him fell away. Heceased, abruptly, to be the mere automaton that had moved and acted,without will of its own, for the past four-and-twenty hours. Standingthere, with his fingers at his neck, he was pierced by a sudden lucidperception of what had happened. An intolerable spasm of remembrancegripped him. With a rush of bitterness, which was undiluted agony, allthe shame and suffering of the past months swept over him once more,concentrated in a last supreme moment. And, as though this were notenough, while he still wrenched at his neck, tearing his shirt-collarin his desperation, her face rose before him--but not the face he hadknown and loved. He saw it as he had seen it for the last time,disfigured by hatred of him, horribly vindictive, as it had been whenshe spat on the ground at his feet. This vision gave him anunlooked-for jerk of courage. Without allowing himself another secondin which to reason or reflect, he caught up the revolver from the seat,and pressed the cold little nozzle to his chest. Simultaneously hereceived a sharp blow, and heard the crack of a report--but far away... in the distance. He was on his back, without knowing how he had gotthere; straight overhead waved the bare branches of a tree; behindthem, a grey morning cloud was sailing. For still the fraction of asecond, he heard the familiar melody, to which the soldiers marched;and the branch swayed ... swayed ...

  Then, as suddenly as the flame of a candle is puffed out by the wind,his life went from him. His right hand twitched, made as if to open,closed again, and stiffened round the iron of the handle. His jaw fell,and, like an inner lid, a glazed film rose over his eyes, which forhours afterwards continued to stare, with an expression of horror andamaze, at the naked branches of the tree.

  * * * * *

  One midday, a couple of years later, a number of those who had formedthe audience at one of the last rehearsals of the season, were gatheredround the back entrance to the Gewandhaus. It was a fresh spring day,gusty and sunny by turns: sometimes, there came a puff of wind thatdrove every one's hand to his hat; at others, the broad square baskedin an almost motionless sunshine. The small crowd lingered in or
der tosee, at close quarters, the violinist who had played there thatmorning. Only a few of those present had known Schilsky personally; butone and all were curious to catch a glimpse of the quondam Leipzigstudent, who, it was whispered, would soon return to the town to takeup a leading position in the orchestra. Schilsky was now KONZERTMEISTERin a large South German town; but it was rather as a composer that hisname had begun to burn on people's tongues. His new symphonic poem,UBER DIE LETZTEN DINGE, had drawn down on his head that mixture ofextravagant laudation and abusive derision which constitutes fame.

  "Take a look at his wife, if she's there," said one American toanother, who was standing beside him. "She studied here same time hedid, and is said to have been very handsome. An English chap shothimself on her account."

  "You don't say!" drawled his companion. "It's a queer thing, how commonsuicide's getting to be. You can't pick up a noospaper, nowadays,without finding some fool or other has blown his brains out."

  "Look out!--here they come."

  Behind the thick glass doors, Schilsky became visible. He was talkingvolubly to a Jewish-looking stranger in a fur-lined coat. His hat waspushed far back on his forehead; his face was flushed with elation;and, consciously unconscious of the waiting crowd, he gesticulated ashe walked, throwing out the palms of his loosely dangling hands, andemphasising his words with restless movements of the head. He wasrespectfully greeted by those who had known him. A minute or two latercame Louise. At her side was a pianist with whom Schilsky had given aconcert earlier in the week--a shabbily dressed young man, with a worldof enthusiasm in his candid blue eyes. He, too, was talking withanimation. But Louise had no attention for anyone but her husband.

  "Well, not my taste ... I must confess," laughed the man who had beensevere on suicide. "Fine eyes, if you like--but give me somethingfresher."

  She was wearing a long cloak. The door, in swinging to, caught an endof this, and hindered her progress. Both she and her companion stoopedto free it; their hands met; and the bystanders saw the young mancolour darkly over face and neck.

  The others had got into one of the droschkes that waited in line besidethe building. The dark stranger put an impatient head out of thewindow. The two behind quickened their steps; the young man helpedLouise in, mounted himself, and slammed the door.

  The driver gathered up the reins, cracked his whip, and the big-bodieddroschke went swerving round the corner, clattering gutturally on thecobbled stone pavement.

  The group of loiterers at the door dispersed.