The doctor prattled. He told amusing and malice-free stories of anonymous patients and their vagaries. Suddenly a little cloud of soberness came over his face. “Almost every one who comes to me is suffering poignantly. But it is not physical suffering. It is a torment of the mind. I have never seen so many neurotics. I do not like the word: ‘neurotic.’ An easy and lazy word to dismiss a condition which we do not understand. That is the trouble with people. They label something, and think they have disposed of it. What is a neurotic? Many psychiatrists, the fools! say that a neurotic is a man who is suffering from some maladjustment rooted in forgotten childhood, a present condition from which there is a cowardly flight, or a glandular disturbance. I say it is none of these. I say it is a desperate hunger of a starving soul for something which will make life significant, beautiful and satisfying.” He added: “The world is full of neurotics. That is very terrible. And very dangerous.”
“What do you do for your neurotics?” asked Therese.
The doctor was very grave. “At first I was naïve. I sent them to pastors. Now I know better. I give them the Bible. I must have bought hundreds of little cheap Bibles!” He smiled ruefully. “And then I tell them to walk alone in the woods, under the trees. Every day, for weeks, until they are cured, carrying their Bibles, and reading, and meditating. There are some that say it helps a neurotic to be plunged into social life and social contacts. This is wrong. At heart, the neurotic is sick of his fellow men. He is intelligent; he sees too much. So I send him away, to be alone. The neurotic is full of inner resources and strengths; the presence of his fellows disrupts his contemplation, disperses his fortitudes. Alone, he can reestablish his strength, coordinate his power. He can see beyond men. He can draw faith and courage from an uncorrupted atmosphere. All intelligent men, that is to say, all neurotics, are Narcissi. But strange to say, in worshipping their own image, they worship God, and are renewed.”
They went into the shabby living room with its quiet lights and its snapping little fire. They sat about the hearth. Therese looked at her burden, and shrank from it. But she took it up at last with a sigh, and told the doctor of Kurt. Doctor Traub listened in silence, his face heavy with compassion. Then he said: “Kurt and Karl are both committing suicide, perhaps subconsciously. Yes, most probably subconsciously. They believe that in killing themselves they are killing what they hate. Just as the German people are killing themselves to avenge themselves. Hitler is their weapon.”
“That loathsome man!” exclaimed Therese in a low voice. “Why have we not a David to kill him?”
The doctor shook his head. “It is not Hitler—it is the German people. It is not Hitler—it is every man everywhere. The world, in its hatred, is committing suicide.”
Helene, who was sewing at his right hand, looked up in silence, and gazed at him. At one time Therese had thought her stupid, for her eyes were so open, so clear, so shining. She never had anything to say of any profundity. Now Therese knew that she was not stupid at all.
The doctor went on, as though musing aloud: “We are in a state of revolution. The revolution has started in Germany; it will spread everywhere. For there has come in these times a revolt against materialistic, industrial Protestant realism. Modern science, with its zealous hunting-out and destroying of all forms of Mythos, has urged man to lose faith in everything but himself. It has not learned that there is nothing in man, as a being, to create and sustain faith. There must be something beyond himself, some great spiritual and divine head, to lift him out of his primal swamp. Man, today, is in revolt against a realism which offers him no hope, no joy, no reward, except the bare bones of reason, and the dry desert of materialism. Man cannot live by reason alone.”
He filled his pipe. Crumbs of tobacco spilled over his fat untidy paunch. But the firelight lay in his wise, sad eyes. “Reason!” he murmured, with sorrowful contempt.
Therese was silent. She listened to the rising autumn wind as it growled impotently and restlessly at the windows. The fire threw up showers of golden sparks. Helene no longer sewed. She looked only at her husband, and there was such a light of love in her tired eyes that Therese felt reverence.
The doctor resumed his musing voice: “There is a hunger in man which cannot be satisfied by industrial progress, by material prosperity. Civilization in itself, with its buildings, its comforts, is not enough. Nor can man be deluded by the high-minded but stupid altruism of those who urge that his faith should be centered in his species, and that it is his sole duty to advance the ‘educational’ and material welfare of other men. That is all right as far as it goes. But it does not go far enough. Man, the individual, cares, at the last, and rightly, for his own inner joy alone. He cannot secure that joy by building new buildings, or paving more roads, or putting more money in the bank. The joy is secured only by an inner sense of spiritual growth, of mysticism, of God-awareness. He will have his faith, if he dies for it. But sometimes faith can take the most frightful forms. As it is taking it in Germany today.”
He got up, slowly, as though impelled by some deep dolorous restlessness. He walked heavily up and down the room. It was evident that he was very distressed. He stopped before Therese, and stood looking down at her. But she knew he did not really see her.
He resumed: “The leaders of German National Socialism say that we are now in a process of revolution. I have read the comments of other countries in answer to this. How smug they are, how stupid, how ridiculously amused! The dreadful fools! They do not know that our leaders in Germany are right! So right that it does not bear thinking of. But it is not a social revolution. It is a revolution of the human spirit, which has become distorted and crippled. Therese, do you remember the description in Victor Hugo’s Notre Dame, of that section of Paris called Thieves’ Alley? Do you remember his description of that dark and tortuous place, leaning and grotesque, fetid and unclean, swarming with cripples and the blind and the evil? Well, that is the world today.”
He had conjured up such a fearful vision that Therese could only sit in paralyzed silence. Leaving her, the doctor resumed his pacing. He spoke aloud, but almost inaudibly:
“Robbed of the Mythos by twentieth-century realism, the German people have swung back to their ancient Wagnerian gods. Denied true faith and beauty, as all the world is deprived, they have recreated demons and angels, heroes and warriors, grandiloquent attitudes and Thors and Odins. A violent faith, but faith in truth, subconscious, deep and powerful, primitive and destructive. Bereft by fools of the Mythos of God, they have created a Mythos of Satan, in which there is still a wild and terrible beauty, a passionate escape from bitter and untenable reality, and a faith beyond humanity. Denied the powers of light, they have taken to themselves the powers of darkness. Faith can be evil and violent, as well as good and noble. The new faith will destroy the world, for it is beyond good and evil.”
He added: “The whole new faith of Germany is turned inevitably towards war. But war is only one manifestation of it, the manifestation of hatred. Yes, we shall have war. Every nation will be involved in it. They will think that war the beginning of the end. But the beginning was in the despair of men, and the end will not be victory or conquest or defeat. The end will be in the complete destruction of men, or a spiritual rebirth. Germany will provoke the initial attack, and the world will then attack her completely. It will not know that in destroying Germany it is really avenging itself on its own faithlessness, and committing suicide. But nothing can halt the course of events now. Nothing but a universal awakening of the soul of all men.”
He paused, then murmured: “‘The desolation of abomination.… For then shall be great tribulation, such as was not since the beginning of the world to this time, no, nor ever shall be.… And except those days should be shortened, there should no flesh be saved.…’”
For two thousand years those words had lain dormant, forgotten, covered with dust, sunken into the grave of time. But now they had emerged from the darkness like flaming torches into the present. With
them came the imminent muttering of the drums of dooms, and every mountain, every plain, reechoed them until all the world shivered and reverberated.
Men thought of the punishment of God. They did not know that they punished themselves.
“The National Socialists are right,” said the doctor. “The order of the present day is corrupt and decaying. But the National Socialists merely feed and fatten on it, like vultures.”
Therese’s heavy vague glance encountered the mirror over the fireplace. She saw the foxy peeping face of the little maid. For an instant the two pairs of eyes met, and the face disappeared. Alarm ran through Therese. She tried to tell herself that all servants peeped inquisitively. But she could not quiet her alarm. The ominous words of Captain von Keitsch, uttered so negligently, came back to her urgently.
She waited until Doctor Traub had approached her again in his pacing. Then, with a quick glance in the mirror to be sure she was not overheard, she said:
“Today, in Kurt’s house, I saw that odious man, Captain von Keitsch. Do you know him, Doctor?”
He came out of his sorrowful musing with obvious effort. Then he nodded slowly. “A little. I knew his father well. He was one of my patients.”
Therese paused. She suddenly felt ridiculous. She was hysterical! She could not, even with so much evidence in her mind, quiet a feeling that she was more than a little absurd. She said reluctantly, in a low voice:
“He spoke of you today. Quite lightly. But—but I had a feeling there was something there beside lightness. He implied you were an obstructionist—among other things. It was all very casual, and there seemed nothing to it. But I had the most curious sensation.…”
She paused again. And then to her intense surprise she saw that Helene had started. She heard her utter a faint cry. But Helene was not looking at her; she was staring desperately, with terror, at her husband.
Turning from Helene, Therese regarded the doctor in astonishment. He had taken his pipe abruptly from his mouth. He held it quietly in his hand. His whole body and attitude were quiet. He stood looking down at Therese with sudden sharpness. His face was very pale.
There was a long, and to Therese, an inexplicable silence. Helene continued to stare at her husband with frozen terror. The clock in the hall ticked loudly. Therese heard a faint and furtive shuffling of feet beyond the hall. Perhaps the doctor heard it, and understood it. He lifted his head abruptly, and appeared to listen. Then, with that same hard abruptness, he left the room and went into the hall. Therese heard him pick up the telephone. There was another silence. And then at last the doctor’s voice, calm, matter-of-fact, quite loud:
“Gottfried? This is Felix. How is your mother tonight? Did she respond to those tablets I left for her?”
A pause. “Good. I am glad she is improved. I do not think it necessary for me to see her tonight. I will see her soon, however, I have a visitor.” He repeated, slowly: “I have a visitor, and do not wish to leave. In the meantime, continue with the treatment I prescribed for your mother. That is all I can do. I can do nothing more at present.”
Therese heard the click of the receiver. She glanced at Helene. The poor woman was as white as old ash. Her hands lay over her sewing, send trembled violently. It was nightmarish; it was incredible. The doctor came back into the room. He had aged visibly. But he was quite composed. He looked at his wife: “I could hardly hear Gottfried,” he said. “The connection was very poor. I must notify the company.”
His commonplace words seemed to inspire fresh fear in Helene. She paled even more. Her hands shook, and her sewing fell from her lap. Therese stared, dumbfounded. She shook her head a little. She felt the cold wind of terror in the room. She heard the ticking of the clock, the sighing of the wind at the windows. She shook her head again, incredulously.
The doctor turned to her. His voice was still quiet. “Therese, my dear, I am afraid we shall have a storm. I will take you home at once.”
“No, please, Doctor. I can call a cab.”
But he shook his head. He looked deeply into her eyes. He was trying to tell her something. Helene rose. She tried to speak. She had to try several times before she said: “I will get you your coat and furs, Therese.” The doctor left the room. Tears were thick in Helene’s eyes as she brought Therese’s things.
The little maid came in, carrying Therese’s bag, which she had forgotten. She was demure and smiling. Therese, in her confusion, thought nothing of it until she saw Helene’s distended eyes riveted in horror on the girl. The old sickening suffocation clutched Therese’s throat. She was beginning to understand.
She heard the chugging and spitting of the doctor’s ancient car outside. She kissed Helene warmly, and said in a natural voice: “Thank you so much, dear Helene, for a delightful dinner. May I come again, soon?”
Helene nodded, tried to smile. She embraced Therese. Therese felt the desperate clutch of her arms, the beating of her shaken heart.
Then she went outside and climbed into the car. The doctor did not speak.
28
They rode in a profound silence. The old car, far past its usefulness, swayed, groaned, creaked, lurched, through the quiet dark streets. Here and there a street lamp made a glow of orange or russet fire deep in the heart of some autumn-colored tree. The huge yellow “hunter’s moon” stood in the black sky, motionless. The air was crisp and smoky, yet fresh and cool. Doctor Traub avoided the more populous streets. He drove past still walls of houses with their narrow rectangles of golden light. He drove past quiet gardens and dark shops. Here there was peace, with only an occasional footfall, or the passing lamps of other cars.
Therese waited in silence. She knew he had something to tell her. She prayed internally that it would not be important. The restful evening calmed her fears, reclaimed her fortitude. Finally, the doctor drove more slowly. He entered a street empty of trees, with houses set far back from the pavement. He stopped under a bright street lamp. Therese could see the street stretching emptily to the front and back of the car. Then she knew he had chosen this spot deliberately. No one could approach the car for a long distance without instantly being seen. They were isolated by the brightly lit solitude.
She still waited. For a considerable time, the old doctor sat beside her, staring absently before him. Then he began to speak in a very low voice:
“Therese, watch ahead, and tell me if any one comes. I shall watch in the rear mirror. Lift your hand at an approach. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” she murmured. She tingled with apprehension.
“It is evident I am being watched,” he said, so softly that she could barely hear him. “Therese, God must have sent you tonight, with your warning. I do not care for myself. But—there is Helene, and those I have been helping.”
Therese was terrified. But she did not remove her eyes from the open street. “Oh, do not do it! What shall I do if they arrest you, and kill you? You are all I have!”
He pressed her hand, warmly and comfortingly. But that was all the reply he gave to her pleading.
“Listen to me carefully, my child. I should have taken you into my confidence before. But I thought you had enough burdens, without adding anxiety for me to them. But now I must confide in you.” He paused.
“I am a member of the Underground. We help those who have a price on their heads to escape. I know it is only a temporary escape, that flight into Austria, into Czechoslovakia, into France, into England, into America! Murder and fury and madness will catch up with them eventually. But in the meantime, they have a little while left to work, undisturbed. That is all that matters—our desperate work. Those who flee are sworn to persuade those countries in which they have taken refuge to arm, morally and physically, against the madness and rage which is Germany. Perhaps their work is futile. We dare not think of that. We hope for the best, and pray. We know that in five or in ten years, Germany, armed with violence and insanity, will attempt, either by propaganda or by force, to subjugate the world, to infect the moral bodies o
f men with her own virus. We know that that virus is still dormant in other peoples, but we also know that at the coming of Germany, at her breath of plague, the virus will become active. It is our duty, and the duty of those who have fled, to urge immunization, both spiritually and with great armaments. There is time no longer for cries of ‘Peace!’ For the demons of hatred and treachery and violence have been invoked everywhere.
“The world must awaken. It must dedicate itself. It must conjure up a vision, and take up the sword. That is its only hope. If it will not do these things, then not only is Germany lost, but all men everywhere.”
Therese said nothing. Fear had frozen her body again. She started intently at the empty street. Once, glancing away, she saw the doctor’s eyes fixed vigilantly in his mirror.
He sighed. “But look at our enemies in other countries! Greedy merchants, blind or treacherous politicians, silly idealists with dirty noses, idiot intellectuals with their bleatings of ‘social consciousness,’ crafty or short-sighted pacifists with their wailings for disarmament and peace, traitors who hate their own people and viciously wish to see them enslaved or destroyed by the virus, haters of men everywhere, avaricious mountebanks whose bellies will never be satisfied—and all the impotent, fearful, timorous, ignorant masses in every land. And last, but not least, God pity us! a Christianity which has not only failed Germany, but all the world. For if Christianity had been a living vital force in Germany, we should never have countenanced Hitler and all his unspeakable atrocities. Germany would never have been enslaved. The rest of the world would have had its noble fortitude to resist its own traitors and fools, its betrayers and seducers.”
Therese looked at the quiet and peaceful night, at the repose of the great city. “Oh, surely you are taking too dark a view! Germany is suffering and tormented, but it cannot last. Surely it cannot last! All extravagance is finally reduced to moderation. Germany, beaten and wretched, convulsed by crazy malefactors though she is, is too impotent, too weak, to threaten other nations.”
Time No Longer Page 30