I do not wish to accuse Renata of responsibility for this last act, but I cannot take all the guilt of it upon myself, so let Him judge us in His good time Whom it behoves to judge and to forgive, in Whose hands the scales never falter, and from Whom the faces are concealed. But whichever of us may have been guilty of this last fall, the sorrow that overpowered Renata, as soon as the giddiness of passion was past, had not its equal in all the days that had gone before. Renata shrank from me with such astonishment and such trembling as if I had possessed her clandestinely in her sleep, or by rape, as Tarquinius took Lucretia, and the first two words she spoke cut my heart with their whip-lash more than all her former curses. These two words, full of fathomless agony, were:
“Rupprecht! Again!”
I seized Renata’s hands, desired to kiss them, spoke hurriedly:
“Renata, I swear by God, I swear by the salvation of my soul, I do not know myself how it happened! It is all only because I love you too much, because I am ready to face all the tortures of Brigitta only to kiss your lips!”
But Renata freed her fingers, ran into the middle of the room as if to be farther from me, and shouted at me, beside herself:
“You lie! You pretend! Again you lie! Dastard! Dastard! You are Satan! The Devil is in you! Lord Jesus Christ, shield me from this man!”
I tried to catch Renata, stretched out my arms to her, repeated to her some useless excuses and fruitless vows, but she shrank from me, shouting at me:
“Away from me! You are hateful to me! You are loathsome to me! It was in madness that I said I loved you, in madness and despair, for there was no other course left to me! But I trembled with repugnance when you embraced me! I hate you, accursed one!”
At last I said:
“Renata, why do you accuse only me, and not yourself? Are you not as guilty in giving in to my temptation, as I in yielding to yours? Or rather, is not God the guilty one, in that he created human beings a prey to weakness, and did not endow them with strength to combat sin?”
At this Renata stopped, as if terrified by my blasphemies, began to look round wildly, and, seeing a knife lying on the lectern, clutched it to her like a weapon of liberation:
“Here, here, look!”—she shouted at me in a hoarse voice—“Here is the weapon bequeathed to us by Christ Himself against the temptations of the flesh!”
Speaking thus, Renata struck herself in the shoulder with the blade, and blood stained the place of the wound, and in a moment streamed also from the sleeve of her robe. The thought that this paroxysm must be the last, and that after it would come complete loss of strength, flashed through my brain, and I made as if to catch Renata in my arms in anticipation of her fall. But, against my expectation, the wound only gave her new fury, and with redoubled indignation she pushed me away, threw herself to one side, and shouted at me again:
“Begone! Begone! I do not want you to touch me!”
Then, quite out of her mind and perhaps having fallen under the sway of an evil spirit, Renata made a swing and threw the knife she still held in her hand at me, so that I was barely able to escape the dangerous thrust. She then lifted some heavy volumes off the desk and began to throw them at me, like projectiles from a ballister, and after them all manner of small objects that were in the room.
Defending myself as best I could from this hailstorm, I desired to speak to her and bring her to her senses, but each new word of mine threw her into still greater irritation, each movement of mine infuriated her more and more. I saw her face, pale as never before and distorted with convulsions until it was unrecognisable, I saw her eyes, the pupils of which were dilated to double their normal size—and her whole figure, her whole body that trembled unceasingly, proved to me that she no longer ruled herself, that someone else was governing her body and her will. And then in that moment, listening to Renata’s repeated shouts: “begone! begone!” seeing into what fury my presence threw her, I came to a decision, precipitate perhaps, yet for which even to-day I dare not reproach myself: I decided really to leave the house, thinking that, without me, Renata would the sooner gain control over herself and quieten down. Moreover, I was unable to remain firm indefinitely, like a Marpessan rock, listening to ceaseless insults being hurled at me, and although my reason enabled me to realise that Renata was not responsible for them, yet it was not without difficulty that I restrained myself from shouting at her, in reply, accusations of my own.
Accordingly, I preferred to turn round and walk quickly out of the room, and I heard behind me the unrestrained rampaging laughter of Renata, as if she triumphed with some long-awaited victory. Bidding Martha go up and await the orders of her mistress, I threw on my cape and walked into the spring air, into the twilight of the approaching evening—and the narrow street, the tall Kölnish houses, and still more the white moon above them, seemed strange to me after the madhouse in which I had just been hearing screams, the gnashing of teeth, and laughter. I walked on, not thinking of anything, only taking in with my eyes the darkening blue of the skies, and suddenly I was startled to discover myself at the door of the house of the Wissmanns, whither my legs had carried me of their own accord. Of course I did not call on them a second time, but, crossing to the other side of the street, I peered at the windows, and it seemed to me that I recognised the dear and tender silhouette of Agnes. Comforted merely by this, and perhaps by my walk also, I turned slowly homewards.
But at our house I found Martha in confusion, and Renata’s room empty, and the floor strewn with her things, various parts of her garments, some rags, sundry pieces of string—everything betrayed the fact that here someone had been preparing a hasty departure. Of course I guessed at once what had happened, and extreme terror seized me, like an inexperienced magus who secretly invokes a demon to appear, and then falls incontinently face downwards at his horrible apparition. In excitement I began to question Martha, but she could explain to me but little:
“Mistress Renata”—thus mumbled Martha—“told me that you had bidden her farewell, and that she was going away for a few days. She ordered me help gather her things and pack, but forbade me to follow her. And I, I never contradict my masters, I don’t, and do all as they bid. I was only surprised that the arm of Mistress Renata was all smeared with blood, but I bandaged it with clean linen.”
To argue with the stupid old woman or to curse her was useless, and I ran, without response to her mutterings, with head uncovered into the street. It seemed to me that Renata could not have gone far, and I hoped to catch up with her, to beg her, supplicate her to return, make her listen to my prayers. I pushed into the rare evening passers-by, stumbled of my own accord into walls, and, heedless, with my heart beating like the hammer of a blacksmith, rushed through street after street, until the tinkle of the street chains began to be heard, and here and there flickered hand lanterns. Then I realised the hopelessness of my search, and returned home, shaken and lost.
Though I consoled myself with the thought that Renata had surely not had time enough to leave the city before the locking of the gates, nevertheless this first night that I spent without her was in truth horrible. First I threw myself upon my bed and waited in anguish, believing against all probability that, hark, a knock would sound at the door and Renata would return—greeting each rustle as a hope, as an omen. Then, leaping from the bed, I knelt and began to pray with the same fervour as that with which prayed Renata herself, imploring the All Highest to return her to me, to give her back to me cost what it may. I made a hundred vows, of which I pledged accomplishment if only Renata would return; swore to order a thousand Masses, swore to make ten thousand genuflexions, swore to set out on a pilgrimage to the tomb of God, agreed to give up in return every other joy of life that might yet be in store for me in the future—saw, myself, all the stupidity of these vows, and yet uttered them, compressing my hands together. Then I rushed into the vacated room of Renata, where all was yet alive with her, lay down on her bed, on that sheet to which only yesterday she had pressed her body, ki
ssed her pillows and ground my teeth in them with agony, imagined Renata in my embraces, spoke to her all the passionate, all the tender words that I had omitted to utter during the days of our intimacy, and beat my head against the wall to restore awareness with the sensation of the pain. I do not know how I failed to lose my reason that night.
Dawn broke, and I was already up on my feet, already searching for Renata, already lying in wait for her at the town gates and on the quays from whence the barges sailed. But I did not find Renata anywhere, I did not find her at home—she did not return to me either that day, or the next, or on any of a long ladder of days—she did not come back to her room, evermore.
Chapter the Eleventh
How I lived without Renata and how I met with Doctor Faustus
I SHOULD probably be unable to describe in detail how I passed the first days after Renata’s departure, for they are swamped in my memory into one blurred smudge, as, in a fog, the docks, the surrounding houses, and the people moving to and fro upon the quays merge all into one. And never before, even when I had imagined the consequences of parting with Renata, had I conceived that despair would so invincibly seize me in its talons, as a mountain eagle a small lamb, and that I should feel so helpless and unprotected before the assaults of mad, insatiable desires. In those days all my soul was filled to the brim, over the brim, with the consciousness that the happiness of my life consisted in Renata alone, and that, without her, neither the sight of each day, nor the oncoming of each evening, had any purpose for me. The months I had spent with Renata represented themselves to me as a time of Eden happiness, and at the thought that I had hazarded them so lightly, I was ready to shout curses at myself in fury, and to strike myself in the face, as the most despicable of blackguards.
Of course I did everything within the limits of my power to find Renata. I questioned minutely the guards at each city gate, not grudging douceurs, demanding whether there had walked through, or ridden through, that gate any woman resembling Renata. I made every possible enquiry in hostelries and nunneries and other places in which she might have found asylum, and, I must confess, in this madness of mine I even addressed questions to houses of ill repute. I was not ashamed to carry my troubles into the street, and I went with my sorrows and enquiries to those neighbours of ours—Katherina and Margarita, with whom, at one time, Renata had a peculiar friendship. But in reply to all my enquiries I received only a shrugging of the shoulders, and, in some cases, when I questioned with undue excitement and with too passionate insistence—I received in return even cruel ridicule or simply oaths.
None the less, clutching to the baseless hope that I might meet Renata somewhere at a cross roads, I ran tirelessly about the streets and squares of the city, stood for hours upon the quays and markets, entered all the churches in which Renata had loved to pray, searching with inflamed gaze among the faces of the kneeling congregation, dreaming that in its midst I might distinguish the figure I knew only too well. A thousand times did I imagine how, coming face to face with Renata in some narrow passage, I should seize her by the cape if she strove to hasten away, fall upon my knees in the mud of the street, and say to her: “Renata, I am yours, yours again, for ever and utterly! Accept me as your slave, as a plaything, accept me as the Lord accepts a soul! Do with me what you will: crumble me as the potter crumbles his clay, command me—happy shall I be, to die for you!” In short, I myself suffered, with perfect exactitude, all that Renata before had suffered, seeking her Heinrich wildly through the streets of Köln, and, methinks, my feelings now in no way differed from the fiery madness of her days before.
The evening hours, which I spent at home, opened to me unlimited breadths of despair, and the time till the breaking of dawn was a period during which I submitted myself to merciless torture. Despite this, I held it would have demeaned me to have recourse to any soporific means, and I desired to drink not even one glass of wine, preferring to meet sorrow face to face, my visor up, like an honourable knight in a tournament, rather than purchase temporary quietude, at the price of forgetfulness of Renata. Again, as on that first night without Renata, I would pass from one room to the other, now locking myself in my own, that I might not see, that I might not be reminded of the objects that Renata touched and on which it was unbearable for me to look, now throwing myself once more on to that very bed in which she had slept, kissing the pillows that her cheeks had pressed, striving to recall all the tender words she had pronounced. Exhaustion would at last close my eyes, and then, in my sleep, she would droop into my embrace, snuggle to my bosom with her small, frail body, or walk to me through mirror-panelled halls, triumphant as a queen conferring upon me a crown, or, on the contrary, she would enter pale, ailing, exhausted, holding out her hands to me, pleading for protection … I would wake, as if falling from a tall tower of happiness, into the darkness and coldness of my dejection.
Thus, in dreams, I passed three or four days, and after that a last despair and a hopelessness unbounded possessed me so that I had not strength enough even to prosecute my searchings. The clock round I stayed in my rooms, alone in my despair, like a criminal locked in a cell with a savage ape that every moment hurls itself at him again and again, clutching at his throat with its strangling hands. At times I would summon Martha, and begin for the hundred and first time to question her concerning the circumstances attending Renata’s departure, especially stubbornly repeating the question: “So she said that she was leaving only for a few days?”—and torment the poor old woman till, shaking her head, she too would leave me, returning to the floor below. Then I would give myself up to reminiscences of Renata, poring in my mind over all the days and hours we had spent together, as a miser pours from one palm to the other the coins he has gathered, and sometimes laughing like an idiot, when there swam past in my memory some forgotten word, some forgotten glance of Renata. And again, I would invent various signs, each more senseless than the other, which did not so much deceive me, as somehow amuse me. So, looking through the window, I would say to myself:—“If that man should pass along the right of the street, Renata will return to me.” Or thus:—“If I can count up to a million, without getting confused, then she is still in Köln.” Or yet again:—“If I can remember by their names all my comrades of the University, then I shall meet her to-morrow.” And days passed in such a state of impotence and lack of volition, and it became more and more strange for me to think that I might ever return to mankind, while the image of Renata already began to seem to me not as the memory of a person of flesh and blood, but as some holy symbol.
Once I invented a new game, as follows: seated in the armchair I shut my eyes and imagined that Renata was there, in the room, that she was walking from the window to the table, to the bed, to the altar, that she approached me, touched my hair. In my enthusiasm, I as if in reality heard steps, the rustling of a dress, as if felt the touch of tender fingers, and the self-deception was painful and sweet. Thus I drank for whole hours the waters of fantasy, and tears not once filled my eyes, but suddenly my heart stopped and began at once to pulsate riotously, while my hands grew cold: I heard the real rustle of a dress, and distinct feminine steps in the room.
I opened my eyes: Agnes was before me.
With a slow, as if unconscious movement, Agnes approached me, knelt before me, as I had knelt before Renata, took my hand and whispered:
“Master Rupprecht, why did you not tell me of it long ago?”
And such was the compassion of her voice, and so heedfully did it touch the wounds of my heart, that I was not ashamed of my sorrow, nor alarmed at the presence of a stranger in this room. I pressed Agnes’ hand in turn, and said in reply to her, speaking as softly as she:
“Stay with me, Agnes, I thank you for having come.”
And at once, for nothing else filled my thoughts at that hour, I began to speak to Agnes of Renata, of our love, of my despair. At last there found satisfaction my thirst, that for long had tortured me, to describe aloud, loudly, my emotion, to determine, w
ith exact details and mercilessly, my position—and words somehow escaped me against my will, without restraint, sometimes without any sequence, like those of a madman. I saw how Agnes grew paler at my avowals, how her clear and ever care-free eyes became veiled with tears, but already I had no power to curb myself, for the sight of another’s sorrow somehow lightened my own. And if Agnes tried to put in a word, to say something consoling, I forcibly interrupted her speech and continued my own with yet greater frenzy, as if some demon were carrying me on his wings into an abyss.
My mad outburst lasted probably about an hour, and at last Agnes, unable to bear longer the torture to which I was submitting her, suddenly fell upon the floor crying and repeating: “And of me, of me, you never even thought!” Here I came to my senses, lifted Agnes up, made her comfortable in the armchair, said that I was unboundedly grateful to her for her kindness, and truly, at that moment, I felt for her all the tenderness of an affectionate brother. And when Agnes had grown comforted, dried her reddened eyes and set in order her ruffled hair, and was about to hasten home so that her absence should not be noted, I, on my knees, implored her to come again on the morrow, if only for a minute. And after Agnes’ departure I experienced a strange peacefulness, like a wounded man who, having lain for long on the field of battle without succour, comes at last into the hands of a careful and attentive physician, who washes his deep wounds, not without a certain agonising pain, and dresses them with clean linen.
The Fiery Angel Page 23