雙語·月光巷

STORMY weather had delayed the ship, so that the evening was far advanced before she came to port on the French coast. Having missed the train which was to have carried me farther on my journey, I had a whole twenty-four hours on my hands. How could I best while away the time, marooned as I was in this unknown coast-town? There did not seem to be much doing. Melancholy strains of dance music issued from a dubious looking haunt—not particularly attractive, I thought. The alternative would be to spend the interlude in desultory converse with my fellow-passengers. In the dining-room of the third-rate hotel where we put up, the air was thick with the smell of burned fat and tobacco smoke. Besides, it was an ill-kept and dirty place, its filthiness rendered all the more intolerable since for many days now I had enjoyed the pure ocean breezes and felt the salt, sweet taste of sea-spume upon my lips. I decided to go for a stroll along the broad main street leading to a square where the local band was giving a concert. It was pleasant to allow oneself to be carried gently along by the stream of idlers who, having done their work for the day, were taking the air after a wash and brush-up followed by a cosy meal at a provincial fireside. After a while, however, the jostling of the crowd and its empty laughter vexed me sorely; I found it exasperating to be gaped at because I happened to be a stranger in their midst; the physical proximity of so many unknown human beings was nauseating in the extreme.

The voyage had been far from calm, and the movement of swelling waters was still in my veins. Under foot the earth seemed to be heaving and rolling, the whole street and the skies swayed like a see-saw. I felt giddy and in order to escape, I ducked my head and plunged down a side street without taking the trouble to decipher its name. This led me into an even narrower thoroughfare where the din of music and mob was muffled almost to extinction. One street opened out of another like the anastomoses of arteries and veins. They were less well lighted the farther I withdrew from the central square which was brightly illuminated with arc-lamps. Overhead the stars could be distinguished, now that my eyes were no longer dazzled by the glare. How dark the intervening spaces of heaven appeared as I gazed upward!

This must be “Sailor-town,” quite near the harbour for my nostrils were tickled with the stench of rotting fish and seaweed and tar, with the indescribable odour issuing from badly ventilated houses wherein the air remains stagnant until it is swept away by a health bringing gale. Such twilight as hung over these alleyways was healing to my mind. It was delightful to be alone. I slackened my pace, studied the narrow streets each of which was different from the others, being here coquettish or amorous, there wrapped in inviolable peace. All, however, were dark, and filled with the soft murmur of voices and music which arose from nowhere in particular, but from unseen springs deep within the houses. Doors and windows were tightly shut, and the only lights were red or yellow lanterns hanging from a porch at rare intervals.

I have a special predilection for such quarters in unknown towns, these foul market-places of the passions, filled with temptations for men who sail the seas and who turn in here for a night of pleasure, hoping to realize their dreams in one short hour on land. These places are obliged to tuck themselves away out of sight in the less “respectable”areas of the town, because they tell a plain tale which the snug and well-built houses of the elect hide behind a hundred veils. Tiny rooms are crowded with dancing couples; glaring placards lure into the picture-houses, square-faced lanterns twinkle in doorways and beckon unambiguously to the passerby. Drunken voices clamour from behind the red-curtained windows of drinking booths. Sailors grin at one another when they meet, their eyes are greedy with expectation, for here they may find women and gambling, drink and display, adventure that is sordid or worth the risk. But these allurements are discreetly housed behind drawn blinds. You have to go inside to find them out, and the mystery only serves to enhance the lure. Similar streets and alleys exist in Hamburg and Colombo and Havana and Liverpool, just as in these cities the broad avenues and boulevards where the wealthy forgather are likewise to be found, for the upper stratum of life and the lower bear a close resemblance everywhere in the matter of form. These disorderly streets are strange vestiges of an unregulated world of the senses, where impulses continue to discharge themselves brutally and without rein;they are a gloomy forest of the passions, a covert full of manifestations of our instinctive and animal existence; they stimulate by what they disclose, and allure by the suggestion of what they hide. They haunt our dreams.

A sensation of being trapped in this maze overwhelmed me. I had chanced to follow a couple of cuirassiers who, with swords clanking along the uneven pavement, were taking a stroll. Some women on the booze in a bar shouted coarse jokes as the pair sauntered by; shrieks of laughter, a finger knocking on the window, an oath from within—and then the men went on. Soon the ribald mirth grew so faint that I could barely catch the sound. Silence closed round me, a few windows were dimly lighted, the watery moon shone through the mist. I breathed my fill of the stillness, which was almost uncanny, seeing that behind it lurked a universe of mystery, sensuousness, and peril. The silence was a lie, for it covered the accumulated filth of a whole world. I stood listening, and peering into the void. All sense of the town, the street, its name, and even my own name vanished; I was cut adrift, my body in some miraculous way had been taken possession of by a stranger, I had no activity in view, no reason for being where I was, no relationship to my surroundings—and yet I was acutely conscious of the seething life that beset me on all sides; it flowed through my veins as if it were my own blood. Nothing that was happening was doing so on my account, though everything was germane to myself. An inexpressibly delightful, feeling that I was not a participator was accompanied by the conviction that I was in for an experience which would bore down into the deepest springs of my being—a feeling which, whenever it comes to me, suffuses me with a pleasure that emanates from communion with the unconscious.

As I stood thus expectant, listening into the void, a voice came to me from a distance, muffled by intervening walls, but unmistakably singing in German. A simple melody, indeed; the “Schoner, gruner Jungfernkranz” from Weber’s Freischutz. A woman’s voice badly trained, but German, yes indeed, German. Strange to hear one’s own tongue in so out-of-the-way a corner; and friendly, homely, at the same time. Poorly as the air was sung, it held a greeting from the land of my birth. Who can speak German here, who can be moved to hum this innocent refrain? Straining my ears against house after house, I reached one where there was a glimmer in one of the windows, and the shadow of a hand silhouetted against the blind. All doors were shut, and yet invitation to enter was to be deciphered on every brick and lintel. Nearer and nearer I approached the sound. This was the house! I hesitated a moment, and then pushed my shoulder against the door, having drawn aside a curtain which shielded the interior from draughts. On the threshold I entered a man whose face was reddened by the hanging lamp, and was livid with fury. He scowled at me, murmured an apology, and thrust past me into the alley. “Queer customer,” thought I, gazing after him. Meanwhile the voice continued singing; clearer than before it seemed to me. I boldly entered.

The song was cut off sharp, as with a knife. A terrible silence compassed me about, giving me the impression that I had destroyed something. Gradually my eyes grew accustomed to the dim lighting, and I found that the room was scantily furnished with a little bar at one end, a table, a couple of chairs—obviously a mere waiting-room for the true business of the establishment which went on in the background. Nor was it difficult to guess what the real business was, for along a passage there were many doors, some of them ajar, leading into bedrooms in which beneath deeply shaded lamps double beds were to be discerned. A girl was seated on a bench leaning her elbows on the table; she was heavily made up, and appeared extremely tired. Behind the bar was a blowzy woman, slatternly and fat, with a second girl, a rather pretty lass, at her side. My good evening fell flat and was not echoed back to me for a considerable time. It was eerie to have stepped into this silence of the desert, and I wished to get clear away. Yet, since there did not seem to be adequate reason for absconding, I took a place at the table and resigned myself to the inevitable.

Suddenly remembering her business in life, the girl got up and asked me what I wished to drink, and I recognised at once by her guttural pronunciation of the French words that she hailed from Germany. I ordered beer, which she fetched and brought to me, shuffling her feet in slovenly fashion, thus betraying even greater indifference than did her lack-lustre eyes. Following the custom of such haunts, she placed another glass next mine and sat down before it. She raised her glass with a nod of greeting in my direction, but she gazed through and beyond me. I had a good look at her. A beautiful face still, with regular features; but it had grown like a mask, since the inner fires were quenched. There was a touch of coarseness about it, the skin and muscles were lax, the lids heavy, the hair unkempt, and two furrows had already formed on either side of the mouth. Her dress was disorderly, her voice husky from too much smoking and beer-drinking. Here undubitably was a fellow-mortal who was weary unto death, and who only continued having out of long-established habit. Embarrassed and horrified, I asked her a question. She answered without looking at me and scarcely moving her lips. I guessed that my coming was unwelcome. The elder woman behind the bar yawned prodigiously, the younger girl slouched in a corner, as if waiting for me to call her. If I could have got away, I should have done so precipitately. But my limbs were like lead and I sat on inert, chained by disgust and curiosity, for, to speak frankly, this indifference stirred me strangely.

The girl next me suddenly burst into a fit of shrill laughter. Simultaneously, the flame of the lamp flickered in a draught of cold air coming through the open doorway.

“So you’ve come back,” said the girl in German.

“Creeping round the house again, you mean skunk. Oh, come along in—I shan’t do you any harm.”

I turned first to the speaker whose mouth seemed to be spewing forth fire, and then to the door. Slinking in was the individual who had scuttled away on my entry. He was a cringing creature holding his hat in his hand like a beggar, trembling under the douche of words that had greeted him, writhing beneath the torrential flow of mirthless laughter, and rendered even more uneasy by the way in which, from behind the bar, the hostess was whispering to the girl.

“Go and sit down beside Francoise,” the young woman said hectoringly. “Can’t you see I’ve got a gentleman customer?”

She spoke to him exclusively in the German tongue, while the hostess and the younger girl split their sides with laughter though they could not understand a word she said. The man was evidently a habitue.

“Give him a bottle of champagne, Francoise, the most expensive brand,” she yelled mockingly. “And if it’s too dear for you, my man, you’ve only got to stay outside and not come bothering us. You’d like to have me for nothing I know, and anything else you could get without paying you’d grab. Ugh, you filthy beast.”

The tall figure crumbled under the lash of this tongue. Like a whipped cur, he sidled up to the counter and with a trembling hand he poured the wine into a glass. He evidently wanted to look at the slattern who was abusing him, and yet he was unable to lift his gaze from the floor. The lamplight caught his face, and I saw before me an emaciated visage, with damp locks of hair sticking in wisps on the brow. His limbs were slack, as if broken at the joints. He was a pitiable object, devoid of strength and yet not wholly lacking in a kind of vicious courage. Everything about him was askew; and the eyes he raised for a flash did not look straight, but were shifty and full of a wicked light.

“Don’t bother about him,” said the girl to me in her ponderous French and seizing me roughly by the arm as though she wanted me to turn away from my contemplation. “It’s an old story between him and me. Doesn’t date from yesterday!” She bared her teeth like a vixen ready to bite, and snarled: “You just listen to what I tell you, old fox. I’d rather fling myself into the sea than go with you. Got it?”

Again the sally was applauded by shouts of laughter from behind the bar. The pleasantry seemed to be a joy which was daily renewed. Then a horrible thing happened. The younger wench put her arms round the man in simulated affection and caressed him tenderly. He winced under her touch, and glanced at me, anxious and cringing. At the same moment the woman next me threw off her inertia as if she had just awakened from profound sleep, and her countenance was so contorted with malevolence, her hands trembled so violently, that I could bear the scene no longer. Throwing some coins upon the table, I rose to go. But she detained me, saying:

“If he’s bothering you, I’ll chuck him out, the swine. He’s jolly well got to do what he’s told. Come, let’s drink another glass together.”

She pressed up against me with assumed ardour, and I knew at once that she was playing a game in order to torment the man, for she kept on glancing in his direction out of the corner of her eyes. Disgust filled me when I saw how, with every endearment she lavished upon me, the poor wretch shrank together as if branded with a red-hot iron. I could not take my eyes off him, and I shivered when it became evident what a storm of rage, jealousy, and desire was brewing within him. Yet, every time the girl looked towards him, he ducked his head in fear. She sidled closer, and I could feel her body quivering with pleasure as she pursued her wicked game. The scent of cheap powder and unwashed skin was sickening, and in order to keep her at a distance I took a cigar out of my case. Before I had time to light it, the girl was screaming.

“Here, you, bring a light, and be quick about it.”

It was horrible to make myself a party to her machinations by allowing the man to serve me, and I made what haste I could to find a match for myself. But her orders has already whipped the poor devil into activity, and he shuffled up to the table with the necessary kindling material. Our eyes crossed, and in his I read abysmal shame mingled with pusillanimous bitterness. This look touched a brotherly chord in me and made me vibrate in sympathy with his humiliation. I said in German:

“Thank you, Sir; but you should not have bothered.”

I offered him my hand. He hesitated for a moment, then my fingers were squeezed between his bony fists. Gratitude shone from his eyes during the second he fixed me, but soon he lowered his puffy lids. Defiance made me want to invite him to sit with us, and I had probably made a gesture of invitation for, ere the words dropped from my lips, the woman had said harshly:

“Back to your place, at once, and don’t come bothering round here again.”

I was nauseated by her strident voice and her whole demeanour. Why should I worry my head about this repulsive harlot, this weak-minded wench, this sewer of beer and cheap scent and tobacco-smoke? I longed for a breath of fresh air. I pushed the money towards her, stood up, and, when she tried to detain me with her endearments, I moved resolutely towards the exit. I could not participate in the humiliation of a fellow creature, and I made it clear to the girl that her charms had no attractions for me. An angry flush spread over her face and neck, fierce words trembled on her lips; but she did not speak. She merely turned to the man and looked at him so meaningly that with the utmost speed he sought to do her unspoken bidding. His fingers shot down into his pocket, and he drew forth a purse. He was evidently frightened at being left alone with her, and in his excitement fumbled with the opening. I guessed that he was not accustomed to spending money freely, he had none of the generous way of a sailor who flings his coins carelessly about. This man was used to counting money carefully, and to testing the pieces between his fingers before paying them away—as he now paid for his champagne.

“l(fā)ook how he’s trembling because he has to part with some of his beloved pence,” she cried tauntingly, stepping nearer to him. “Too slow, I tell you. Just wait till I...”

He shrank back in fear. When she saw how frightened he was, she shrugged her shoulders and said jeeringly, and with an indescribable expression of disgust on her face:

“I’m not going to take anything away from you. I spit on your money. It is all counted beforehand I know; never a farthing too much must be allowed to leave your purse. But,” and she tapped him on the chest, “What about the bit of paper you’ve so carefully stitched into your waistcoat lining?”

His hand went to his side as if he were seized with a spasm of the heart. Having felt the place, his face, which had gone ashen pale, resumed its normal hue and his hand dropped away again.

“Miser,” she screamed.

At this the martyr turned, flung the purse and its contents into the younger girl’s lap, and rushed out as if the place were on fire. At first the girl gave a shriek of alarm, then, realizing what the man had done she broke into peal upon peal of piercing laughter.

The woman stood for a moment rigid, her eyes sparkling with wrath. Then her lids closed, and her body went limp. She looked old and tired. A forlorn and dipping figure swayed before me.

“He’ll be weeping over his lost money, out there. May even go to the police-station and tell them we’ve stolen it To-morrow he’ll be here again. But he won’t get me, no that he won’t. I’ll give myself to anyone who offers, but never to him.”

She stepped up to the bar and gulped down a glass of neat brandy. The wickedness still glinted in her eyes but it was misty now as if shining from behind a veil of tears. My gorge rose as I looked at her, so that I could find no compassion in my heart.

“Good evening,” I said as I took my leave.

“Bon soir,” answered the hostess, without a glance in my direction.

Shrill and mocking laughter followed me into the street.

As I stepped forth into the alley, it seemed to me darker than ever, closed in by the starless sky and the night; but soon the pale moon shone down again, bringing me infinite alleviation. I took a deep breath, and the horror left me. Now I could once more relish the amazing tangle of human destinies; and a feeling of beatitude, akin to tears, filled me at the thought that behind every window fate was waiting, that at the opening of every door an experience was ready for the taking, that the multitudinous happenings of this world are ever present for those who choose to observe them, that even the foulest hovel is bursting with newly generated life like dung filled with the larvae that will become shining beetles. The unsavoury encounter was no longer repulsive to me. On the contrary, the suspense it had produced in my mind now relaxed into an agreeable sensation of lassitude, and my sole desire was to convert my adventure into beautiful dreams. I cast a searching eye up and down the narrow street, wondering which direction would lead me back to the hotel. A shadow fell across my path.

“Beg pardon, Sir,” said a familiar whining voice in my native tongue, “But I’m afraid you will have some difficulty in finding your way out of the maze. May I act as guide, Sir? Your hotel, Sir?”

I gave him the name.

“Yes, Sir, I know it, Sir. Will you allow me to accompany you,Sir?” he asked apologetically.

A shudder crept over me. It was horrible to have this slouching, ghostlike creature walking by my side, noiselessly, as if on stockinged feet. My perception of the gloom in the alleyways of the sailors’ quarter, the memory of my recent experience, were spontaneously replaced by a state of confused reverie. I knew that my companion’s eyes still held the same meek expression, that his lips still twitched nervously, that he wanted to talk. But I did not wish to rouse myself from the inertia of mind which enfolded me, in order to take any active interest in the fellow. He hemmed, words choked in his throat, and I felt a cruel pleasure in not coming to his aid. Repulsion at the recollection of that dreadful woman spread through me like a miasma, and I was glad the man’s shame should be wrestling with his spiritual need for explanation. No, I did not help him; but allowed a heavy curtain of silence to hang black and awesome between us. My footsteps rang out clear and youthful in contrast to his muffled and aged tread. The tension between his soul and mine grew stronger every minute. The silence became strident with unspoken words. At last the string, stretched to breaking-point, snapped, and he blurted out:

“You have...you have just witnessed a strange scene, Sir. I beg you to forgive me, Sir, if I refer to it...but it must have appeared very peculiar to you, Sir, and you must think me a ludicrous fellow, but you see, Sir, the woman...well, she is....”

He had got stuck again. His throat worked. Then, in a very small voice, he said hastily:

“She’s my wife, Sir...”

I must have shown surprise, for he hurriedly continued as if wishing to excuse himself.

“That is to say, Sir, she was my wife, five, no four years ago at Geratzheim in Hesse where I have my home. Please, Sir, you really must not think badly of her. It’s probably my fault that she has become what she is.. She was not always thus. But I...I teased and plagued her. You see, Sir, I married her in spite her abject poverty. Why, she had hardly a chemise to her back, nothing, nothing at all. Whereas I am well-to-do, or rather I am comfortably off...at least I had a pretty competence in those days...and I was, perhaps—she is right—I was thrifty...yes, I was thrifty even before our great misfortune. But you see, Sir, my father and mother were so, and the whole family a bit on the stingy side. Besides, I worked hard for every penny I earned. She was fond of pretty things, and, being poor, she had nothing but what I gave her. I was constantly reminding her of this. Oh, I know it was wrong of me—I’ve had time to learn that since the catastrophe—for she was proud, very proud. Please don’t run away with the idea that she is naturally of such a disposition as you witnessed this evening. Far from it, Sir; that’s all make-believe. She hurts herself in order to make me suffer in order to torture me, and because she is ashamed of her own doings, of her present mode of life. Maybe she has gone to the bad, but I...I refuse to accept such a notion...for I remember how good, how very good she used to be, Sir.”

His excitement made him pause, both in speech and walk, while he wiped his eyes. I looked at him in spite of myself. He no longer appeared to be a figure of fun, and I was no longer annoyed by his constant repetition of the obsequious “Sir.” The energy he had put into phrasing his explanation had transfigured his countenance. We started forward again, and he kept his eyes downcast as if reading his story printed upon the pavement. He sighed heavily, and his voice took on a sonorous tone very different from the querulous sound I had come to expect from him.

“Yes, Sir, she was good—good, and kind to me as well—she was grateful for having been raised out of her misery. I knew how thankful she was...but I wanted to hear her say so...always and always again...I could not listen too often to the verbal expression of her gratitude. You see, Sir, it is so wonderful to feel that someone considers you to be better than you really are. I would willingly have parted with all my money just to hear her say those few words, everlastingly renewed...but she had her proper pride, and she found it increasingly difficult to acknowledge her debt to me, especially when I made a claim upon her in the matter and almost ordered her point-blank to pronounce the words I longed to hear....And so, Sir, I insisted that she ask me for everything she wanted, for every dress, for every scrap of ribbon....Three years I tortured her thus, and her martyrdom grew worse as the time went by. And believe me, Sir, it was all because I loved her so desperately. I loved her proud bearing, and yet I wished to humiliate her. Oh, fool that I was! I pretended to be vexed when she asked for a hat, or any other trifle she took a fancy for; while all the time I was in the seventh heaven of delight at being given an opportunity to gratify her—and at the same time to make her eat humble-pie. In those days, Sir, I did not realize how dear she was to me....”

Again he stopped, and reeled in his gait. He had forgotten my existence, and spoke henceforward as if in a hypnotic trance.

“I only discovered how greatly I loved her on the day—the accursed day—when she begged me to give her something to help her mother out of a difficulty, and I refused. It was an insignificant sum....I had actually put the money aside for the purpose...but I longed for her to ask me again...and then, when I came home I found a letter on the table and learned that she had gone...All she wrote was: ‘Keep your damned money. I’ll never ask you for another penny.’ That’s all. Nothing more. I was like one demented for three days and three nights. I had the river dragged and the forest scoured; indeed I paid hundreds over to the authorities in the hope of discovering her whereabouts. I even confided my troubles to the neighbours—but they merely laughed me to scorn. No trace, no trace at all. Months later, I learned that someone had seen her in the train, accompanied by a soldier...a train going to Berlin. That very day I went to the capital, leaving my business to take care of itself. Thousands did I lose in the process. My farm labourers, my manager, my...oh, everyone profited by my absence to line his pockets. But I assure you, Sir, I remained indifferent to these losses...I stayed a week in Berlin...and, at last, I found her....”

He panted slightly, and then continued:

“I assure you, Sir, I never said a harsh word to her...I wept...I knelt before her...I offered her anything she pleased....She would hence forward be the mistress of all I possessed—for I had come to realize that life without her was impossible....I loved every hair on her head, her mouth, her body, every part and particle of her being. I bribed the landlady (she was, in fact, a procuress, what they call a ‘white-slave trader’) generously and thus managed to see poor Lise alone. Her face was like chalk; but she listened to me, oh, Sir I believe she really listened to me as if pleased, pleased to see me. But when I began to speak of the money it was necessary to pay—and after all, Sir, you will agree that we were obliged to discuss such practical issues—she merely called her fancy—man on to the scene, and the two of them laughed me out of countenance. I did not lose sight of her, Sir, but returned to the charge day after day. The other lodgers told me that the cur had left her, utterly unprovided for. So I sought her out yet again; but she tore up the notes I gave her, and the next time I came—she was gone. Oh, Sir, you can have no idea of what I did to trace her. I followed her for a year, paying agents here and agents there. At last I discovered that she had gone to Argentina...and...and...that she was in...a house...of ill-fame.”

Again he hesitated, and the last two words seemed to stick in his throat. His voice became sombre as he went on:

“At first I could hardly believe my ears...then I reflected that I was to blame, I, only I, because I had humiliated her. And I thought how terribly she must be suffering, she so proud, as I well knew her to be. I got my solicitor to write to the consul out there and I sent money. But she was not to be told from whom it came. The sum was more than sufficient to bring her home again. Soon I got a cable that the scheme had worked, and that the boat would reach Amsterdam on such a date. Well, so great was my impatience that I got there three days too soon. When I saw the smoke in the distance, it seemed to me I could not wait till the ship slowly entered port and came alongside the quay. At last I caught a glimpse of her at the tail of the other passengers, hardly recognizable at first, so heavily was she made up. When she saw me waiting for her, she blanched even under her paint, and tottered so that two ‘Sailors had to support her. No sooner had she stepped to land than I was at her side. I could not speak, my throat felt so dry. She, too, said nothing, and did not look at me. I motioned to a porter to carry the luggage, and we started for the hotel. Suddenly she turned to me and said...oh, Sir, if you could have heard her voice, so sad I thought my heart would break...‘do you want me still as your wife, after...?’ I could only clasp her hand...She trembled violently, but spoke no more. I felt that now all would be well....Ah, Sir, how happy I was. When we got to our room, I danced for joy, I knelt at her feet babbling out the most absurd things—at least I fancy my words must have been rather funny, for she smiled through her tears and stroked my hair—hesitatingly, of course. Her endearments did me good, my heart overflowed. I rushed up and down stairs ordering dinner—I called it our wedding feast. I helped her to change her dress, and then we went down and ate and drank, a merry meal I assure you, Sir. She was like a child, so warm and affectionate, speaking of our home and how everything would start fresh....Then...”

The man’s voice became rasping, and he made a gesture as if he were strangling someone.

“Then...the waiter...a mean and vulgar cur...believed me to be the worse for drink because I laughed so much and had carried on in such a boyish fashion and all because I was so happy, oh, so happy....Well, I paid the bill and he, as I said, thinking me drunk, cheated me out of twenty francs in giving me the change. I called the fellow back, and demanded my due. He looked sheepish, and laid the money by my plate...” Then...quite suddenly...Lise began to laugh. I stared at her perplexed...and her face was completely changed...mocking, hard, angry. ‘The same as ever...even after our wedding feast,’ she said coldly—and yet her voice was full of pity. I cursed myself for having been so particular...but I tried to laugh the matter off....Her gaiety had disappeared...It was dead and gone....She insisted upon being given a separate room....I was in a mood to grant every request...and lay alone, open-eyed, through the night, thinking what I should get her on the morrow...a handsome gift, that would show her I was no longer stingy...at least where she was concerned. Early next morning I was abroad...I bought a bracelet...and took it to her in her room...but she was no longer there...she had gone...as she had gone before. I looked round for a note...praying it would not be there, yet knowing that it would inevitably be awaiting me and there it was, sure enough, on the dressing-table and on it was scribbled...”

He hesitated. I stood still, looking into his martyred face. The man bowed his head, and whispered hoarsely:

“She had written...‘Leave me in peace. You are utterly repulsive to me.’”

Our walk had led us to the harbour; and, in the distance, the silence was broken by the roar of the Atlantic breakers on the coast. The vessels, their lights shining like the eyes of huge animals, swung at their anchors. A song floated to me from afar. Nothing was very clear. I seemed to feel presences rather than see them. The town was sleeping and dreaming an immense dream. By my side I distinguished the ghostly shadow of the man growing uncannily large and then dwindling to dwarfed proportions in the flickering lamp-light. I was not inclined to speak, or to offer consolation, or to ask questions. The silence stuck to me heavy and oppressive. Suddenly he seized my arm and said quaveringly:

“But I’m determined not to leave this town without her....After many months of search I found her....I am invulnerable to the martyrdom she is putting me through...I beseech you, Sir, to have a word with her...she refuses to listen if I speak...I must get her to come back....Oh, won’t you tell her she ought to? Please, Sir, have a try....I can’t go on living like this. I can’t bear any longer to see other men go in there, knowing she is giving herself to them, while I wait in the street till they come down again, laughing and tipsy. The whole neighbourhood knows me by now, and the people make mock of me when they see me waiting out on the pavement....I shall go mad, but I must keep my vigil without fail....Oh, Sir, I do beg of you to speak to her....You are a stranger, I know, but for God’s sake, Sir, have a word with her. Someone from her own country might influence her in this foreign land.”

I wished to free my arm from the man’s convulsive grip. Loathing and disgust alienated my sympathies. When he felt that I was trying to get away, he flung himself on to his knees in the middle of the street and clasped my legs.

“I conjure you, Sir, to speak to her; you must, you must—or something terrible will happen. All my money’s gone in tracing her, and I’m not going to leave her here...not alive. I’ve bought a knife. Yes, Sir, I’ve got a knife. I won’t let her stay here; at least not alive; I could not bear it. Oh, speak to her, Sir, I beg and pray you to have a talk with her....”

He crouched like a maniac before me. At that moment two policemen turned into the street. I dragged him violently to his feet. He looked at me blankly for a moment, and then said in an utterly changed voice: “Take the first turning on your right, and the hotel is about halfway down.”

Once more he stared at me with eyes wherein the pupils seemed to have melted away into a bleak, white void. Then he vanished.

I hugged myself in my coat, for I was shivering. I was tired; and sleep, a kind of drunken sleep, black and feelingless, claimed me. I wanted to think, to turn these things over in my mind, but sleep was ruthless and would not be put off. I got to my hotel, fell on to the bed, and slept like an animal.

In the morning it was hard to disentangle dream from reality, and something within me urged me not to try and find out. I woke late, a stranger in a strange city, and visited a church far-famed for its mosaics. But my eyes were blind to such sights. The night’s adventure rose vividly before my mind, and unconsciously my feet sought that alleyway and that house. But such thoroughfares do not become alive until after dark. During the daytime they wear cold, grey masks, and it is only those who know them well who are able to recognize one from another. Search as I might, I did not find the street I wanted. Weary and disappointed I returned to the hotel, followed by pictures that were either the figment of a disordered brain, or the remembrance of reality.

The train was scheduled to leave at nine o’clock that evening. I felt sorry to quit. A porter carried my bags to the station. Then, at a crossing, I recognized the street leading to that house. Telling the man to wait a minute, I went to cast a final glance at the site of my adventure, leaving the fellow smirking in a knowing way.

Yes, here it was, dark as last night, with the moonlight shining on the window-panes, and outlining the door. I was drawing nearer, when a figure emerged from the shadows. I recognized the German cowering on the threshold. He beckoned for me to approach. But mingled horror and fear made me take to my heels. I did not wish to be delayed, and to miss my train.

At the corner I turned for another look. As my eyes fell upon the poor devil he sprang up and made for the entry. He pushed the door open, and a piece of metal shone in his hand. Was it money or a knifeblade that glittered so treacherously in the moon beams?