She got up and began to make her toilette, still talking in a fond way about her father and the life he had known in Vienna and other places. It was getting time to leave for the dance hall.
Suddenly she turned abruptly away from the mirror and said: «Val, why don't you write in your spare time? You always wanted to write—why don't you do it? You don't need to call for me so often. You know, I'd much rather come home and find you working at the typewriter. You aren't to stay at that job all your life, are you?»
She came over to me and put her arms around me. «Let me sit in your lap,» she said. Listen, dear Val... you mustn't sacrifice yourself for me. It's bad enough that one of us does it. I want you to free yourself. I
«Oh, nothing,» I said. «I was just dreaming.»
«Val, do something,
I had heard only too well. Her words were running in my head like a refrain.
I jumped up, as if to brush the cobwebs away. I caught her by the waist and held her at arm's length. «Mona, things are going to be different soon. Very soon. I
I could see that she was slightly disappointed; she had hoped for something more positive.
«Mona,» I said, as we walked rapidly down the street, «one doesn't change all at once, like that! I do want to write, yes, I'm sure of it. But I've got to collect myself. I don't ask to have it easy, but I need a little tranquillity. I can't switch from one thing to another so easily. I hate my job just as much as you hate yours. And I don't want another job: I want a complete break. I want to be with myself for a while, see how it feels. I hardly know myself, living the way I do. I'm engulfed. I know all about others—and nothing about myself. I know only that I
She squeezed my hand, as if to tell me she understood.
«When I get back to the house I'm going to sit down and try to think. Maybe I'll fall asleep. It seems as though I were geared up only for action. I've become a machine.»
«Do you know what I think sometimes?» I went on. «I think that if I had two or three quiet days of just sheer thinking I'd upset everything. Fundamentally everything is cock-eyed. It's that way because we don't dare to let ourselves think. I ought to go the office one day and blow out Spivak's brains. That's the first step....»
We had come to the elevated station.
«Don't think about such things just now,» she said. «Sit down and dream. Dream something wonderful for me. Don't think about those ugly little people. Think of me!»
She ran up the steps lightly, waving goodbye.
I was strolling leisurely back to the house, dreaming of another, richer life, when suddenly I remembered, or thought I remembered, her leaving the two fifty dollar bills on the mantelpiece under the vase filled with artificial flowers. I could see them sticking out half-way, just as she had placed them. I broke into a trot. I knew that if Kronski saw them he would filch them. He would do it not because he was dishonest but to torture me.
As I drew near the house I thought of Crazy Sheldon. I even began to imitate his way of speaking, though I was out of breath from running. I was laughing to myself as I opened the door.
The room was empty and the money was gone. I knew it would be thus. I sat down and laughed again. Why hadn't I said anything to Mona about Monahan? Why hadn't I mentioned anything to her about the theatre? Usually I spilled things out immediately, but this time something had held me back, some instinctive distrust of Monahan's intentions.
I was on the point of calling up the dance hall to see if by chance Mona had taken the money without my noticing it. I got up to go to the telephone but on the way I changed my mind. The impulse seized me to explore the house a bit. I wandered to the rear of the house and descended the stairs. After a few steps I came upon a large room with blinding lights in which the laundry was drying. There was a bench along one wall, as in a school room, and on it sat an old man with a white beard and a velvet skull cap. He was bent forward, his head resting on the back of his hand, supported by a cane. He seemed to be gazing blankly into space.
He gave a sign of recognition with his eyes; his body remained immobile. I had seen many members of the family but never him. I greeted him in German, thinking he would prefer that to English which no one seemed to speak in this queer house.
«You can talk English if you like,» he said, in a thick accent. He gazed straight ahead into space, as before.
«Am I disturbing you?»
«Not at all.»
I thought I ought to tell him who I was. «My name is...»
«And I,» said he, without waiting to hear my name, «am Dr. Onirifick's father. He never told you about me, I suppose?»
«No,» I said, «he never did. But then I hardly ever see him.»
«He's a very busy man. Too busy perhaps....»
«But he will be punished one day,» he continued. «One must not murder, not even the unborn. It is better here— there is peace.»
«Wouldn't you like me to put out some of the lights?» I asked, hoping to divert his thoughts to some other subject.
«There should be light,» he answered. «More light... more light. He works in darkness up there. He is too proud. He works for the devil. It is better here with the wet clothes.» He was silent for a moment. There was the sound of drops of water falling from the wet garments. I gave a shudder. I thought of the blood dripping from Dr. Onirifick's hands. «Yes, drops of blood,» said the old man, as if reading my thoughts. «He is a butcher. He gives his mind to death. This is the greatest darkness of the human mind—killing what is struggling to be born. Even animals one should not kill, except in sacrifice. My son knows everything—but he doesn't know that murder is the greatest sin. There is light here... great light... and
I said nothing. I listened respectfully, hynoptized by the droning words, the blinding light. The old man had the face and manners of a patrician; the toga he wore and the velvet skull cap accentuated his lofty air. His fine sensitive hands were those of a surgeon; the blue veins stood out like quicksilver. In his overlighted dungeon he sat like a court physician who been banished from his native land. He reminded me vividly of certain celebrated physicians who had flourished at the court of Spain during the time of the Moors. There was a silvery, musical quality about him; his spirit was clean and it radiated from every pore of his being.
Presently I heard the patter of slippered feet. It was Ghompal arriving with a bowl of hot milk. Immediately the old man's expression altered. He leaned back against the wall and looked at Ghompal with warmth and tenderness.
«This is my son, my true son,» he said, turning his full gaze upon me.
I exchanged a few words with Ghompal as he held the bowl to the old man's lips. It was a pleasure to watch the Hindu. No matter how menial the task he performed it with dignity. The more humble the service the more ennobled he became. He seemed never to be embarrassed or humiliated. Neither did he efface himself. He remained always the same, always completely and uniquely himself. I tried to imagine what Kronski would look like performing such a service.
Ghompal left the room for a few moments to return with a pair of warm bedroom slippers. He knelt at the old
