Frau Fromm uttered the last words so vehemently that it shook me and I hastily interrupted her. My own agitation brought her back to herself; her expression relaxed and she passed her hand over her face, as if to wipe away the vision she had had. Then, visibly exhausted, she added, pausing at intervals:
“Even when I am awake I can transport myself to that old house in England, whenever I want. I can live in it, if I want, for hours or days; the longer, the clearer everything becomes there. I picture to myself – that is the right word, isn’t it – I picture to myself that I am married to an old man. I can see him very clearly if I want to, only everything that I perceive is steeped in a greenish light. It is as if I am looking into an old green mirror – –“
Again I interrupted her with a violent gesture as I stretched out my hand towards Lipotin’s mirror with the Florentine frame that was standing on the desk. Frau Fromm seemed not to notice it. She continued:
“Some time ago I learnt that he was in danger.”
“Who is in danger?”
The distant expression settled on her face again; she looked almost as if she were unconscious. Fear spread across her features. “My husband,” she stammered.
“You mean Dr. Fromm?” I said, deliberately trying to catch her out.
“No! Dr. Fromm is dead! I mean my real husband – – the head of our household in England...”
“Is he still living there?”
“No. He lived there a long, long time ago.”
“When did he live there?”
“I don’t know. It was a long time ago.”
“Frau Fromm!”
She came to herself with a start:
“Was I talking nonsense?”
I couldn’t answer; I just shook my head.
With an apology, she continued:
“My father used to say I was talking nonsense when I described my visions. He would have none of it. He called them ‘sick’. Since then I have been afraid to speak of them – and you have heard it all on the very first day! You’ll be thinking: ‘This woman is ill and tried to keep it a secret! She got this job on false pretences,’ and yet – and yet I feel I am in my right place here and that I am needed here!”
She jumped up in her agitation. I tried to calm her down, but in vain. It was only gradually that she accepted my assurance that I did not think she was ill and that I would definitely keep her here as long as my old housekeeper was away.
Then she seemed to quieten down. She smiled a grateful, embarrassed smile.
“You will see that I am quite up to the task I have taken on. May I get on with my work now?”
“One more thing, Frau Fromm: can you describe to me, roughly at least, what the old man in the house at Richmond looks like. And do you possibly know what his name is?”
She reflected. An expression of surprise appeared on her face.
“His name? No, I don’t know that. It never occurred to me that he had to have a specific name. I just call him: ‘He’. – And what he looks like? He looks ... like you, sir. – I must make amends to you!” – And with that she had slipped out of the door.
At the moment I have no desire to trouble my head with this new mystery of this Frau Fromm, who suddenly appears from nowhere. There is no doubt about it: she is subject to alternating states of consciousness; a doctor would see nothing unusual in the case – adolescent hysteria, he would call it, fixated dream images, dramatised self-delusion, the experiences of a dissociated personality. In the latter case the dissociated personality had clearly been projected back into an earlier century. Nothing in all that is out of the ordinary.
But Richmond? And her dream husband’s resemblance to me? – – Doctors are familar with such cases as well – what are doctors not familiar with!? Patients of this type tend to fixate on someone in the immediate vicinity they feel they can trust. – Someone she can trust? Am I someone she can trust? Of course I am. Did I not just say to her, “Let us help each other”? If only I knew what she meant when she said, “I must make amends to you”. Is that the language of someone in a catatonic trance? – Well, time will tell whether I have acquired a servant who is not always quite right in the head, but I must say that something within me whispers a quite different message. I must not give in to it or I will be in danger of losing my grip on my mind – or on myself. I know only too well what I must do if my fate is to have meaning. The fate of most “normal” men is, if you look at it closely, as good as meaningless.
So back to work as quickly as possible!
On my desk in front of me is a thick bundle tied up in string which, obeying the instructions I received in a dream from – from the Baphomet, I fished up at random out of the drawer.
Perhaps it will provide the key to the new puzzle?
I open a volume stiffly bound in black leather; on the title page:
Private Diary
.
On the
