“How glad I am!” I said to her and kissed her hands. “I believe I have been on my way all my life long—but now I have come home.”
She smiled in a motherly way.
“One never comes home,” she said gently. “But where friendly roads converge, the whole world looks for an hour like home.”
She gave expression to what I myself had felt on my way to her. Her voice and her words were like those of her son, and yet quite different. Everything was more mature, warmer, more assured. But just as Max in years past had made on no one the impression of being a mere boy, so his mother did not look like the mother of a grown-up son, so young and sweet was the breath of her face and hair, so smooth her golden skin, so blossoming her mouth. More queenly still than in my dream she stood before me. Her presence was love’s happiness, her look was fulfillment.
This, then, was the new picture, in which my fate displayed itself, no longer severe, no longer isolating, but mature and full of promise. I took no resolutions, I made no vows. I had attained an end, I had reached a point of vantage on the way, from which the further road displayed itself, broad and lovely, leading on to lands of promise, shaded by treetops of happiness near at hand, cooled by gardens of delight. Come what might, I was happy to know of this woman’s existence in the world, to drink in her voice, to sense her presence. Whether she would be to me mother, mistress, goddess—what mattered it as long as she was present! As long as my way lay near to hers!
She indicated my picture of the hawk.
“You have never given Max more pleasure than by sending this bird,” she said musingly. “And I was pleased as well. We expected you, and when the picture arrived we knew that you were on the way to us. When you were a little boy, Sinclair, my son came one day from school and said: ‘There’s a boy who has the sign on his forehead, he must be my friend.’ That was you. You have not had an easy time of it, but we had confidence in you. Once in the holidays when you were at home, Max met you again. You were at that time about sixteen years old. Max told me—”
I interrupted: “Oh, that he should have told you that. It was the most miserable time I have had!”
“Yes, Max said to me: ‘Now Sinclair has the hardest time before him. He is making an attempt to escape to the community, he has even taken to drinking with the others; but he won’t succeed in that. His sign has become dulled, but it shines secretly.’ Was not that the case?”
“Oh yes, it was, exactly. Then I found Beatrice, and finally a guide came to me. His name was Pistorius. For the first time it was clear to me why my boyhood was so bound up with Max’s, why I could not break away from him. Dear lady—dear mother, at that time I often thought I should have to take my life. Is the way so hard for everyone?”
She let her fingers stray through my hair, as gently as if a light breeze were blowing.
“It is always hard, to be born. You know, it is not without effort that the bird comes out of the egg. Look back and ask yourself: was the way then so hard?—only hard? Was it not beautiful as well? Could you have had one more beautiful, more easy?”
I shook my head.
“It was hard,” I said, as if in sleep, “it was hard, until the dream came.”
She nodded and looked at me penetratingly.
“Yes, one must find one’s dream, then the way is easy. But there is no dream which endures for always. Each sets a new one free, to none should one wish to cleave.”
I started. Was that already a warning? Was that already a warding-off? But no matter, I was ready to let myself be led by her, and not enquire after the end.
“I do not know,” I said, “how long my dream is to last. I wish it would be forever. My fate received me under the picture of the bird, like a mother, and like a mistress. To it I belong and to no one else.”
“As long as the dream is your fate, so long must you remain true to it,” she said, in earnest confirmation of my remark.
I was very sad, and I wished ardently to die in this hour of enchantment; I felt the tears—for what an interminably long time had I not wept—rise irresistibly and overmaster me. I turned violently away from her. I stepped to the window, and looked out, my eyes blinded with tears, away over the flowerpots.
I heard her voice behind me; it rang out calmly and yet was so full of tenderness, like a cup filled to the brim with wine.
“Sinclair, what a child you are! Of course your fate loves you. One day it will belong to you entirely, just as you dreamt it, if you remain true to it.”
I had composed myself and turned my face to her again. She gave me her hand.
“I have a few friends,” she said, smiling, “very few, very close friends, who call me Mother Eve. You may call me so as well, if you like.”
She led me to the door, opened it and indicated the garden. “You will find Max out there, I think.”
I stood under the tall trees, stunned and stupefied. I knew not whether I was more awake or more dreaming than ever. Softly the rain dripped from the branches. I went slowly through the garden, which stretched far along
