Time No Longer

by Caldwell, Taylor;

  He went into his bedroom, and threw himself on his bed. For the first time in nearly a year he slept at once, without dreams, without pain. He slept profoundly, as though he had died. He slept until the daylight was gray at the windows.

  He bathed, changed his clothes. He was still shaken, still weak. But his mind was clear and steadfast. He felt that he had been reborn. But he knew that there was much he must think about, and understand.

  He went downstairs. He found Therese sitting sadly and without movement at the window of the morning room. He called to her. She turned her heavy face and dead eyes to him. But she made no motion to him, nor did she answer him. Then he understood what she had suffered because of him. He wanted to go to her. But something held him back. He turned away, and went out into the snowy street.

  He had the strange sensation that he had come up out of the grave, on a reprieve. He walked through the city, and he saw all that was to be seen.

  35

  When Therese returned from the delivering of poor Wilhelm’s confession, she was hardly able to get out from the cab. Her flesh was cold and numb. An overpowering sickness engrossed her whole stern attention. She walked into her house with a feeble step, as though she had become blind. Tears seemed to flood her heart, but none rose to her eyes. She fell into a chair, and her head dropped on her breast.

  Old Lotte found her there, in the dark hallway, still in her hat and coat. Her muff had fallen to the floor. Her arms drooped as though she had fainted. Her attitude was one of profound prostration and collapse.

  “Frau Doctor!” cried Lotte, frightened. Therese did not answer. Lotte removed the hat and saw Therese’s face. She cried out again. The little servant came running from the kitchen, and Lotte shouted to her to bring some wine. When it was brought, Lotte forced the wine between Therese’s white lips. Therese drank mechanically, like a sick child, her face ghastly in the gloom of the hallway.

  “You are ill. Let me help you to your room,” said Lotte, trembling.

  Therese forced herself to smile. “Do not worry about me, Lotte. I am just a little tired.” She made herself sit up, touched her disordered hair with shaking hands. “Just a little tired,” she repeated. Her voice was hoarse.

  Lotte wrung her hands in her apron. She tried to find something comforting to say. “Doctor Erlich has returned. He is in his room.”

  She started back a little, for suddenly Therese’s face had become almost horrible. Rage and fury had started into her eyes, and even hatred. She visibly trembled. She clenched her hands on the arms of her chair and pushed herself to her feet. Standing there, she fought with her faintness. A fire raged in her, a furious and deadly fire. Then, without looking at Lotte again, she went up the stairway, walking swiftly as though with an ominous purpose. Lotte, terrified, watched her go.

  Therese went down the hallway to Karl’s study. Red lightning flashed before her eyes. She knew now the urge to kill, to destroy. She flung open the closed door with a loud crash. She stood on the threshold, panting.

  Karl was sitting quietly before a new fire, watching the flames. He looked up at Therese. Had she been less agitated, less enraged, she might have seen what was there to be seen. But she did not see it. She saw only a man she hated and despised. Her breathing was loud and hoarse. Between the masses of her fair disordered hair her face was thin and white and almost mad. Karl’s own face swam before her in a red mist.

  “There you are!” she cried, loudly yet shrilly. “There you are, you fool, you madman, you murderer! There you have been, for months, dreaming your idiotic dreams, plotting your imbecile plots, when better men are dying all around you!”

  Karl sat up. His pale face paled even more. “Therese,” he said.

  But she made a wild gesture. “What do you know of anything, you fool and coward, you traitor! Do you know that Herman Muehler is dead, and Felix Traub, and your own nephew, Wilhelm? Do you know that men like you have killed them? Do you know what is happening? Do you know that all Germany is a graveyard, full of vultures? Do you know that everything is dying? Germany, the whole world.…” She flung out her arms, and burst into the most dreadful tears.

  She advanced towards him as though she would strike him. She raised her clenched fists.

  “But what does that matter to you, you coward and fool? What does it matter, so long as you have your silly dreams, so long as you can hide yourself? You and your imbecile wooden dolls?” She laughed suddenly, shortly, madly. “Well, let me tell you something: I have known all along what you have been doing. You have been trying to kill your miserable brother! You have pushed a nail into a shameful doll’s head! But I should not have expected anything else from you. Yes, Kurt is dying, and calling for you. But you have not killed him! Do you hear me? You have not killed him, I changed the dolls, a long time ago. The doll with his name is not the doll …”

  She choked. Her breath twisted in her throat. She gasped. She pressed her hands against her breast to stop the agonizing and mortal pain in it. The room swirled about her. She felt some one take her arm and hold her firmly. When she could see again, she saw that it was Karl who was holding her. She saw his sunken face, his strange fixed eyes.

  “Kurt—is dying?” he asked.

  She tried to throw off his hand. He saw her loathing and detestation. He stepped back and regarded her without speaking again.

  “Yes!” she screamed. “Are you not happy? Why do you not smile with your madman’s glee?” All at once she could not control herself any longer. She lifted her hand and struck him savagely across his face. Not once, but several times. And he stood before her, not moving, only gazing at her intently.

  “Therese,” he said, gently. “My poor Therese.”

  But she hardly heard him. She fell back. She caught the back of a chair to steady herself. Her tears ran down her cheeks. She sobbed hoarsely.

  She averted her head. “Go away,” she groaned. “Go away. Never let me see you again.”

  She closed her eyes. Her head fell on her breast. Her sobbing fillled the silent room. Her body bowed itself over the chair she clutched. She sobbed as though all her life and blood were draining out of her veins.

  Finally, she could weep no more. She lifted her head and looked about her. She was all alone, Karl was gone. She had vented her fury. There was only a sick emptiness left. “Karl,” she called, faintly.

  There was no answer. The firelight leaped up, mockingly. She tried to take a step, but her limbs would not move. She looked at the fire. Then for the first time she saw a curious object in the fire. It was the half-consumed wooden doll, burning steadily. It must have been thrown there before she had entered the room.

  She stared at it. Her eye-sockets widened. Revelation like a sword of lightning ran through her. She staggered forward, bent, gazed at the doll. The flames leaped up, shining redly on her wet face.

  Then she stood up. “Karl!” she called loudly. “Karl!”

  She ran to the window. Only the dusky snow-filled street met her eyes. She ran down the stairs, calling wildly. Lotte appeared, with renewed fear.

  “The Herr Doctor left the house a few minutes ago,” she stammered.

  Therese stood on the stairs, clutching the bannister. She stared at Lotte emptily. “I have driven him away again,” she said, in a dull voice.

  Lotte’s old frightened face enlarged, blurred, before her. She uttered a faint sinking cry. She staggered. She heard Lotte scream.

  Then, she knew nothing else.

  36

  The streets were dark and empty, the lamps haloed in a mist of driving snow.

  As Karl hurried along, he had the dazed feeling that time had collapsed together, that it was tonight that he was going to Kurt’s house to see Eric Reinhardt. It was tonight that the long tragedy was to begin. Here was the snow, here was the serving-girl running along with her red shawl over her head. Here were the lighted windows and the crisp white curtains and the dark houses. In Kurt’s house Eric Reinhardt waited for him, back from a long j
ourney.

  He stopped. His heart plunged. Yes, it was true. Eric was there, waiting, back from his long journey. He put his hand to his throbbing head. I have been given another chance, he thought. It is yesterday, and I have been dreaming, and now there is another chance for me. His eyes filled with moisture. He went on his way, his head bent, his thoughts mournful and filled with sorrow. So many thoughts, so heavy, so profound, so understanding, now.

  He passed a small marching group of Storm Troopers, and he stopped and looked after them, as though he were a stranger and they were new to him. Yes, they were new. He had been away a long time in a strange country, and had returned to find his people convulsed and dying. What have I done? he thought. Where have I been? So much time wasted, when there was time no longer.

  Forgive me, he said aloud, simply, looking at the sky, dark-purple and alive with silent snow.

  Like the world, he had been living in dreams. The foolish, self-absorbed, dreaming world! And now, like himself, it must be awakened, called back to life by the urgent voices of the dead, and the despairing voices of the living. So much to do! So much to do.

  He reached Kurt’s house. It loomed, somber and dark and lightless, above him. He struck the knocker, and its long doleful crash resounded through the silent street. A servant opened the door, his old face white and streaked. He did not recognize Karl.

  “I am sorry, Mein Herr,” he began, “but no visitors …”

  “Franz! It is I, Doctor Erlich.”

  The old man started at the familiar voice. He bent forward and stared incredulously at Karl. He studied the gaunt and spectral face, so changed, so feverish. He gave a little cry.

  “Herr Doctor! Is it possible? I did not know you!”

  He was still incredulous. The dim lamplight from the bleak hallway fell on Karl. The old man thought that this was a ghost, not a living creature. He fell back from the doorway and admitted Karl. He could not take his eyes away, but continued to stare vacantly, helplessly. When Karl began to remove his coat and white-rimmed hat, the old man came back to life. “I am sorry, Mein Herr Doctor! Allow me. I was so startled.…”

  They regarded each other in silence. Karl then glanced about the old familiar hall. His features worked. Yes, it was yesterday again, and Eric was waiting.

  The old man spoke again, stammering.

  “I am sorry, but the Frau Professor is in no condition … You understand, Herr Doctor? The little Wilhelm died today.”

  “Today? Yes, I have heard.”

  Karl sighed heavily.

  “There are to be no visitors admitted. There is great tragedy here, Herr Doctor. The Herr Professor is dying, and he does not know yet. But perhaps Frau Reiner will see you.”

  “I will go up to her, Franz. Do not announce me.”

  He went up the great stairway. No rooms were lighted. Tragedy and death were thick motionless smells in his nostrils. He passed rooms so familiar, yet so strange in the far struggling light. He heard, as Therese had heard, the dim echoing boom of distant echoes in this sorrow-filled house. The air was cold and stagnant. He held to the balustrade for a moment, trying to shake off his dizziness. When his father had died, in this house, it had been like this. Every room, every hallway, had had this dusty silence, this crushing emptiness. He heard the stifled sound of weeping now. It was his mother, weeping behind her door.

  There was no past. There was only the present. There was always the present, and it was always the same.

  He reached Frau Reiner’s door and opened it without knocking. The sound of weeping he had heard had come from this room. There was no light in the room except that which came from the single dim candle burning before the crucifix he had given the old woman. Its faint deathly rays glimmered on the walls and the ponderous furniture. Frau Reiner was sitting near her window, her handkerchief to her eyes. She did not hear Karl enter. He spoke her name. She dropped her hand and glared at him, blinking.

  “It is I, Karl,” he said, gently.

  She did not believe it. She stammered hoarsely: “Are you a ghost?”

  “Yes,” he replied, very quietly. “I am a ghost.”

  She gazed at him silently, leaning forward a little, the better to see him in the candlelight. Her shrivelled painted face quivered. The false curls on her ancient head trembled. The chains sparkled on her breast.

  “But you have come back, Karl?” she whispered.

  “Yes, I have come back. I have been away a long time.”

  Again she gazed at him silently. Then, all at once, she uttered a thick strangled sound and held out her hands to him. He came to her, and took her withered hot hands. Tears ran down her face, streaking the paint more and more. He bent over her and kissed her forehead. She clung to him.

  “Karl! Karl! Thank God, you have come back!” Her hands fumbled at him, seizing his sleeves, his shoulders. “Karl, you do not know.… It does not matter. You have come back!”

  “I have heard Kurt is dying. I must see him at once. I have so much to say to him.”

  She wiped her face. She continued to clutch him.

  “He is dying. Perhaps tonight he will die. And his son, our little Wilhelm, is dead in his room. Maria—she is prostrated, unconscious. So many terrible things.”

  “I must see Kurt. That is the only important thing to me.”

  “Yes, yes! And then he will die. The terrible pain.… They said he could not die until you had come to him.…”

  “Until I had come,” repeated Karl. He breathed sharply, as though he felt a knife in his heart.

  “No one knows why he is dying. They said it was a sickness of the mind. Some mysterious malady. I, myself, think that he wishes to die. There are things that men cannot endure, Karl. Do you know that?”

  “Yes, I know. O God, I know!”

  They held each other’s hands, and wept together, openly, the old broken woman and the sick, trembling man.

  “You must go to him at once, Karl. You must go now, so he will have peace.”

  She pushed him away resolutely, and pointed at the door. “Now.”

  “Yes, I will go.”

  He left her, walking with a feeble step. He passed the crucifix. The candlelight leaped up in the draft from the open door. It shivered over the ivory figure in its death agonies. Karl regarded it for a long moment. The deepest and most solemn silence stood between the man and the cross. Then he went out.

  He reached Kurt’s door. It opened before he could touch the handle. Alfred, in his uniform, came out, tears on his round hard cheeks, which were no longer red. He started when he saw Karl. “Who are—” he began. Then he cried out: “Uncle Karl! It is you!”

  Karl looked at him heavily. Then, without speaking, he entered the room and closed the door after him, leaving Alfred outside.

  The nurse sat beside the bed, peering intently at the unconscious face on its pillows. She looked up as Karl approached. She had never seen him before. But his aspect frightened her. She rose to her feet.

  “I am sorry,” she murmured, “but the doctor said no visitors.…”

  “I am his brother,” he answered quietly, but he did not look at her. He looked only at Kurt.

  “Doctor Erlich.”

  He motioned to her. “Please leave me alone with him.”

  “But—but he is unconscious. The doctor says he will not recover consciousness again. I must ask you to go.…”

  “Leave me alone with him,” he repeated. He looked over his shoulder at her with terrible eyes. She was terrified. She backed away, wetting her dry lips. She thought to herself that this was a madman. But some mysterious force seemed to be pushing her from the room. She went out, closing the door after her.

  Karl sat down in her chair. He bent over Kurt. It seemed to him that this was his own face on the pillow, discolored, emaciated, dying. Yes, it was his own face, the reflection of himself, the image of a dying self. All that he had been for long was dying here, never to live again. He moved the lampshade, so that he could see the better.<
br />
  He took the cold claylike hand which lay impotently on the sheets. He held it tightly. “Kurt,” he said softly, and then louder: “Kurt!”

  A strange change came over the sunken, haggard face. The spirit behind it, preparing to leave, halted, looked back at the sound of that beloved voice, then trembled with recognition and dim joy. It came back, slowly, opening doors it had closed behind it, entering corridors it had abandoned, and then, coming back into the chamber where Karl waited, looked about it wildly.

  Kurt’s glazed eyes opened. A film lay over them, glaucous and thick. He stared through it, trying to see. The hand moved in Karl’s. A little warmth returned to it. Then recognition was full, through the mists. The dry mouth parted, and a strangling sound bubbled through it.

  Karl could not endure the sight of that joy, that passionate recognition. Shame, sorrow, remorse struck at him like heavy blows. He closed his own eyes for a moment. When he opened them, he saw Kurt staring at him in ecstatic realization.

  “Yes,” he said, very softly, “it is I, Karl.”

  “Karl,” breathed the dying man. His bony fingers clung to Karl’s hand. Mucus was thick between his parted lips. But his eyes shone with light.

  Then another change came over him. His face took on a dark look of remembrance and agony.

  “Forgive me,” he said. Karl could barely hear him. He had to bend low over his brother. But he heard.

  “No,” he said, in a shaking voice. “You must forgive me.” He took both the other’s hands. “You must forgive me. If you do not, I shall never forgive myself.”

  The words were few, but they understood each other. They understood the long years of misunderstanding, grief, hatred, longing, love and despair. There were no reticences between them now, no reserves. They moved through forgotten years, remembering everything, understanding everything, forgiving everything. They looked into each other’s eyes, and both knew peace.