Three Comrades

by Erich Maria Remarque

  I unpacked the things. In the meantime Lisa undressed. First she took off her dress, though I knew very well her boots were hurting her most; she had so much walking to do. There she stood in her high patent-leather boots to her knees and her black underwear.

  "What do you think of my legs?" she asked.

  "First class, as ever."

  She was satisfied and now sat down on the bed with a sigh of relief to unlace her boots. "A hundred and twenty marks they cost," said she, holding them up to me. "And before you've earned it they're through again."

  She took a kimono from the cupboard and a pair of faded brocade slippers from better days. As she did so she smiled almost guiltily. She did want to please. I had a sudden choking feeling, up here in the little room, as if someone belonging to me had died.

  We ate and I talked warily with her. But she perceived, for all that, that something had changed. Her eyes became fearful. There had never been any more between us than chance had brought. But perhaps that makes a greater indebtedness and binds closer than much else.

  "Are you going?" she asked as I stood up—as if she had .already been fearing it.

  "I have an appointment."

  She looked at me. "So late?"

  "Business. Important for me, Lisa. Someone I must try to see still. At the Astoria usually around this time."

  No women are more sensible about such things than girls like Lisa. But no women are less easy to deceive. Lisa's face became empty.

  "You have another woman."

  "But Lisa—we've seen so little of one another—almost a year now—you understand—"

  "No, no, I don't mean that. You've a woman you love. You've altered. I can feel it."

  "Ach, Lisa—"

  "Yes, yes. Admit it."

  "I don't really know myself, Lisa. Perhaps—"

  She stood awhile. Then she nodded: "Yes—yes—of course— And I'm so stupid—and we have nothing in common really—" She passed her hand over her forehead. "I don't know how I came to . . ."

  Her slender figure stood before me pathetically desiring and frail. The brocade slippers—the kimono—the long empty nights—memory . . .

  "Au revoir, Lisa—"

  "Are you going? You won't stay a bit longer? You are going—already?"

  I knew what she meant. But I couldn't. It was extraordinary, but I couldn't, and I felt it strongly. It had never been so before. I had no exaggerated ideas about fidelity. But it simply was not possible any more. I suddenly felt how far I had gone already from all that.

  She stood framed in the doorway. "You are going?" She ran back. "Here, I know you left some money for me— under the newspaper. I don't want it. There—there—yes, only go—"

  "I must, Lisa."

  "You will never come again."

  "Oh yes, Lisa."

  "No, no, you will never return, I know. And you must never return. But go, do go now—"

  She was crying. I went down the stairs and did not look back.

  I walked a long time through the streets. It was a strange night. I was still wakeful and could not sleep. I passed the International, I thought of Lisa and the years gone by, of many things that I had forgotten; but it was all far away and seemed not to belong to me any more. Then I wandered down the street where Pat lived. The wind became stronger, all the windows in her place were in darkness, dawn was creeping on grey feet past the doorways; and at last I went home.

  My God, thought I, I believe I am happy.

  Chapter XIII

  "The lady you are always hiding," said Frau Zalewski, "you have no need to hide. She can come quite openly. I like her."

  "You haven't ever seen her," I replied.

  "Don't worry, I have seen her," declared Frau Zalewski with emphasis. "I have seen her and I like her—very much, indeed—but she is not a woman for you."

  "Really?"

  "No, I've been wondering wherever in all your pubs you can have dug her up. But of course, the worst vagabond—"

  "I think we're getting off the subject," I interrupted.

  "That," said she, putting her hands on her hips, "is a woman for a man in good, secure circumstances. For a rich man, in short."

  Direct hit, my boy, thought I. The very thing you lack.

  "You could say that of any woman," I declared irritably.

  She shook her grey locks. "You wait. The future will show."

  "Ach, the future!" I flung my cuff links on the table. "Who cares about the future these days? Why should anyone bother about that now?"

  Frau Zalewski looked pained and wagged her majestic head.

  "Extraordinary creatures you young people are, altogether. The past you hate, the present you despise, and the future is a matter of indifference. How do you suppose that can lead to any good end?"

  "Well, what do you mean by a good end?" I asked. "An end can be good only if everything before it has been bad. So a bad end is better."

  "Those are Jewish perversions," replied Frau Zalewski with dignity, turning resolutely to the door. She had her hand already on the latch when she stopped short as if suddenly nailed to the spot.

  "Dinner suit?" she breathed in astonishment. "You?"

  With large eyes she contemplated Otto Köster's suit hanging on the wardrobe door. I had borrowed it, as I meant to go to the theatre with Pat that evening.

  "Yes, me," said I poisojnously. "Your powers of association are unsurpassed, Frau Zalewski—"

  She looked at me. An entire thunderstorm of ideas passed over her fat face, ending in a broad initiated smirk.

  "Aha!" said she. And again "Aha!" And then from outside, over her shoulder, with relish transfigured by woman's eternal delight in such discoveries: "So, that's how it is!"

  "Yes, that's how it is, damned old witch," I growled after her when I was sure she could not hear me. Then I flung the box with my new patent leather shoes on the floor. A rich man—as if I didn't know that.

  I called for Pat. She was in her room already dressed and waiting. It almost took my breath away when I saw her. For the first time since I had known her she was wearing evening dress.

  The frock was of silver brocade and hung in graceful smooth lines from the straight shoulders. It looked narrow and was yet wide enough not to impede Pat's lovely, long stride. In front it came up high to the neck, but the back was cut away to a deep sharp angle. In it Pat gave the effect of a silver torch in the blue twilight, swiftly and amazingly changed, dignified and remote. Behind her like a shadow' rose the ghost of Frau Zalewski with uplifted finger.

  "It's as well I didn't meet you first in that dress," said I. "I would never have trusted myself near you."

  "I don't believe that just on your say-so, Robby.". She smiled. "Do you like it?"

  "It's simply incredible. You are an entirely new woman in it."

  "That's not incredible, though. That's what clothes are for."

  "Maybe. But it floors me a bit. You want a very different man to match it. One with lots of money."

  She laughed. "Men with lots of money are mostly awful, Robby."

  "But not money, eh?"

  "No." said she, "not money."

  "I thought as much."

  "Don't you think so, then?"

  "Sure," said I. "Money may not make happiness—but it can be a great comfort."

  "It makes one independent, darling, and that's still more. But I can put on another dress if you like."

  "Absolutely not. It's superb. From this day forth I place dressmakers above philosophers. Those people bring beauty into life, and that's worth a hundred times the most unfathomable meditations. But look out, or I'll be falling in love with you."

  She laughed. Stealthily I glanced down at myself. Köster was bigger than I, and I had had to do some tricky work with safety-pins on the trousers to make them sit decently. They did sit, praise be.

  We drove to the theatre in a taxi. On the way I was rather silent, without knowing quite why. As we got out and I was paying, I glanced, as under some compulsi
on, at the driver. His eyes were strained and red-rimmed, he was unshaven and looked very tired. He took the money indifferently.

  "Had a good day?" I asked softly.

  He looked up. "So-so—" said he uncommunicatively. He took me for some inquisitive fellow.

  For a moment I had the feeling that I must get on the box beside him and drive off—then I turned round. There stood Pat, slim and graceful, a short silver jacket with wide sleeves over the silver frock, beautiful and expectant. "Quick, Bob, come, it begins in a minute."

  People were piled up in the entrance. It was a big First Night, the theatre was floodlit; car upon car glided up; women in evening clothes got out, glittering with jewellery; men in tails, with pink upholstered faces, laughing, jolly, superior, self-assured—and, grinding and snarling among it all, the cab with the tired driver rattled off.

  "Well, come, Robby," called Pat looking at me, radiant and excited. "Have you forgotten something?"

  I gave a hostile look at the people around.

  "No," said I, "I have forgotten nothing."

  Then I went to the office and changed the tickets. I took two box seats, though they cost a fortune. I suddenly did not want Pat to sit among these assured people, to whom everything was self-evident. I did not want her to belong to them. I wanted to be alone with her.

  It was a long time since I had been in a theatre. And I would not have come now had Pat not wanted it. Theatres, concerts, books—all these middle-class habits I had almost lost. It was not the time for them. Politics provided theatre enough—the shootings every night made another concert— and the gigantic book of poverty was more impressive than any library.

  The circle and the stalls were full. No sooner had we found our seats than it was dark. Only the reflection of the footlights drifted through the room. The music started full, and everything seemed to lift and sway.

  I pushed my chair back into a corner of the box, whence I need see neither the stage nor the blanched faces of the spectators. I heard only the music and saw Pat's face.

  The music enchanted the air. It was like the south wind, like a warm night, like swelling sails beneath the stars, completely and utterly unreal, this music to Hoffmann's Tales. It made everything spacious and colourful, the dark stream of life seemed pulsing in it; there were no burdens any more, no limits; there existed only glory and melody and love, so that one simply could not realize that, at the same time as this music was, outside there ruled poverty and torment and despair.

  Pat's face was full of mystery, irradiated by the light from the stage. She was wholly surrendered; and I loved her that she did not lean toward me or reach for my hand, yes, did not once look at me, but appeared not to think of me at all and to have quite forgotten me. I hate it when people mix things, I hate the cowlike yearning toward one another while the beauty and the power of a great work breaks over one; I hate the swimming looks of lovers, the foolish blissful cuddling, the indecent sheepish happiness that can never rise above itself; I hate all the talk of becoming one through love; it seems to me we cannot sufficiently be two nor remove ourselves from one another often enough in order to meet again. Only those who are constantly alone know the joy of being together. Anything else breaks the spell of the tension. And what can more powerfully penetrate the magic circle of solitude than the uprush of emotion, the surrender to a shock, the might of the elements, storm, night music? And love . . .

  The lights flamed up. I shut my eyes an instant. What had I been thinking of? Pat turned round. I saw the people pressing toward the doors. Itwas the long interval.

  "Do you want to go out?" I asked.

  Pat shook her head.

  "Thank God for that. I hate the way people gape at each other out there."

  I went to fetch her a glass of orange juice. The buffet was heavily besieged. Music makes some people extraordinarily hungry. The warm sausages were disappearing as if an epidemic of hunger typhus had broken out.

  This would be the place for Mother, thought I, elbowing my way to the counter and taking the last glass of orange juice from under the nose on an indignant chap with a walrus moustache. He grunted with wrath.

  "You've had two already," said I disarmingly.

  "But I have a thirst for three," he replied.

  There was no other reply to that but not to give way. Taking something from somebody else is one of the oldest practices of humanity—and it always affords the same satisfaction. Man is not kindly, and never will be.

  When I arrived at the box with my glass someone was standing behind Pat's chair. Her head was turned back and she was talking with him vivaciously. "This is Herr Breuer, Robert," said she.

  Herr Ox, thought I looking at him with displeasure. Robert, she said, not Robby. I put the glass on the parapet and prepared to wait until the fellow went. He had on a marvellously cut dinner suit. But he chattered about the production and the audience and still he stayed. Pat turned to me. "Herr Breuer has asked if we would not like to go to 'The Cascade' afterwards."

  "Just as you like," said I.

  Herr Breuer explained one might be able to get a dance perhaps. He was very polite and I liked him quite well actually. Only he had the disagreeable elegance and facility which I imagined could not fail of its effect on Pat, and which I myself did not possess. Suddenly—I could hardly believe my ears—I heard him say to Pat, "my dear/' Though there might have been a hundred good reasons why he should, I should have liked to heave him over into the orchestra on the spot.

  The bell sounded. The musicians tuned their instruments. The violins made subdued little flageolette runs.

  "Agreed then, we meet at the exit," said Breuer and went st lust

  "Who's the tramp?" I asked.

  "He isn't a tramp, he's a very nice man. An old friend."

  "I've something against old friends," said I.

  "Darling," replied Pat, "but listen—"

  Cascade, thought I and reckoned up my money, damned expensive dive.

  I followed along in sullen curiosity. This Breuer had recalled to me Frau Zalewski's ill-omened croakings. He was already waiting for us at the entrance.

  I beckoned a taxi.

  "Don't bother," said Breuer. "There's room in my car."

  "Good," said I. It would have been ridiculous to do otherwise. But it annoyed me all the same.

  Pat recognized Breuer's car. It was a big Packard, standing in the car park opposite. She walked straight up to it.

  "It's a different colour, though," said she, stopping in front of it.

  "Yes, grey," replied Breuer. "Don't you like it better?"

  "Much better."

  Breuer turned to me. "And you? Do you like the colour?"

  "I don't know what it was before," said I.

  "Black."

  "Black also looks very well."

  "True. But one must have a change. I'm going to do it again in the autumn."

  We drove to "The Cascade," a very smart dance club with an excellent band.

  "Seems to be full," said I delightedly as we stood at the entrance.

  "Pity," said Pat.

  "Ach, we'll fix that," announced Breuer and exchanged a few words with the manager. He seemed to be well known here, for we actually had a table brought and some chairs; and a few minutes later we were sitting in the best place in the whole room, whence we could survey the whole dance floor.

  The band was playing a tango. Pat leaned over the parapet. "Ach, but it's a long time since I had a dance."

  Breuer stood up. "Shall we?"

  She looked at me beaming. "I'll order something in the meantime," said I.

  The tango lasted a long while. Pat looked across now and then and smiled at me. . .I nodded back, but did not feel any too special. She looked wonderful and danced magnificently. Unfortunately Breuer danced equally well and the two looked most distinguished together. They danced as if they had often partnered one another before. I ordered myself a large rum.

  The two came back. Breuer went to greet some
people and for a moment Pat and I were alone.

  "How long have you known the boy?" I asked.

  "A long time. Why?"

  "Ach, I only wondered. Did you often come here with him?"

  She looked at me. "I don't remember any more, Robby."

  "One remembers that all right," said I obstinately, though I knew what she meant.