Night Games: And Other Stories and Novellas (30 page)

Richard continues to pace back and forth in the room until finally
the monotonous tone of his own steps begins to disturb him. Then he sits
down in front of the small desk with the blue candle and scrutinizes the
pretty and dainty objects on it with a kind of curiosity. He never actually
noticed them before, had seen them only as a part of the background. The
ivory penholders, the narrow letter opener, the slender seal with the onyx
handle, the small keys held together by a gold string-one by one he
takes them in his hands, turns them around and around, and then gently
puts them back in their place again as if they were valuable and fragile.
Then he opens the middle drawer of the desk, and there in an open box
he sees the pale grey stationery on which she used to write, the small envelopes with her monogram, the slender, oblong calling cards with her
name. Then he mechanically reaches for the small side drawer. At first he
doesn't even notice that it is locked but keeps tugging on it repeatedly
without thinking. Gradually he becomes aware of his absentminded rattling, and he makes an effort and now he will get it open. He picks up the
small keys lying on the desktop. The very first one he tries fits; the
drawer is open. And now he sees letters lying there, carefully tied together with blue ribbons, the very letters that he himself wrote to her. He
recognizes the very first one lying on top. It is his first letter to her, from
the time of their engagement. And as he reads the loving words, words
that once more conjure up an illusion of life in the desolate room, he
sighs deeply and then says quietly to himself, over and over, the same
thing: a confused and horrified: No ... no ... no....

And he loosens the silk ribbon and lets the letters slip between his
fingers. Random words torn out of their context fly by him; he hardly has
the courage to read any of the letters in its entirety. Only the last, which has just a few short sentences-that he wouldn't be returning home from
the city until very late-that he'd be enormously happy to see her dear,
sweet face again-he reads carefully, syllable by syllable-and he is astounded because it seems to him that he had written these caressing
words many years ago-not just last week, and yet it really is no longer
than that.

He pulls the drawer out still farther to see whether there is anything
else.

There are a few other packets lying there, all of them bound with
blue silk ribbons, and instinctively he smiles sadly. There are letters from
her sister in Paris-he had always had to read them with her right away;
there are also letters from her mother in that peculiarly masculine handwriting he had always wondered about. And there are letters in a handwriting that he doesn't immediately recognize; he loosens the silk ribbon
and looks for the signature-they are from one of her friends, one of
those who was there today looking very pale, with eyes red from weeping. And behind them, very far in the back, he sees still another packet,
which he takes out like the others and examines. Whose handwriting is
this? An unfamiliar one.-No, it isn't an unfamiliar one.... It is Hugo's.
And the first word that Richard reads, even before he has torn off the
blue silk ribbon, strikes him numb for a moment.... With wide-open
eyes he looks around to see if everything in the room is still the same,
and then he looks up at the ceiling, and then again at the letters that are
now lying silent in front of him and yet in the next minute will tell him
everything that the first word intimated.... He wants to remove the ribbon-it seems to resist him; his hands shake and finally he rips it apart
forcefully. Then he stands up. He takes the packet in both hands and goes
to the piano, on whose shining black top the light of the seven candles of
the candelabrum is falling. And with both hands braced on the piano he
reads them, the many short letters with the small, hard-to-read handwriting, one after the other, greedy for each one as though it were the first.
And he reads them all, down to the last one, which had come from that
place on the North Sea-a few days ago. He throws it down among all
the others and rummages through the letters again as if he were still looking for something, as if something could float up to him from among these pages that he has not yet discovered, something that would negate
the content of all the other letters and turn the truth he has suddenly discovered into a delusion.... And when his hands finally stop, it seems to
him as though everything has suddenly become perfectly quiet after a
monstrous noise. He remembers all the sounds: how the dainty objects
on the desk sounded ... how the drawer squeaked ... how the lock
clicked ... how the paper crumpled and rustled ... he hears the sound of
his hurrying steps ... his quick, moaning breathing-but now there is
not a sound to be heard in the room. And he is astounded at how at one
stroke he now suddenly understands everything, though he had never
suspected it in the least. He would have liked to understand it as little as
he understands death, he yearns for the tremulous hot pain that the incomprehensible brings, but has only the sensation of utter clarity which
seems to flow into all his senses so that the objects in the room have a
sharper outline than they did before, and he believes he hears the deep
stillness that now encircles him. And slowly he walks over to the sofa,
sits down, and thinks....

What has happened?

Once more that which happens every day had happened, and he has
become one of those whom other men laugh about. And he'll certainly
feel-tomorrow or even in a few hours perhaps-all the anguish that
every person must feel under such circumstances ... he suspects that it
will come over him, the nameless rage that this woman has died too soon
for him to take his revenge; and when the other one returns, he will strike
him down like a dog with these hands. Oh, how he yearns for these wild
and honorable feelings-and how much better he would feel then than he
does now, when his thoughts are dragging themselves dully and heavily
through his mind....

Now he knows only that he has suddenly lost everything, that he
must begin his life anew, like a child, for he can no longer make use of
any of his memories. He would first have to tear from each of them the
mask with which she had made a fool of him. For he had seen nothing,
nothing at all, had believed and trusted, and his best friend had betrayed
him, as in a comedy.... If only it weren't him, only not him! He knows
from his own experience that there are passions in the blood which do not go deeply into the soul, and it seems to him as though he could forgive his dead wife everything that she would have forgotten soon, anyone whom he didn't know, anyone who didn't mean anything to
him-only not him, whom he loved as he loved no other and to whom he
was closer even than to his own wife who had never followed him down
the darker paths of his own mind as he did; she had given him pleasure
and comfort, yes, but never the deep joy of understanding. And hadn't he
always known that women are empty and deceitful creatures, and why
had it never occurred to him that his wife was a woman like all the others, empty and deceitful, with the desire to seduce? And why had it never
occurred to him that his friend, as high-minded as he was, was a man like
other men and could fall prey to the intoxication of a moment? And don't
many of the hesitant words in these ardent and quivering letters reveal
that he had at first struggled with himself, that he had tried to tear himself
away, that he had finally adored this woman, and that he had suffered because of it? ... It seems almost uncanny to him that everything is so
clear to him now-as if a stranger were standing there before him and
telling him about it. He can't rant and rave, much as he wants to; he simply understands it, as he had always understood it when it had happened
to others. And as he now remembers that his wife is lying out there in
that quiet cemetery, he knows that he will never be able to hate her, that
all the childish anger, even if it could fly over those white walls, would
sink down onto the grave with lame wings. And he suddenly realizes
how many a phrase that is today a cliche reveals its eternal truth in a
blinding flash because all at once he understands the deep meaning of a
phrase that had always appeared shallow to him before: Death reconciles. And he knows too that if he were now all of a sudden standing opposite his friend, he would not search for powerful and punishing words,
for they now seem to him a ridiculous exaggeration of earthly pettiness
compared with the dignity of death-no, he would calmly tell him, "Go,
I don't hate you."

He can't hate him; he sees everything all too clearly. He can see so
deeply into other souls that it almost estranges him. It is as if it weren't
his own experience anymore-he feels it as merely accidental that this
should have happened to him. There is just one thing that he can't under stand-that he hadn't always known right from the beginning and-understood it. Everything was so simple, so self-evident, and it had happened for the same reasons as it had in a thousand other cases. He
remembers his wife as he knew her in the first and second years of their
marriage, that loving, almost wild creature who was then more of a lover
to him than a wife. Had he really believed that this blossoming and
yearning creature had turned into someone else because the mechanical
routines of marriage had overcome him? Did he think those flames were
extinguished because he no longer felt any desire for them? And that it
was just exactly him to whom she had been attracted-was that so astounding? How often, when he had sat across from his younger friend,
who despite his thirty years still had the freshness and the softness of
youth in his manner and his voice-how often had the thought run
through his mind: he must be really attractive to women.... And now he
remembers as well how last year just at the time that it-must have
begun, Hugo had come to visit him much less frequently than before ...
and he, the proper husband, had said to him then: "Why don't you come
to visit us anymore?" And he had personally picked him up from the office, brought him along with them out to the country, and when he had
wanted to leave had held him back with friendly, scolding words. And
never had he noticed anything, never had he had the slightest suspicion.
Hadn't he seen their passionate and melting glances? Hadn't he heard the
trembling of their voices as they talked to each other'? Didn't he know
how to interpret the anxious silence that had overcome them from time to
time as they walked in the garden? And didn't he notice how distracted,
moody, and unhappy Hugo had often been-since that summer day last
year when-it had begun? Yes, he had noticed it and occasionally had
thought to himself: it's some affair with a woman that's tormenting
him-and he had been happy when he had been able to draw his friend
into serious conversation and so raise him above those petty
sufferings.... And now, as he lets the entire last year glide quickly by,
doesn't he realize all at once that his friend's previous cheerfulness
had never really entirely returned, that he had gradually accustomed
himself to it, as to everything that comes gradually and doesn't disappear'? ...

And a strange feeling now arises in his soul, a feeling that he
scarcely wants to trust at first-a deep gentleness, a great pity for this
man whom a terrible passion had overcome, like fate; who at this moment, perhaps-no, certainly-is suffering even more than he is; for this
man has after all lost a woman whom he loved and now must appear before the friend he deceived.

And he can't hate him because he still loves him. He knows that
everything would be different if-she were still alive. Then this guilt,
too, would be something that would gain the illusion of importance from
her being and her smile. But now the inexorable finality of her death has
swallowed up everything that seems important about that wretched adventure.

A soft quiver penetrates the deep stillness of the room ... footsteps
on the stairs-he listens with bated breath; he hears the beating of his
pulse.

The outside door opens.

For a moment it seems to him that everything he has built up in his
soul will come crashing down; but in the next moment it is secure again.
And he knows what he will say to him when he enters: I understand
everything-stay!

A voice outside, the voice of his friend.

And suddenly it occurs to him that this man will enter unsuspectingly, that he himself will first have to tell him....

And he feels like getting up from the sofa and locking the doorbecause he feels that he won't be able to utter a single word. But he can't
even move; he feels rooted to the spot. He won't say anything to him,
won't say a single word to him today, not until tomorrow ... tomorrow.

There is whispering outside. Richard can understand the softly spoken question, "Is he alone?"

He won't say anything, won't say a single word to him today, not
until tomorrow-or later...

The door opens and his friend is there. He is very pale and remains
standing a while as if he must collect himself, then he hurries toward
Richard and sits down next to him on the sofa, takes both of his hands,
and presses them hard-he wants to speak, but his voice fails him.

Richard only looks at him rigidly; he lets him take his hands. They
sit there silently for a long time.

"My poor friend," Hugo finally says softly.

Richard only nods; he can't speak. If he were able to utter a word,
he would only be able to say, "I know...."

After a few minutes Hugo begins again: "I wanted to be here early
this morning. But I didn't receive your telegram until late in the evening
after I came home."

"I thought so," replies Richard and is amazed at how strongly and
calmly he speaks. He looks deeply into his friend's eyes.... And then it
suddenly occurs to him that over there on the piano the letters are lying.
Hugo has only to stand up and take a few steps ... and he will see
them ... and know everything. Instinctively, Richard grasps his friend's
hands-that can't happen; it is he who is afraid of the discovery.