Part 31 (1/2)

”We're reprinting a part of the article on the White Terror in Germany that Erik Dorn has in the _New Opinion_,” Tesla said. Rachel nodded her head. Later Tesla asked her, ”This Dorn, what is he? His writing is amusing, sometimes violent, but always empty. He doesn't like life much, eh?”

”I don't know,” said Rachel.

”Yes,” Tesla smiled. ”He hates us all--reds and whites, radicals and bourgeoisie. Yet he can write in a big way. But he isn't a big man. He has no faith. I remember him once in Chicago. He hasn't changed.”

Rachel's eyes remained steadily upon the socialist as he cleared his desk. He stood up finally and came to where she was sitting.

”It's necessary to have something besides self,” he said softly. ”I was born in a room that smelled bad. Perhaps that's why the world smells bad to me now. I still live there. It's good to live where there are smells.

Our radicals sit too much in hotel lobbies that other people keep clean for them.”

Brander thrust his large figure between them, the tall, thin woman moving vaguely about the room.

”Sometimes I think you're a fake, Emil,” he said. ”You're too good to be true.”

He grinned at Rachel.

”By the way,” he went on, looking at her, ”I brought something to show you.” His hands dug a paper out of his coat pocket. ”You see, I've preserved our correspondence.”

He held out a letter. Rachel's eyes darkened.

”Oh, there's no hurry,” Brander laughed. ”So long as you keep the application on file, you know.”

Tesla, listening blankly, interrupted:

”It's late. We should go home. I'll go home with you, Rachel, and talk.”

The thin woman, watching Brander anxiously, approached and seized his arm.

”All right,” the artist whispered. ”We'll go now.”

Rachel felt a relief as Brander pa.s.sed out of the door with the woman.

”He disturbs you,” Tesla commented. She nodded her head. Words seemed to have abandoned her. There was almost a necessity for silence. They walked out, leaving Myers still at his desk.

In the deserted streets Rachel walked beside Tesla. She felt tired.

”He's never tired,” she thought, her eyes glancing at the stocky figure.

He wasn't talking as he said he would.

The night felt sad and cold. A dead March night. If not for Emil, what?

”Perhaps I'll kill myself. There's nothing now. I'm always alone. No to-morrows.”

In the evenings she came to the office to meet Emil for supper because there was nothing else to do. Emil seemed like an old man, always preoccupied, his eyes always burning with preoccupations. After supper he usually walked home with her, talking to her of poor people. There seemed no hatred in him, no argument. Poor people in broken houses.

Christ came and gave them a G.o.d. Now the revolution would come with flaming embittered eyes but wearing a gentle smile for the poor people in broken houses, and give them rest and happiness.

But to-night he was silent. When they had walked several blocks he began to talk without looking at her.

”Come with me,” he asked. ”I live alone in a little house. We can be happy there. You have n.o.body.”

Rachel repeated ”n.o.body.”