Part 4 (2/2)
”Thank you, doctor,” replied an exceedingly corpulent, good-looking man, whom they met pa.s.sing with a watering-pot in his hand, ”thank you, I should be perfectly well, if----”
The counsellor cast a glance at Oswald, and then came quite close to the doctor, whispering something in his ear, of which Oswald could only catch the words, ”bundle of hay”--”in my side.” ”Oh, that matters very little,” replied Birkenhain, in a tone full of confidence, which sounded as if it must have been inspiring to the greatest hypochondriac; ”we'll soon settle that.” The patient gratefully shook hands with his physician and went on, evidently quite comforted and delighted with the probable victory over his imaginary ailment.
”I wish Berger's case were as easy as that man's,” said Doctor Birkenhain, as they were walking down the long pa.s.sage; ”but pills and ointments have no effect on his complaint. Here we are; now you go to the end of the pa.s.sage, and the last door to the left is Berger's room.
I am very curious to hear what you will have to tell me. Will you dine with me to-morrow? I shall take great pleasure in presenting you to my wife. At three o'clock. Will you come? _Au revoir_, then!”
Doctor Birkenhain shook hands with Oswald and went into one of the rooms which they had pa.s.sed. Oswald went alone to the end of the pa.s.sage, full of the deep impression which the man who had just left him had made upon him, and at the same time very much troubled about the part which he was to play. He was to help Berger to recover his interest in life, and he had himself lost all such interest! Was he not of all men the least fitted for such a mission? And yet he had accepted it! He must fulfil it!
Oswald came to the door which had been pointed out to him. Upon the brown panel was something written in chalk, and evidently in Berger's hand:
”_Lasciate ogni speranza voi ch'entrate_.”
Oswald shuddered as he read it. He remained standing undecided before the door, and it was some time before he could make up his mind to knock. He listened to hear if anything was stirring within; he heard nothing. At last he summoned courage and knocked with a strong hand. As no answer came, he knocked still louder; again no answer. A great fear overcame him; he hastily opened the door and entered the room.
CHAPTER VII.
Oswald need not have feared. Berger was sitting in the centre of the darkened room, all the curtains being closed, before a table covered with books. He was resting his head in both hands, and seemed to sleep, for he did not stir even when Oswald stepped up close to the table.
Oswald did not dare wake him. He remained standing by the table and looked at the poor sufferer, his eyes filling unconsciously with tears.
What havoc these few months had made with the face once so proud, so full of energy; the dark curling hair was grizzled; the ma.s.sive brow, hewn apparently out of the live granite, appeared even more powerful and imposing, thanks to the increased baldness at the temples. A full beard, formerly an aversion to Berger, now flowed, silver-gray, from cheek, lips, and chin, so that the end nearly touched the table. His hands, once so plump and carefully kept, had become so thin, so transparent! And what a costume! A blue smock-frock, instead of the black coat which was never allowed to show a particle of dust; a coa.r.s.e, ill-fitting s.h.i.+rt, instead of the fine, dazzling white linen upon which he formerly insisted. On the table a worn-out slouched hat and a stick, which had evidently not long ago formed part of a hedge of thorns, in place of the smooth silk hat from Paris, and the clouded cane with its gold head! If the outer man could change to such an extent, what a revolution must have taken place in the lowest depths of the soul!
Berger stirred. He raised his head, opened his eyes, and looked at Oswald. His eyes were deep and clear, and looked larger than usual; he did not start nor betray astonishment, wonder, or fear, at the unexpected sight.
”I had but just now dreamt of you, Oswald,” he said, rising, with a low voice, from which all former sharpness and energy seemed to have departed.
Oswald could restrain himself no longer. He sobbed aloud and threw himself into Berger's arms. Now only, lying on the bosom of this man, he felt all his sufferings fully, as he thought; now only, in the arms of this man who had endured so much, he fancied he need not be ashamed any longer of the tears which his heart had bled when his eyes refused to weep.
Berger held him in his arms, as a father holds his son who comes home from a far country in which he has fed with the swine.
”Weep on,” he said, ”weep! Tears relieve a young, overflowing heart.
When I was as young as you, I wept as you do; now my eyes have forgotten how to weep.”
”Berger, dear, dear Berger!”
”I knew I should see you again. I expected you long ago. I did not think you would stand it so long in the great desert outside. Weep on!
Tears are the price with which we buy our souls back again, when we find what a wretched bargain we had made before we knew better. Ere we give up life we have to learn that it is better not to live. Some learn that sooner, others later. Be glad that you are one of those who during the bitterness of the Sansara have already a foretaste of the sweetness of the Nirvana.”
He left Oswald, and took his hat and cane from the table.
”Come!” he said.
Oswald was so deeply moved by this scene that the recollection of Berger's odd costume only suggested to him the conviction how utterly impossible it would be to speak to such a man of such things. He would as lief have reminded a mother who was weeping over the body of her child of some defect in her toilet, a bow out of place, or a ribbon which had come loose.
They pa.s.sed through the long pa.s.sages, down the broad stone staircase and out into the court-yard. As they went across the latter, the young man who was sitting on the bench came up to them and repeated the question which he had before asked of Oswald:
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