He, too, remembered that black dumb pair in the gilded mirror,--and the passing thought: as at a funeral. And all at once the whole thing became so intolerably painful, seemed so wild a nightmare, that he ground his teeth in his grief. His thoughts travelled farther back; he remembered his treasured revolver in his pocket, the two days of constant flight, the plain door that had no handle, and how he looked for a bell, and how a fat lackey who had not yet got his coat on straight had come out in a dirty printed linen shirt, and how he had entered with the proprietress into that white hall and seen those three strange girls.
And with it all a feeling of growing freedom came over him and at last he grasped that he was, as he had ever been, free--absolutely free--that he could go wherever he liked.
Sternly now he surveyed that strange room, severely, with the conviction of a man aroused for an instant from a debauch, seeing himself in foreign surroundings and condemning what he sees.
»What is all this? How idiotic! What a senseless nightmare!«
But--the music was still playing on. But--the woman was still sitting with her hands clasped behind her head, smiling, unable to speak, almost fainting under the load of a happiness beyond sense and experience. But--this was not a dream!
»Truth, my darling! You and I inseparable!«
This was Truth? Truth--those crumpled petticoats hanging on the wall in their bare disorder? Truth--that carpet on which thousands of drunken men had scuffled in spasms of hideous passion? Truth--this stale, moist fragrance, loathesomely cleaving to the face? Truth--that music and the jingling spurs? Truth--that woman with her pale and harassed face and smile of pitiful bliss?
Again he rested his heavy head on his hands, looking askance with the eyes of a wolf at bay; and his thoughts ran on without connection.
So she was Truth!... That meant that tomorrow and the day after he would not go, and everyone would know why he had not gone, that he had stayed with a girl, drinking; and they would call him traitor and coward and rascal. Some would intercede for him--would guess ... no, better not count on that, better see it all as it was! All over then? Was this the end? Into the dark--thus--into the dark? And what lay beyond? He did not know. In the dark? Probably some new horror. But then as yet he did not understand their ways. How strange that one had to learn to be common! And from whom? From her? No, she was no use. She didn't know anything. He would find out for himself. One had to become really common oneself in order to.... Yes, he would wreck something that was great! And then? And then, some day he would come back to her, or where they were drinking, or into a prison, and he would say: »Now I am not ashamed, now I am not guilty in any respect in your eyes. Now I am one like you, besmirched, fallen, unhappy!« Or he would go into the open street and say: »Look at me, what I am! I had everything--intellect, honour, dignity--stranger still, immortality. And all this I flung at the feet of a whore. I renounced it all because she was common!« What would they say? They would gape, and be astounded, and say, »What a fool!« Yes--yes, a fool! Was he guilty because he was fine? Let her--let everyone--try to be fine! »Sell all thou hast and give to the poor.« But that was just what he had done, all that he had. But this was Christ--in whom he did not believe.... Or perhaps.... »He who loses his soul«--not his life, but his soul.... That was what he was contemplating. Perhaps ... did Christ himself sin with the sinners, commit adultery, get drunk? No, he only forgave those who did, and even loved them. Well, so did he love and forgive and pity her. Then, why sacrifice himself? For she was not of the faith. Nor he. Nor was this Christ; but something else, something more dreadful.