“Poor Arthur!” I had some trouble to avoid laughing. “And what shall you do now? Is there any prospect of this money coming after all?”
75
“I should think none,” said Arthur gloomily.
“Look here, let me lend you some. I’ve got ten marks.”
“No, thank you, William. I appreciate the thought, but I couldn’t borrow from you. I feel that it would spoil our beautiful friendship. No, I shall wait two days more; then I shall take certain steps. And, if these are not successful, I shall know what to do.”
“You’re very mysterious.” For an instant, the thought even passed through my mind that Arthur was perhaps meditating suicide. But the very idea of his attempting to kill himself was so absurd that it made me begin to smile. “I hope everything will go off all right,” I added, as we said goodbye.
“So do I, my dear William. So do I.” Arthur glanced cautiously down the staircase. “Please give my regards to the divine Schroeder.”
“You really must come and visit us some day soon. It’s such a long time since you’ve been. She’s pining away without you.”
“With the greatest pleasure, when all these troubles are over. If they ever are.” Arthur sighed deeply. “Good night, dear boy. God bless you.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
The next day, Thursday, I was busy with lessons. On Friday, I tried three times to ring up Arthur’s flat, but the number was always engaged. On Saturday, I went away for the week-end to see some friends in Hamburg. I didn’t get back to Berlin until late on Monday afternoon. That evening I dialled Arthur’s number, wanting to tell him about my visit;
76
again there was no reply. I rang four times, at intervals of half an hour, and then complained to the operator. She told me, in official language, that “the subscriber’s instrument” was “no longer in use.”
I wasn’t particularly surprised. In the present state of Arthur’s finances, it was hardly to be expected that he would have settled his telephone bill. All the same, I thought, he might have come to see me or sent a note. But no doubt he was busy, too.
Three more days went by. It was seldom that we had ever let a whole week pass without a meeting or, at any rate, a telephone conversation. Perhaps Arthur was ill. Indeed, the more I thought about it, the surer I felt that this must be the explanation of his silence. He had probably worried himself into a nervous breakdown over his debts. And, all this while, I had been neglecting him. I felt suddenly very guilty. I would go round and see him, I decided, that same afternoon.
Some premonition or pang of conscience made me hurry. I reached the Courbierestrasse in record time, ran quickly upstairs, and, still panting, rang the bell. After all, Arthur was no longer young. The life he had been leading was enough to break anybody down; and he had a weak heart. I must be prepared to hear serious news. Supposing… hullo, what was this? In my haste, I must have miscounted the number of floors. I was standing in front of a door without a nameplate: the door of a strange flat. It was one of those silly embarrassing things which always happen when one lets oneself get flustered. My first impulse was to run away, up or down stairs, I wasn’t quite sure which. But, after all, I had rung these people’s bell. The best tiling would be to wait until somebody answered it, and then explain my mistake.
I waited; one minute, two, three. The door didn’t open. There was nobody at home, it seemed. I had been saved from making a fool of myself, after all.
But now I noticed something else. On both the doors which faced me were little squares of paint which were darker
77
than the rest of the woodwork. There was no doubt about it; they were the marks left by recently removed nameplates. I could even see the tiny holes where the screws had been.
A kind of panic seized me. Within half a minute, I had run up the stairs to the top of the house, then down again to the bottom; very quickly and lightly, as one sometimes runs in a nightmare. Arthur’s two nameplates were nowhere to be found. But wait: perhaps I was in the wrong house altogether. I had done stupider things before now. I went out into the street and looked at the number over the entrance. No, there was no mistake there.
I don’t know what I mightn’t have done, at that moment, if the portress herself hadn’t appeared. She knew me by sight and nodded ungraciously. She plainly hadn’t much use for Arthur’s callers. No doubt the visits of the bailiff had got the house a bad name.
“If you’re looking for your friend,” she maliciously emphasized the word, “you’re too late. He’s gone.”
“Gone?”
“Yes. Two days ago. The flat’s to let. Didn’t you know?”
I suppose my face was a comic picture of dismay, for she added unpleasantly: “You aren’t the only one he didn’t tell. There’ve been a dozen round here already. Owed you some money, did he?”
“Where’s he gone to?” I asked dully.
“I’m sure I don’t know, or care. That cook of his comes round here and collects the letters. You’d better ask him.”
“I can’t. I don’t know where he lives.”
“Then I can’t help you,” said the portress with a certain vicious satisfaction. Arthur must have neglected to tip her. “Why don’t you try the police?”
With this parting shot she went into her lodge and slammed the door. I walked slowly away down the street, feeling rather dazed.
My question was soon answered, however. The next morning I got a letter, dated from a hotel in Prague:
78
My dear William,
Do forgive me. I was compelled to leave Berlin at very short notice and under conditions of secrecy which made it impossible for me to communicate with you. The little operation about which I spoke to you was, alas, the reverse of successful, and the doctor ordered an immediate change of air. So unhealthy, indeed, had the atmosphere of Berlin become for one of my peculiar constitution, that, had I remained another week, dangerous complications would almost certainly have arisen.
My lares and pénates have all been sold and the proceeds largely swallowed up by the demands of my various satellites. I don’t complain of that. They have, with one exception, served me faithfully, and the labourer is worthy of his hire. As for that one, I shall not permit his odious name to pass my lips again. Suffice it to say that he was and is a scoundrel of the deepest dye and has behaved as such.
I find life here very pleasant. The cooking is good, not so good as in my beloved and incomparable Paris, whither I hope, next Wednesday, to wend my weary steps, but still far better than anything which barbarous Berlin could provide. Nor are the consolations of the fair and cruel sex absent. Already, under the grateful influence of civilized comfort, I put forth my leaves, I expand. To such an extent, indeed, have I already expanded that I fear I shall arrive in Paris almost devoid of means. Never mind. The Mammon of Unrighteousness will, no doubt, be ready to receive me into habitations which, if not everlasting, will at least give me time to look round.
Please convey to our mutual friend my most fraternal greetings and tell him that I shall not fail, on arriving, to execute his various commissions.
Do write soon and regale me with your inimitable wit.
As always, your affectionate
Arthur.
79
My first reaction was to feel, perhaps unreasonably, angry. I had to admit to myself that my feeling for Arthur had been largely possessive. He was my discovery, my property. I was as hurt as a spinster who has been deserted by her cat. And yet, after all, how silly of me. Arthur was his own master; he wasn’t accountable to me for his actions. I began to look round for excuses for his conduct, and, like an indulgent parent, easily found them. Hadn’t he, indeed, behaved with considerable nobility? Threatened from every side, he had faced his troubles alone. He had carefully avoided involving me in possible future unpleasantness with the authorities. After all, he had said to himself, I am leaving this country, but William has to stay here and earn his living; I have no right to indulge my personal feelings at his expense. I pictured Arthur taking a last hurried stroll down our street, glancing up with furtive sadness at the window of my room, hesitating, walking sorrowfully away. The end of it was that I sat down and wrote him a chatty, affectionate letter, asking no questions and, indeed, avoiding any remark which might compromise either him or myself. Frl. Schroeder, who was much upset at the news of Arthur’s departure, added a long postscript. He was never to forget, she wrote, that there was one house in Berlin where he would always be welcome.