Pagel, whistling with satisfaction, raised his glance and encountered the eye of young Violet von Prackwitz. “Hallo!” he said without any undue surprise. “Isn’t young Räder coming?”
She shook her head. At the same time she slid a shoulder between the curtains, and her breast laid itself gently on the window sill. This attitude opened wide the neck of her dress and gave a glimpse of her tender skin, so seductively milk-white against her throat’s dark brown.
“No,” she said, after a moment of hesitation, as if speaking reluctantly or in her sleep. “Räder still has something to do for Papa. I couldn’t send him.”
“And you, my girl?” asked Pagel with forced easiness. “Still about at this hour? Not confined to your room anymore?”
Again she delayed her answer. “I was over at my grandparents’,” she explained at last. “I wanted to let you know.”
“Thanks!” said Pagel, a little too late.
It is so quiet, warm and quiet. Her breast on the windowsill. Her mouth breathing, breathing secrets, promising fulfillment. It’s been so long.…
All is growing, ripening, thriving.… “Stay awhile—!”
“Yes.…” said Pagel, after a while, lost and dreaming.
Then all was quiet again—a quiet, still darkness. Complicit night.
“Come over here,” she whispered suddenly.
Though she whispered so softly, he started, like one who receives a blow. “Yes?” he asked, already getting up from his chair.
“Please, yes,” she whispered again, and he slowly approached. Without his knowing it, his face had taken on a bitterly determined expression, as if he tasted fruit which could not be sweet. Her face, however, bore the same expression as when she had watched the servant at his prayers; she seemed to feel horror and despair, pleasure and desire.
“Closer!” she whispered, when he stopped a pace or two in front of her. “Still closer!”
It was the seduction of the hour, and it was the seduction of hungry flesh, and it was also the seduction of her desire, which was like a net, imperceptibly closing in on him.
“Well?” he asked softly, and his face was right next to hers.
“Wouldn’t you …” she said haltingly, “wouldn’t you like to kiss me again?” And she raised her head; with a resolute and yet childish movement she offered him her lips. Suddenly tears stood in her eyes.… It was not only depravity which made her seek the pleasure of another’s embrace—it was also the fear of him who had placed his hand on her heart, and taken possession of her.…
“There!” she said faintly, and their lips met. Thus they remained for an interminable time. Her breast lay on his hand, which rested on the window sill; through her dress he felt its heaviness and ripeness, more beautiful than any fruit.… Were they crickets, chirping outside in the park?—a thin sweet melody, it might be in his blood, ever continuing without pause, as if the earth herself sang, this kind fertile mother earth which loves lovers.… His mouth remained endlessly on her lips.
Then he felt her growing uneasy. She wanted to say something. But he did not want to free her lips, did not want to interrupt the spell.… With a nimble movement she slipped her left shoulder out of her dress and with her right hand—her left was round his neck—freed her breast.
“There!” she said plaintively. “Put your hand on it—it is so cold.” And before he knew what he was doing, his hand had closed round her breast.
“Oh!” she sighed and pressed her lips more firmly against his.
What was he thinking? Was he thinking of anything at all? A flame of desire rose and rose. He thought he saw images, flying images, of a ghostly play about old times, in the theater of his imagination. The room with Madame Po, when he woke up and met Peter’s eyes.… The flame of desire continued to rise. Can’t I come with you?—That’s what she asked, or something like it, and she did go with him. And when they introduced themselves to each other in the splendour of a Berlin marble stairwelclass="underline" Petra Ledig—unforgettable moments.
The crickets were still chirping away. Crickets? Crickets did not live in a park, but in houses—they were grasshoppers, locusts, that were singing outside, green, rather grotesque-looking creatures.…
There is the breast in your hand; it is only the seduction of the flesh, not love. Carefully, gently; loosen your mouth, we must not frighten the little girl—she is just depraved. But she has obtained nothing in exchange for her depravity, not even knowledge. She knows nothing of herself. She is like a sleep-walker: one must not wake her suddenly. Peter was different—oh, Peter was quite different. She knew everything—but she was as innocent as a child. What they told me at the police station can’t possibly be true. Peter was not depraved. She knew, but she was always innocent.…
“What’s the matter with you?” asked Vi, puzzled. “What are you thinking of?”
“Oh—” he said absently. “I just remembered something.”
“Remembered?”
“Yes. Remembered. I belong to another woman.” He saw the change in her face, the shock. “Just as you belong to another man,” he added hastily.
“Yes?” she asked submissively. She was so easy to guide—a young horse whose mouth was still tender, obeying every tug of the reins. “And the other woman—is that also over?”
“I thought so. But it occurred to me just now that perhaps it wasn’t.”
“Just now?”
She stood between the curtains, just as he had left her in the middle of the kiss, her hair disarranged, her breast still uncovered, her underlip trembling: the abode of pleasure, by pleasure forsaken.… She looked a pitiful figure.
“It isn’t really all over with you,” he comforted her. “You only need to wait a little, you know. It’s to his credit to have kept away for so long.”
“Do you think so?” she asked more brightly. “Do you think he’ll come again? Is it only my silly fifteen years?”
“Of course. Wait—I’ll quickly get ready. I’ll see you home. We can talk about it as we go along.” He went to the mirror and combed his hair. “Do you want a comb, too?” he called. “Here!”
He put his jacket on, washed his hands. “Let’s go!” he said, swinging himself through the window. “We can leave the light burning. I’ll be back soon.”
The night was mild and quiet, a perfect night for walking, and after their hands had twice brushed against each other he took hold of hers, and thus they continued their way, hand in hand, like two good friends.
“You know what, Vi?” said Pagel. “I want to tell you what I have just discovered.… As a matter of fact, it isn’t fitting to talk about such a thing to a young girl, but who else would tell you? Your parents certainly won’t.”
“Oh, them!” said Vi contemptuously. “They think I still believe in the stork!”
“There, you see! Absolute stick-in-the-muds. What can they be thinking of? A young girl can’t help getting ideas into her head with the popular songs nowadays. Well, listen—but how am I to tell you, my child? Damn difficult to speak about such things; one gets embarrassed, and angry at being embarrassed.…”
“Your discovery!” she reminded him.
“Oh, yes. Well, I’ve already told you I belong to another woman, but I assure you that a minute ago I didn’t know it.”
“Well!” cried Vi, stopping. “That’s a nice thing to say to me.”
“Nonsense, Vi; there’s no need to get annoyed. It’s no insult to you. You are young and pretty—and so on. Well, it’s like this: I didn’t know I belonged to the other woman. In the past, before I knew her, I just flirted around, and I thought it was always that way and always would be: one had a row, and then got another girl. Finished with one, on with the next! Girls are no different either,” he said a little shamefacedly, to excuse his crude male standpoint. “Just remember the song: ‘If I see a new man at the next street corner.’ ”