Part 71

“My dear, dear man! My heart, like yours, has been beclouded and bewitched. I cannot give you up. I have settled my accounts. In my soul I am entirely conscious of my guilt. I know what I am doing and assume full responsibility for my action. There is no use to struggle any longer; the water is already swirling over our heads. I simply want to say that you should not delude yourself into believing that we have risen up above other people by what we have done, that we have deserved the gratitude of fate. No, Daniel, what we are doing is precisely what all those do who fall. Let me stay with you, dearest; kiss me, kiss me to death.”

Philippina had promised Eleanore to look after Jordan and Gertrude on Sunday.

As she was crossing Five Points, she went into a shop, and asked for three pfennigs’ worth of court plaster. While doing some housework she had scratched herself on a nail. The clerk gave her the plaster, and asked her what was the news.

“Ah, you poor bloke, you want to know the very latest, don’t you?” she snarled, and then grinned with blatant self-complacency.

“The later the better,” said the fellow with a lustful smirk.

Philippina bent over the counter, and whispered: “They’re taking their wedding trip to-day.” She laughed in a lewd, imbecile way. The clerk stared at her with wide-opened eyes and mouth. Two hours later the news was in the mouth of every hussy in that section of the city.

Gertrude was in bed. The day woman who did the cooking gave Philippina a plate with Jordan’s dinner on it: Meat, vegetables, and a few sour plums. Philippina ate two of the plums on the way up to his room, and licked her fingers.

The whole forenoon she spent rummaging around in Eleanore’s room; she looked through the cabinets, the presses, and the pockets of Eleanore’s dresses. As it began to grow dark, Jordan suddenly entered, in hat and great coat, and looked on in speechless and enraged amazement at the girl’s inexplicable curiosity.

Philippina took the broom from the corner, and began to sweep with all her might. While sweeping she sang, out of tune, impudently, and savagely:

“No fire, no coal, so warmly glows As secret love that no one knows.”

Jordan went away without saying anything. He had forgotten to lock his room. Hardly had Philippina noticed that he had left the key in the door, when she opened it and went in.

She spied around with cowardly, superstitious eyes. She was afraid of the old inspector, as she would have been afraid of an invincible magician. For such cases she had a number of formulas at her tongue’s end. She murmured: “Put earth in, close the lid, hold your thumbs, spit on your shoe.” She spat on her shoe.

She then began to examine the cabinet, for she believed that it contained all of Jordan’s secrets. But she could not open the lock, try as she might. She then went at the writing desk; she was angry. There she found, in plain wooden frames, the pictures of Gertrude and Eleanore. She ran out, got a large needle, came back, and stuck it in the picture of Eleanore right between the eyes. Then she took Gertrude’s picture, and after she had held it for a while, looking at it with her gloomy eyes, she noticed that it was spotted with blood. The plaster had come off her finger, and the finger had started to bleed.

“Come now, Philippina,” she said to herself, “go and see how Gertrude is making out.” Entering Gertrude’s room, she found her asleep. Creeping up to her bed on her tiptoes, she took a chair, straddled it, leaned her chin on the back, and stared fixedly at the face of the young woman, now just barely visible in the darkness of the room.

Gertrude dreamed that a black bird was hovering over her and picking at her breast with its pointed beak. She screamed and woke up.

Shortly after this Gertrude had to send for the midwife.

During the night, Gertrude gave birth to a girl; she had suffered terrible pains. Philippina had seen and heard it all. She had run back and forth, from the kitchen to the bedroom and from the bedroom to the kitchen, for hours; she was like an insane person; she kept mumbling something to herself. What she mumbled no one knew.

Gertrude had called in vain for Daniel; in vain had she waited for him the whole day.

“Where in the world can Daniel be?” cried Philippina, “where can Daniel be with his damned Eleanore?” She sat in the corner with her hands folded, her hair tangled and knotted, her face distorted with the grimaces of madness. The midwife was still busy with Gertrude; the new-born child was crying pitifully.

Daniel held the child in his arms, and looked at it carefully but without love. “You little worm, what do you want in this world?” he said to his daughter. He still had his hat on; so had Eleanore. Both of them were dressed just as they came from the station; they were embarrassed and excited at what had happened. Eleanore was exceedingly pale; her great eyes looked dreamy; her body seemed of almost boyish slenderness. At times she smiled; then the smile died away, as if she did not have the courage to appear so cheerful.

Inspector Jordan was also in the room, acting as he had always acted since his bankruptcy—like a guest who feels that he is a burden to the family. He said very humbly: “I have suggested to Gertrude that she call the child Agnes after my deceased wife.”

“Very well, let’s call her Agnes,” said Daniel.

Gertrude asked that the child be brought to her so that she could nurse it. Eleanore carried it over and laid it at her breast. As the hands of the sisters touched, Gertrude looked up quickly: there was an indescribable expression of thoughtfulness, knowingness, and kindliness on her face. Eleanore fell on her knees, threw her arms around Gertrude’s neck, and kissed her passionately. Gertrude reached out her left hand to Daniel; he gave her his right hand with some hesitancy. Jordan was radiant with joy: “It is so good, children, to see that you all love each other, so good,” he said with visible emotion.

“Daniel, you must move up into Father’s quarters at once,” said Gertrude. “Your piano, bed, and all your things must be taken up, and Eleanore will move into your room. I have already spoken to Father about it, and he feels that it will be a good arrangement. He will be very quiet so as not disturb you. The crying of the baby would make it impossible for you to work.”

“It is a very practical solution of the problem,” said Jordan, speaking for Daniel, and looked down at his frayed coat-sleeves, which he tried to conceal by hiding them behind his back. “I am also glad that Eleanore will be with you. A man, you know, has a habit of going to bed long before a woman quits her daily work. Is that not true, my son-in-law?” With that he clapped Daniel on the shoulder.

“During Gertrude’s confinement I will sleep here in her room,” said Eleanore, avoiding Daniel’s eyes as she said so. “She cannot stay alone, and it costs too much to keep a nurse.”

“Exactly,” said Jordan, and went to the door. But he turned around: “I should like to know,” he asked in a tone of great grief, “who has been at Gertrude’s and Eleanore’s pictures. The one is covered with spots of blood, and the other has a hole punched in it. Isn’t that very strange? I can’t understand it: I can’t imagine who could have done me this injury.” He shook his head and went out.

“Do you realise that to-morrow is the first of November?” asked Gertrude. “Have you the rent ready? Did Father make any money last month?”