clay. She was barefoot and in her nightgown. Dr. Yaretzky carried her into her room and put her to bed.
The widow tried to keep the incident secret but the town learned all about it. Dr. Yaretzky had asked Helena for her hand. Before the widow and the servants he'd kissed Helena's seared lips. She'd raised her lids, taken Yaretzky's hand, put it to her mouth, and for the second time that day--kissed it.
VII
BETWEEN YES AND NO
The town prepared itself for a splendid wedding. At the estate tailors sewed Helena's trousseau, seamstresses embroidered lingerie. The town merchants imported numerous items from Lublin and Warsaw to supplement the bride's outfit. The orchestra tuned up its instruments. A ball was scheduled at the Military Club in honor of the engaged couple. Dr. Yaretzky, however, knew no peace. He felt as if he were at the edge of disaster. Precisely at one o'clock every night he would awaken with the sensation that someone was blowing into his ear. He would sit up trembling, sweating--heavyhearted. "What am I doing?" he would ask himself. "How have I managed to ensnare myself? Why am I suddenly getting married?"
The ardor that he'd felt towards Helena the night he'd found her poisoned, had deserted him. Only apprehension remained. He was well aware of the pitfalls of married life. "Have I lost my senses?" he wondered, "have I been bewitched? But there is no such thing as black magic!"
Dr. Yaretzky recalled how he had stared through the rabbi's window. "Could the scene between the rabbi and his wife actually have unbalanced me, deprived me of my convictions, my resolutions? If so, I have no character at all!" he said aloud.
He would get up and wander like a sleepwalker from room to room in the dark. Various remedies occurred to him: To run away while there was still time; perhaps put a bullet through his brain ... or write Helena a note breaking the engagement. He could not forget Schopenhauer's description of woman: That narrow-waisted, high-breasted, wide-hipped vessel of sex, which blind will has formed for its own purposes--to perpetuate the eternal suffering and tedium. "No! I won't do it!" he would shout. "I won't stumble into a ditch like some blind horse! Yes, I made a promise--but what is a promise? What is honor?" Yaretzky knew Schopenhauer's essay on dueling and his whole concept of honor. It was waste, refuse--a relic of the days of knighthood, an absurd anachronism! "A curse on the whole damned thing!" Yaretzky would say to himself.
After considerable struggle with himself, Dr. Yaretzky decided to run away. What ties did he have in this God-forsaken hole? Neither friends nor relatives, a house which was not his own, furniture not worth a kopeck. His money was hidden in a secret place, he could hitch up his britzska in the middle of the night, load it with clothes, books, and instruments--and be gone. What code ordained that a man must endure the human comedy to the end? No one could force him to swear faithfulness to a wife, to raise sons and daughters, to blend his seed with the seed of those who served blind will like slaves, celebrated its weddings, wailed at its funerals, grew old, broken, crushed, forgotten. It was true that he felt compassion for Helena; he agreed with Schopenhauer--pity was the basis of morality; but what of the generations he and Helena would spawn? It was worse for them. Their anguish would persist eternally. How does it go: The luckiest child is the one not born?
He had little time left, he'd have to move quickly. His maid was deaf and mute and in addition, a heavy sleeper. His coachman spent his nights with a sweetheart in a nearby village. The only obstacle was the dog. He would bark and raise a rumpus. "I'll have to give him something!" Dr. Yaretzky decided. He had various poisons in his cabinet. Would it matter whether he lived twelve years--or nine? Death was unavoidable. It was everywhere--in the bed of a woman in labor, in a child's cradle, it trailed life like
The widow tried to keep the incident secret but the town learned all about it. Dr. Yaretzky had asked Helena for her hand. Before the widow and the servants he'd kissed Helena's seared lips. She'd raised her lids, taken Yaretzky's hand, put it to her mouth, and for the second time that day--kissed it.
VII
BETWEEN YES AND NO
The town prepared itself for a splendid wedding. At the estate tailors sewed Helena's trousseau, seamstresses embroidered lingerie. The town merchants imported numerous items from Lublin and Warsaw to supplement the bride's outfit. The orchestra tuned up its instruments. A ball was scheduled at the Military Club in honor of the engaged couple. Dr. Yaretzky, however, knew no peace. He felt as if he were at the edge of disaster. Precisely at one o'clock every night he would awaken with the sensation that someone was blowing into his ear. He would sit up trembling, sweating--heavyhearted. "What am I doing?" he would ask himself. "How have I managed to ensnare myself? Why am I suddenly getting married?"
The ardor that he'd felt towards Helena the night he'd found her poisoned, had deserted him. Only apprehension remained. He was well aware of the pitfalls of married life. "Have I lost my senses?" he wondered, "have I been bewitched? But there is no such thing as black magic!"
Dr. Yaretzky recalled how he had stared through the rabbi's window. "Could the scene between the rabbi and his wife actually have unbalanced me, deprived me of my convictions, my resolutions? If so, I have no character at all!" he said aloud.
He would get up and wander like a sleepwalker from room to room in the dark. Various remedies occurred to him: To run away while there was still time; perhaps put a bullet through his brain ... or write Helena a note breaking the engagement. He could not forget Schopenhauer's description of woman: That narrow-waisted, high-breasted, wide-hipped vessel of sex, which blind will has formed for its own purposes--to perpetuate the eternal suffering and tedium. "No! I won't do it!" he would shout. "I won't stumble into a ditch like some blind horse! Yes, I made a promise--but what is a promise? What is honor?" Yaretzky knew Schopenhauer's essay on dueling and his whole concept of honor. It was waste, refuse--a relic of the days of knighthood, an absurd anachronism! "A curse on the whole damned thing!" Yaretzky would say to himself.
After considerable struggle with himself, Dr. Yaretzky decided to run away. What ties did he have in this God-forsaken hole? Neither friends nor relatives, a house which was not his own, furniture not worth a kopeck. His money was hidden in a secret place, he could hitch up his britzska in the middle of the night, load it with clothes, books, and instruments--and be gone. What code ordained that a man must endure the human comedy to the end? No one could force him to swear faithfulness to a wife, to raise sons and daughters, to blend his seed with the seed of those who served blind will like slaves, celebrated its weddings, wailed at its funerals, grew old, broken, crushed, forgotten. It was true that he felt compassion for Helena; he agreed with Schopenhauer--pity was the basis of morality; but what of the generations he and Helena would spawn? It was worse for them. Their anguish would persist eternally. How does it go: The luckiest child is the one not born?
He had little time left, he'd have to move quickly. His maid was deaf and mute and in addition, a heavy sleeper. His coachman spent his nights with a sweetheart in a nearby village. The only obstacle was the dog. He would bark and raise a rumpus. "I'll have to give him something!" Dr. Yaretzky decided. He had various poisons in his cabinet. Would it matter whether he lived twelve years--or nine? Death was unavoidable. It was everywhere--in the bed of a woman in labor, in a child's cradle, it trailed life like
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