hear my breath whistling in my throat. I have to lean against the wall to stop myself from falling forward through the glass of the window.
‘Can I really become a murderer?’ The piteous cry tears at my breast. ‘Can I fall on him from behind and strike him dead, this poor, old man who has worn himself out in the service of my Ophelia?’
Then: a jolt, and the lathe is still. The humming stops. A sudden deathly hush snaps at my throat.
Mutschelknaus has straightened up; his head on one side, he seems to be listening. Then he puts the chisel down and comes, hesitantly, over toward the window. Closer and closer. His eyes fixed on mine.
I know that he cannot see me as I am standing in darkness and he is in the light; but even if I knew that he could see me, I would still be unable to flee, for all the strength has drained out of me.
He has slowly come right up to the window and is staring out into the blackness. There is only a hand’s-breadth between our eyes, and I can see every wrinkle in his face. It has an expression of boundless exhaustion. Then he passes his hand slowly over his forehead and looks at his fingers, half in astonishment, half musing, as if he had seen blood on them and did not know how it came to be there.
Suddenly his features are suffused with a faint ray of hope and joy, and he bows his head, patient and resigned, like a martyr awaiting the death-blow.
I can understand what his spirit is saying to me!
His dull wits do not know why they let him do all this. His body is merely the outward expression of his soul, which is whispering, ‘Release me for the sake of my dear daughter.’
Now I realise that it must be. It is merciful death itself that will guide my hand. Can my love for Ophelia be less than his? Only now do I feel, in the deepest recesses of my soul, what Ophelia has to suffer daily, eaten away by the torment of her pity for him, the most pitiful of all the wretched. It burns into me, like the shirt of Nessus.
Will I be able to carry out the deed? It is impossible for me to imagine it.
Could I smash his skull with that cold chisel there?
Could I look into his dying eyes?
Could I drag his body out into the alley and throw it into the water? And then, my hands soiled with blood for the rest of my life, could I ever embrace Ophelia and kiss her again?
Could I, a murderer, look my dear, dear father in the face, that kindly face?
No! I would never be able to do that, I can feel it. The dreadful deed must be done, and I must carry it out, that I know, but I will sink to the bottom of the river with the dead body.
I pull myself together and slip over to the door. There I pause, before I grasp the latch, and clench my hands together as I try to scream a plea to my heart, ‘Lord, who has mercy on us all, give me strength.’
But these are not the words my lips pray. My spirit cannot command them, and they whisper, “Lord, if it be possible, let this cup pass from me.”
Then the deathly hush is shattered by a reverberation of brass, tearing the words from my lips. The air quivers, the earth trembles. The clock in the tower of St. Mary’s has bellowed out.
In all the life around and within me, it is as if the darkness has turned white.
And, as if from the far, far distance, from the mountain that I know from my dream, I hear the voice of the White Dominican, who confirmed me and forgave me my sins – my past as well as my future sins – calling my name:
“Christopher, Christopher!”
A heavy hand lands on my shoulder.
“Murder most foul!”
I realise it is the grumbling bass voce of Herr Paris, the actor, that is echoing in my ear, soft and muted, full of menace and hatred, but I do not resist. Unresisting, I let myself be dragged into the lamplight.
“Murder most foul!”
I can see him foaming at the mouth. His swollen toper’s nose, his flabby cheeks, his chin, gleaming with spittle, everything about him is bobbing with triumph and devilish
‘Can I really become a murderer?’ The piteous cry tears at my breast. ‘Can I fall on him from behind and strike him dead, this poor, old man who has worn himself out in the service of my Ophelia?’
Then: a jolt, and the lathe is still. The humming stops. A sudden deathly hush snaps at my throat.
Mutschelknaus has straightened up; his head on one side, he seems to be listening. Then he puts the chisel down and comes, hesitantly, over toward the window. Closer and closer. His eyes fixed on mine.
I know that he cannot see me as I am standing in darkness and he is in the light; but even if I knew that he could see me, I would still be unable to flee, for all the strength has drained out of me.
He has slowly come right up to the window and is staring out into the blackness. There is only a hand’s-breadth between our eyes, and I can see every wrinkle in his face. It has an expression of boundless exhaustion. Then he passes his hand slowly over his forehead and looks at his fingers, half in astonishment, half musing, as if he had seen blood on them and did not know how it came to be there.
Suddenly his features are suffused with a faint ray of hope and joy, and he bows his head, patient and resigned, like a martyr awaiting the death-blow.
I can understand what his spirit is saying to me!
His dull wits do not know why they let him do all this. His body is merely the outward expression of his soul, which is whispering, ‘Release me for the sake of my dear daughter.’
Now I realise that it must be. It is merciful death itself that will guide my hand. Can my love for Ophelia be less than his? Only now do I feel, in the deepest recesses of my soul, what Ophelia has to suffer daily, eaten away by the torment of her pity for him, the most pitiful of all the wretched. It burns into me, like the shirt of Nessus.
Will I be able to carry out the deed? It is impossible for me to imagine it.
Could I smash his skull with that cold chisel there?
Could I look into his dying eyes?
Could I drag his body out into the alley and throw it into the water? And then, my hands soiled with blood for the rest of my life, could I ever embrace Ophelia and kiss her again?
Could I, a murderer, look my dear, dear father in the face, that kindly face?
No! I would never be able to do that, I can feel it. The dreadful deed must be done, and I must carry it out, that I know, but I will sink to the bottom of the river with the dead body.
I pull myself together and slip over to the door. There I pause, before I grasp the latch, and clench my hands together as I try to scream a plea to my heart, ‘Lord, who has mercy on us all, give me strength.’
But these are not the words my lips pray. My spirit cannot command them, and they whisper, “Lord, if it be possible, let this cup pass from me.”
Then the deathly hush is shattered by a reverberation of brass, tearing the words from my lips. The air quivers, the earth trembles. The clock in the tower of St. Mary’s has bellowed out.
In all the life around and within me, it is as if the darkness has turned white.
And, as if from the far, far distance, from the mountain that I know from my dream, I hear the voice of the White Dominican, who confirmed me and forgave me my sins – my past as well as my future sins – calling my name:
“Christopher, Christopher!”
A heavy hand lands on my shoulder.
“Murder most foul!”
I realise it is the grumbling bass voce of Herr Paris, the actor, that is echoing in my ear, soft and muted, full of menace and hatred, but I do not resist. Unresisting, I let myself be dragged into the lamplight.
“Murder most foul!”
I can see him foaming at the mouth. His swollen toper’s nose, his flabby cheeks, his chin, gleaming with spittle, everything about him is bobbing with triumph and devilish
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