The White Dominican (13 page)

He gently strokes my forehead with a look of love and tenderness in his eyes, and says, “Do not look so horrified, my dear son. Whatever it is that is tormenting you, forget it. Think of it as a feverish dream. You will soon be healthy and happy again.”

He hesitates as he says the word ‘happy’, and I feel that he senses that the days, months, years to come will bring me much pain and misery.

Just as I can sense it.

Does that mean Ophelia has gone already? Does he know?

The question is on the tip of my tongue, but I force it back. I think I would break down in tears if he were to say ‘yes’.

He suddenly starts talking, very quickly, the words come tumbling out; he talks about all sorts of things in order to distract me, to turn my mind to other thoughts. I cannot remember having told him of the dream visit – or whatever it was – of our Founding Father, but I must have. Otherwise how could he suddenly start on the same subject? Almost without introduction, he says:

“You cannot avoid sorrows as long as you are not a ‘Dissolved One’. Someone who is still bound to the earth cannot erase what is in the Book of Destiny. What is sad is not that so many people suffer, what is sad is that their suffering serves no higher purpose. That turns it into a punishment for deeds of hate committed in the past, perhaps in an earlier existence. We can only escape this terrible law of reward and punishment if we accept everything that happens with the thought that its purpose is to awaken our spiritual life. Everything we do should be done from this perspective alone. The spiritual attitude is everything, the deed itself nothing! Suffering becomes meaningful and fruitful if you see it in such a light. Believe me, you will not only be able to bear it more easily, it will also pass more quickly and, in some circumstances, turn into the opposite. The things that sometimes happen in suchlike cases are close to the miraculous, and it is not only inner transformations that come about; no, our material destiny can also change in the strangest way. Of course unbelievers laugh at such claims, but then, what would they not laugh at?

It is as if the soul will not allow us to suffer more for its sake than we can bear.”

“What actually is to be understood by ‘bringing the right hand to life’?” I ask. “Is it merely the beginning of a spiritual development, or has it some other purpose?”

My father thinks for a while.

“How can I make you understand? We can’t keep talking in parables.

Like all forms, the limbs of our body are only symbols for spiritual concepts. The right hand is, so to speak, the symbol for action, doing. If, then, the hand takes on spiritual life, that means we have become spiritually active on the other side, whereas until then we were asleep. It is similar with ‘speaking’, ‘writing’ and ‘reading’. Talking, speaking is, in earthly terms, to communicate. Whether the person with whom we communicate acts on it, is up to him. With ‘spiritual’ speaking it is different. It is no longer communication, for who is there we would communicate with? ‘I’ and ‘you’ are the same over there.

‘Speaking’ in the spiritual sense is the equivalent of creating, a magical calling up into the world of appearances. Here on earth, ‘writing’ is the transient setting down of a thought; over there ‘writing’ is to carve something on the memory of eternity. ‘Reading’ here means to absorb the sense of a written document; over there it is to recognise the great, unchanging laws – and to act according to them for the sake of harmony. But I think, my lad, that while you are still so weak we should not be talking about things that are so difficult to understand.”

“Won’t you tell me about my mother, father? What was she called? I know nothing at all of her.” The question suddenly appeared on my lips; only when it is too late do I notice that I have touched a wound in his heart.

He paces restlessly up and down the room; his speech is disjointed.

“My dearest son, spare me the pain of having to bring the past back to life. She loved me. Yes, I am sure of that. And I loved her – more than I can ever say.

In this I fared the same as all my ancestors. For the men of the line of Jöcher, anything connected with ‘woman’ was ever a torment and our undoing. Without it being our fault, without it being the fault of our mothers.

None of us, as perhaps you know, has had more than one son. The marriage never lasted beyond that. It is as if, with that, it had fulfilled its purpose.

Not one of us had a happy marriage. Perhaps it was because our wives were either much too young, like mine, or older than us. There was no physical harmony between us. With each passing year time tore us farther apart. – And why did she leave me? If only I knew! But I … I do not want to know!

Did she perhaps deceive me? No! I would have felt it. Would still feel it. My sole belief is that love for another woke within her, and when she realised she could no longer avoid her fate, that she was about to be unfaithful to me, she preferred to leave me and seek death.”

“But why did she abandon me, father?”

“For that I have only one explanation. She was a strict Catholic and, although she never said a single word on the matter, she considered our spiritual path a devilish aberration. She wanted to keep you from it, and that was only possible by keeping you away from my influence. That you are my true son you must never doubt, do you hear! She would never, never have given you the name Christopher. That alone is an infallible sign for me that you are not the child … of another.”

“Father, tell me just one more thing. What was she called? I would like to know her Christian name when I think of her.”

“She was called” – my father’s voice gave out, as if the word had stuck in this throat – “she was called … her name was … Ophelia.”

At last I am allowed out again. I am not to light the lamps any more, my father said, not even later on.

I do not know the reason.

The beadle will see to it, as he did before me.

The first place I go – with heart aquiver! – is down to the window on the stairs, but in the house opposite the curtains stay closed all the time.

After a long, long wait in the alleyway I meet the old woman who looks after the house and ask her what has happened. All my vague forebodings and fears have become reality: Ophelia has left me! The old woman says Herr Paris has left for the capital with her.

Now I can also remember why I signed the promissory note; my memory has returned. He promised me he would not make her appear on stage if I could supply him with money. Three days later he broke his word!

Every hour that passes sees me making my way down to the garden seat. I delude myself into believing that Ophelia is sitting there, waiting for me; she is just hiding so that she can leap out with a cry of joy and rush into my arms.

Sometimes I catch myself behaving oddly: I start turning over the sand around the seat with the spade that is leant against the garden fence, with a stick, with the remains of a plank, with anything that happens to come to hand, sometimes even with my bare hands

It is as if the earth concealed something that I must tear from its grasp.

I have read in books that people who are lost in the desert and dying of thirst root round in the sand in the same way and dig great holes with their fingers.

The pain is burning with such a heat, that I can feel it no more. Or am I hovering above myself, so that the torment cannot reach me?

The capital is many miles upstream; will the river not bring me greetings?

Then I suddenly find myself sitting at my mother’s grave, not knowing how I came to get there.

It must be that same name, ‘Ophelia’, that drew me there.

Why is the postman crossing Baker’s Row and going towards our house, now, in the midday heat when everything is sleeping? I have never seen him here before. There is no one who lives round here to whom he might bring a letter.

He sees me, stops and rummages round in his leather bag.

I know my heart will burst if it is a message from Ophelia!

I stand there, dazed, holding in my hand something white with a red seal.

“Dear Baron Jöcher,

If you should open this letter to Christopher, then please, please, do not read any further. I beg you, from the depths of my soul, do not read the accompanying pages. If you are unwilling to pass the letter on to Christl, then burn both of them, but whatever you do, do not let Christl out of your eyes, not for one minute. He is still so young, and I would not like to be the reason for him committing a rash act, if he were to learn from other lips than yours what you – and he – are bound to learn soon.

Please fulfil this request that comes from the bottom of my heart (I know that you will).

Your most obedient servant,

Ophelia M.”

“My beloved child, my poor, poor, beloved child,

My heart tells me that you are well again, and that means you will have the strength and courage, as I hope with heart and soul, to face up to what I have to say to you.

I am sure God will never forget the deed you did for my sake, and I send up a hymn of joyful praise to him for giving me the opportunity to undo it. What you must have had to go through for my sake, my dearest, my own!

That you could have told your father of my situation is not possible. I begged you to say nothing to him about it and I know you respected my desire. He would certainly have hinted at it when I went to see him, to tell him how much we loved each other and to say farewell to him – and to you.

So you are the only one who can have signed the promissory note.

Today I weep tears of joy that I can return it to you. I came across it by chance on the desk of that horrible man, whose name I refuse to speak again.

How can I express my thanks to you, my one and only child? Could there be anything I could do to prove how grateful I am? It is impossible that such great gratitude and love as I feel for you cannot reach out from the grave. I know that they will persist through all eternity, just as I know that I will be with you in spirit, accompanying your every step and protecting you from all danger, like a faithful hound, until we meet again.

We never spoke about it. How could we have had time to, when we had to embrace and kiss each other? But believe me: just as surely as providence exists, so there is a land of eternal youth. If I did not know that, where would I find the courage to leave you?

There we will meet again, never more to part; there we will both be – and stay – as young as each other, and time will be an eternal present.

There is only one thing that saddens me – but no, I am smiling at it already! That is that you will not be able to carry out my wish to bury me in the garden by our darling little bench.

I beg you, more passionately, more urgently than the last time we saw each other, to remain on earth for the sake of our love. Live your life, I implore you, until the Angel of Death should come to you of his own accord, and not because you have called him. I want you to be older than me when we meet again. That is why you must live out your full life here on earth. And I will be waiting for you over there in the land of eternal youth.

Rejoice that I am free, free at last, now, just as you are reading my letter.

Would you prefer to know that I was suffering? What that suffering would be, if I were to remain alive, cannot be put into words. I have seen – once and once only – the life that would await me, and I shudder with horror.

Better hell than such a profession!

But even that I would suffer with pleasure, if I knew it would bring me closer to the happiness of being united with you. Do not think I am throwing life away because I am incapable of suffering for your sake. I am doing it because I know our souls would be separated, both here and on the other side.

Do not think these are mere words, set down to comfort you, a delusion to ensnare you, when I say that I know that I will survive the grave and be with you once again. I
know
that it is true, I swear to you. My every nerve knows it. My heart, my blood knows it. There are a hundred portents that tell me. Waking, sleeping and in my dreams.

I can give you proof that I am not mistaken. Do you think I would be so presumptuous as to promise you something if I were not absolutely sure it would happen.

Listen; now, as you are reading these words, close your eyes. I will kiss your tears. Do you know now that I am by you, that I am living?

Do not be afraid, my own, that the moment of death might be painful for me. I love the river so much; it will not harm me when I entrust my body to its care.

Oh, if only I could be buried beside our bench!

I will not beseech God to let it happen, but perhaps he will read my mute, childish wish and let a miracle happen. There are so many other, greater ones he has performed.

One more thing, my love. If it is possible, and when you are a true man, in the fullness of your strength, then help my poor foster-father.

But no, do not trouble yourself about it. I will be beside him myself and will support him. At the same time, it will be a sign for you that my soul can do more than my body ever could.

And now, my beloved, my faithful child, a thousand, a million kisses from your happy Ophelia.”

Are these really my hands holding the letter and then slowly folding it up again?

Is this person who is touching his eyelids, his face, his chest really me?

Why are there no tears in these eyes?

Lips from the realm of death have kissed them away; even now I can still feel their caress. And yet I feel as if an infinitely long time has passed since their touch. Is it perhaps just a memory of that night in the boat, when Ophelia kissed away my tears?

Is it the dead who bring our memories back to life when they want us to feel their presence? Do they cross the stream of time to reach us by turning back the clock within us?

My soul is paralysed. How strange that my blood is still ebbing and flowing. Or is it the pulse of some other person, a stranger, that I can feel beating?

I look down at the ground. Are those my feet moving mechanically, step by step, towards the house, and now up the stairs? They ought to be trembling, stumbling at the pain the person they belong to is suffering, if that person be me.