“I said that a couple of days ago too—to a woman who was in despair. But suppose the thought was not there?”
Bodendiek looks at me. “The Church has rules. She has rules for prevention and for education. God has none. God is love. Which of us can fathom His judgment?”
“Does He judge?”
“We call it so. It is love.”
“Love,” I say bitterly. “A love full of sadism. A love that torments people and makes them miserable and pretends to compensate for the horrible injustice of this world by the promise of an imaginary heaven.”
Bodendiek smiles. “Don’t you think that other people before you have thought about that too?”
“Yes, countless people. And smarter than I am.”
“I think so too,” Bodendiek replies comfortably.
“That doesn’t prevent me from doing it too.”
“Certainly not,” Bodendiek fills his glass. “Only do it thoroughly. Doubt is the other side of faith.”
I look at him. There he sits, a tower of security which nothing can shake. Behind his strong head stands the night, Isabelle’s unquiet night, which blows and tosses and is endless and full of unanswerable questions. Bodendiek, however, has an answer for everything.
The door opens. Our meal is brought in round dishes stacked on top of one another on a big tray. They fit into one another the way they do in hospitals. The kitchen nurse spreads a cloth over the table, lays out the knives, forks, and spoons and disappears. Bodendiek lifts the top dish. “What do we have tonight? Bouillon,” he says delicately. “Bouillon with marrow balls. First class! And red cabbage with Sauerbraten. A revelation!”
He fills his own plate and begins to eat. I am annoyed at myself for having argued with him and I feel his obvious superiority although that has nothing to do with the problem. He is superior because he is not seeking anything. He knows. But what does he really know? He can prove nothing. Nevertheless, he can play with me as he wishes.
The doctor comes in. It is not the director; it is the resident physician. “Will you eat with us?” Bodendiek asks. “In that case you’ll have to go to it. Otherwise there’ll be nothing left.”
The doctor shakes his head. “I haven’t time. There’s going to be a thunderstorm. That’s when the patients are always most restless.”
“There’s no sign of a storm.”
“Not yet. But it will come. The patients feel it in advance.
We’ve already had to put some of them in baths. It will be a difficult night”
Bodendiek divides the rest of the Sauerbraten between us. He takes the larger portion for himself. “All right, Doctor,” he says. “But at least have a glass of wine with us. It’s a 1915. A gift of God! Even for this young heathen here.”
He winks at me, and I would like to pour my Sauerbraten gravy down his slightly greasy collar. The doctor sits down with us and accepts a glass. The pale nurse puts her head through the door. “I won’t eat now, Nurse,” the doctor says. “Put a couple of sandwiches and a bottle of beer in my room.”
He is a man of about thirty-five, dark, with a narrow face, close-set eyes, and big, projecting ears. His name is Wernicke, Guido Wernicke, and he hates his first name as much as I hate Rolf.
“How is Fräulein Terhoven?” I ask.
“Terhoven? Oh yes—not especially well, unfortunately. Didn’t you notice anything today? Any change?”
“No. She was the same as ever. Perhaps a little excited, but you just said that was due to the thunderstorm.”
“We’ll see. You can never tell much in advance up here.”
Bodendiek laughs. “Certainly not. Not here.”
I look at him. What a rude Christian, I think. But then it occurs to me that he is a guardian of souls by profession; in such cases there is always some loss of sensibility in the interests of competence—just as with doctors, nurses, and tombstone salesmen.
I hear him conversing with Wernicke. Suddenly I have no more desire to eat and I get up and go to the window. Beyond the tossing, black treetops all at once there has risen a wall of pale-edged cloud. I stare out. All at once everything is very strange, and behind the familiar scene of the garden another, wilder one silently forces its way forward, pushing the old one aside like an empty husk. I recall Isabelle’s cry: “Where is my first face? My face before all the mirrors?” Yes, where is the first face of all? I think. The first landscape before it was turned into the landscape of our senses, into parkland and wood and house and man—where is Bodendiek’s face before it became Bodendiek, where is Wernicke’s before it had a name? Do we still know anything about that? Or are we caught in a net of concepts and words, of logic and deceptive reasoning, behind which lie the lonesome, glowing primeval fires to which we no longer have access because we have transformed them into utility and warmth, into kitchen fires and central heating and deceit and certainty and respectability and walls and, most of all, into a Turkish bath of sweaty philosophy and science? Where are they? Do they still stand, ever unseizable and pure and unattainable, behind life and death, before they became life and death for us, and are the only persons still close to them maybe those who now crouch in this house in their barred rooms and creep and stare and feel the thunderstorm in their blood? Where is the boundary between chaos and order and who can cross it and return, and if anyone could what would he then know of it? Would not the one wipe out the memory of the other? Who are the unbalanced, the branded, the excluded—we without boundaries, our reason, our orderly picture of the world or the others through whom chaos rages and flashes and who are exposed to infinity like rooms with three walls into which lightning strikes and storm and rain pour while we others sit proudly enclosed in rooms protected by four walls and doors and think we are superior because we have escaped from chaos? But what is chaos? And what is order? And who possesses them? And why? And who will ever escape?
A pale light darts high above the garden wall and after a time is answered by soft rumbling. Our room seems like a cabin full of light afloat in a night which has become uncanny, as though somewhere captive giants were straining at their chains to leap up and annihilate the race of dwarfs that has for a time confined them. A cabin of light in the darkness, books and three orderly minds in a house like a beehive where the uncanny is locked up in cells and flashes lightning-like in the disturbed brains around us! What if in the next second a flash of recognition should run through them all and they should find their way together in revolt, what if they broke the locks, forced open the bars, and foamed up the stairs like a gray wave to sweep away the lighted room, this cabin of sound, well-grounded reason, into the night and into what stands, nameless and mighty, behind the night?
I turn around. The man of faith and the man of science are sitting in the full brilliance of the ceiling light. For them the world is not a vague, quivering unrest, it is not a muttering from the depths or a lightning flash in the icy spaces of the void—they are men of faith and of science, they have sounding lines and plummets and scales and measures, each of them a different set but that does not matter, they are sure, they have names to put on everything like labels, they sleep well, they have a goal that contents them, and even horror, the black curtain in front of suicide, has a well-recognized place in their existence, it has a name, it has been classified and thereby rendered harmless. Only what is nameless or has burst its name is deadly.
“There’s lightning,” I say.
The doctor looks up. “Really?”
He has just been explaining the nature of schizophrenia, Isabelle’s ailment. His dark face is slightly flushed with excitement. He describes how patients of this sort leap lightning-like from one personality to another in a matter of seconds and how this may be the reason that in ancient times they were regarded as seers and holy men and in later times as possessed of the devil and were looked upon by the people with superstitious respect. He philosophizes about the causes, and suddenly I wonder how he comes to know all this and why he describes it as a sickness. Could it not equally well be regarded as a particular asset? Doesn’t every normal person have a dozen personalities in him too? And isn’t the distinction simply that the healthy person suppresses them and the sick one gives them scope? Who then is sick?