When I came to myself I was bewildered and exhausted. The white light of
the corridor shone in the polished floor. I was not among the
immortals, not yet. I was still, as ever, on this side of the riddle of
suffering, of wolf-men and torturing complexities. I had found no happy
spot, no endurable resting place. There must be an end of it.
In the great mirror, Harry stood opposite me. He did not appear
to be very flourishing. His appearance was much the same as on that
night when he visited the professor and sat through the dance at the
Black Eagle. But that was far behind, years, centuries behind. He had
grown older. He had learned to dance. He had visited the magic theater.
He had heard Mozart laugh. Dancing and women and knives had no more
terrors for him. Even those who have average gifts, given a few hundred
years, come to maturity. I looked for a long time at Harry in the
looking glass. I still knew him well enough, and he still bore a faint
resemblance to the boy of fifteen who one Sunday in March had met Rosa
on the cliffs and taken off his school cap to her. And yet he had grown a
few centuries older since then. He had pursued philosophy and music and
had his fill of war and his Elsasser at the Steel Helmet and discussed
Krishna with men of honest learning. He had loved Erica and Maria, and
had been Hermine's friend, and shot down motorcars, and slept with the
sleek Chinese, and encountered Mozart and Goethe, and made sundry holes
in the web of time and rents in reality's disguise, though it held him a
prisoner still. And suppose he had lost his pretty chessman again,
still he had a fine blade in his pocket. On then, old Harry, old weary
loon.
Bah, the devil—how bitter the taste of life! I spat at Harry in
the looking glass. I gave him a kick and kicked him to splinters ....