"A terrible battle. Enormous losses. Buy a list of telegrams--night
telegrams!"
I read it by the light of the street lamp. Four thousand dead. In the
theatre, I should say, there were not more than one thousand. And the
whole way home I kept repeating--"Four thousand dead."
Now I am afraid of returning to my empty house. When I put my key into
the lock and look at the dumb, flat door, I can feel all its dark
empty rooms behind it, which, however, the next minute, a man in a
hat would pass through, looking furtively around him. I know the way
well, but on the stairs I begin lighting match after match, until I
find a candle. I never enter my brother's study, and it is locked with
all that it contains. And I sleep in the dining-room, whither I have
shifted altogether: there I feel calmer, for the air seems to have
still retained the traces of talking and laughter and the merry clang
of dishes. Sometimes I distinctly hear the scraping of a dry pen--and
when I lay down on my bed....