"I visited her grave a few days before I came back." He hesitated.
Heinrich was looking fixedly at him with a violently interrogative
expression which compelled George to go on speaking. "Just think
now, isn't it strange? since that time those two persons are always
associated together in my memory, though I have never seen one of them
and have only caught a glimpse of the other one at the theatre--as you
know. I mean Nürnberger's dead sister and ... this actress."
Heinrich grew pale to his very lips. "Are you superstitious?" he asked
scornfully, but it sounded as though he were asking himself.
"Not at all," cried George. "Besides, what has superstition to do with
this matter?"
"I'll only tell you that everything that has any connection at all with
mysticism goes radically against the grain with me. Lots of twaddle is
passed off in the world for science, but talking about things which
one can't know anything about, things whose very essence is that one
can never know anything about them, is in my view the most intolerable
twaddle of the whole lot."
"Can she have died, this actress?" thought George.
Suddenly Heinrich took up the envelope again in his hand, and said in
that dry tone which he liked to assume at those very moments when he
was most deeply harrowed: "Writing out these words here is childish
tomfoolery or affectation if you like. I could also have added the
words Daudet put before his Sappho: 'To you, my son, when you are
twenty years of age....' Too silly, anyway. As though the experiences
of one man could be the slightest use to another man. The experiences
of one man can often be amusing for another, more often bewildering,
but never instructive.... And do you know why it is that both those
figures are associated in your brain? I'll tell you why. Simply because
in one of my letters I employed the expression 'Ghost' with reference
to my former mistress. So that clears up this mysterious embroglio."
"That's not impossible," replied George. From somewhere or other came
the indistinct sound of bad piano-playing. George looked out. The sun
lay on the yellow wall opposite. Many windows were open. A boy sat
at one of them, his arms resting on the window-ledge, and read. From
another two young girls looked down into the garden courtyard. The
clattering of utensils was audible. George longed for the open air,
for his seat on the border of the forest. Before he turned to go it
occurred to him to say: "I wanted to tell you, Heinrich, that Anna too
liked your verses very much. Have you written any more?"
"Not many."
"It would be nice if you brought along to-day all you have done of the
libretto and read it to us." He stood by the piano and struck a couple
of chords.
"What's that?" asked Heinrich.
"A theme," replied George "that's just occurred to me for the second
act. It is meant to accompany the moment in which the remarkable
stranger appears on the ship."
Heinrich shut the window, George sat down and started to go on playing.
There was a knock at the door, and Heinrich automatically cried: "Come
in."
A young lady came in in a light cloth skirt with a red silk blouse
and a white velvet ribbon with a little gold cross round her neck. A
Florentine hat trimmed with roses shaded with its broad brim the pale
little face from which two big black eyes peered out.
"Good afternoon," said the strange lady in a low voice, which
sounded at the same time both defiant and embarrassed. "Excuse me,
Herr Bermann, I didn't know that you had visitors," and she looked
inquisitively at George, who had at once recognised her.
Heinrich grew paler and puckered his forehead. "I certainly had no
idea," he began. He then introduced them and said to the lady: "Won't
you sit down?"
"Thanks," she answered curtly and remained standing. "Perhaps I'll come
again later."
"Please don't," cut in George. "I am just on the point of running off."
He watched the look of the actress roving round the room and felt a
strange pity for her, such as one frequently feels in dreams for dead
people who do not know that they have died. He then saw Heinrich's
glance rest on this pale little face with inconceivable hardness.
He now remembered very clearly seeing her on the stage, with the
reddish-blonde hair that fell over her forehead and her roving eyes.
"That's not how persons look," he thought, "who are fated to belong
only to _one_ man. And to think of Heinrich, who plumes himself so much
on his knowledge of character, never having felt that! What did he
really want of her? It was vanity which burnt in his soul, nothing more
than vanity."
George walked along the street, which was like a dry oven. The walls
of the houses threw back into the air the summer heat which they had
absorbed. George took the horse-tram to the hills and woods, and
breathed more freely when he was in the country. He walked slowly on
between the gardens and villas, then passing the churchyard he took
a white road with a gradual incline called Sommerhaidenweg, which he
regarded as a good omen, and which was used by practically nobody
during this late hour of a sunny afternoon. No shade came from the
wooded line of heights on his left, only a gentle purring of breezes
which had gone to sleep in the leaves. On the right a green incline
sloped downwards towards the long stretch of valley where roofs were
gleaming between the boughs and tree-tops. Further down vineyards and
tilled fields struggled up behind garden fences towards meadows and
quarries, over which shrubbery and bushes hung in the glittering sun.
The path along which George was accustomed to wander was just a thin
straight line often lost among the fields, and his eye sought the place
on the border of the forest where his favourite seat was situated:
meadows and wooded heights at the end of the valley with fresh vales
and hills. George felt himself strangely wedded to this landscape and
the thought that his own career and his own will called him abroad
often wove farewell moods around his lonely walks even now.
But at the same time a presentiment of a richer life stirred within
him. It was as though many things were coming to birth in his soul
which he had no right to disturb by anxious reflection; and there was a
murmur of the melodies of days to come in the lower depths of his soul,
though it was not yet vouchsafed to him to hear them clearly. He had
not been idle, either, in drafting out clearly the rough plan of his
future. He had written a letter of polite thanks to Detmold, in which
he placed himself with reservation at the disposition of the manager
for the coming autumn. He had also looked up old Professor Viebiger,
explained his plans to him and requested him if the opportunity
presented itself to remember his former pupil. But even though contrary
to his expectations he failed to find a position in the autumn he was
determined to leave Vienna, to retire for the time being to a small
town or into the country, and to go on working by himself amid the
quietness. He had not clearly worked out how his relations to Anna
would shape under these circumstances. He only knew that they must
never end. He thought vaguely that he and Anna would visit each other
and go on journeys together at some convenient time; subsequently no
doubt she would move to the place where he lived and worked. But it
struck him as useless to go deeply into these matters before the actual
hour arrived, since his own life had been definitely decided at any
rate for the coming year.
The Sommerhaidenweg ran into the forest, and George took the broad
Villenweg, which crossed the valley at this point and curved downwards.
In a few minutes he found himself in the street, at the end of which
stood the little villa in which Anna lived. It was close to the forest,
near unpretentious yellow bungalows and only raised above their level
by its attic and balcony with its triangular wooden gable. He crossed
the plot of ground in front of the house where the little blue clay
angel welcomed him on its square pedestal in the middle of the lawn
between the flower-beds, and went through the narrow passage near
which the kitchen lay, and the cool middle room on whose floor the
rays of the sun were playing through the dilapidated green Venetian
blinds and stepped on to the verandah. He turned towards the left
and cast a glance through the open window into Anna's room, which he
found empty. He then went into the garden and walking along the lilac
and currant-bushes towards the bottom, soon saw Anna some way off,
sitting on the white seat under the pear-tree in her loose blue dress.
She did not see him coming, but seemed quite plunged in thought. He
slowly approached. She still did not look up. He loved her very much at
moments like this when she thought she was unobserved and the goodness
and peacefulness of her character floated serenely around her clear
forehead. The grasshoppers chirruped on the gravel at their feet.
Opposite them on the grass the strange St. Bernard dog lay sleeping.
It was the animal which first noticed George's arrival as it woke up.
It got up and jogged clumsily towards George. Anna now looked up and a
happy smile swept over her features. Why am I so seldom here? was the
thought which ran through George's mind. Why don't I live out here and
work on top on the balcony under the gable, which has a beautiful view
on to the Sommerhaidenweg? His forehead had grown damp, for the late
afternoon sun was still blazing.
He stood in front of Anna, kissed her on the eyes and mouth and sat
down at her side. The animal had slunk after him and stretched itself
out at his feet. "How are you, my darling?" he asked, while he put his
arm around her neck.
She was very well, as usual, and to-day was a particularly fine day.
She had been left quite to herself since the morning, for Frau Golowski
had to go to town again to look after her family. It was really not
so bad to be so completely alone with oneself. One could sink then
into one's dreams undisturbed. They were of course always the same,
but they were so sweet that one did not get tired of them. She had
let herself dream about her child. How much she loved it to-day, even
before it was born! She would never have considered it possible. Did
George understand it too?... And as he nodded absent-mindedly she shook
her head. No, no ... a man could not understand that, even the very
best and kindest man. Why, she could feel the little being already
moving, could detect the beating of its tender heart, could feel this
new incomprehensible soul breathe within her, just in the same way as
she felt the flowering and awakening within her of its fresh young
body. And George looked in front of him as though ashamed that she
was facing the near future. It was true of course that a being would
exist, begotten by himself, like himself and itself destined again to
give life to new beings; it was true that within the blessed body of
that woman, for which he had ceased for a long time now to feel any
desire, there was swelling, according to the eternal laws, a life that
only a year ago had been undreamt-of, unwished-for, lost in infinity,
but which now was forcing its way up to the light like something
predestined from time immemorial; it was true that he knew that he was
irresistibly drawn into that forged chain that stretched from primal
ancestor to future descendant and which he grasped as it were with
both hands ... but he did not feel that this miracle made so potent an
appeal to him as it really ought.
And they spoke to-day more seriously than usual about what was to
happen after the child's birth. Anna, of course, would keep it with
her during the first week, but then they would have to give it to
strangers; but at any rate it should live quite near, so that Anna
could see it at any time without any difficulty.
"I say, dear," she said quite lightly and suddenly, "will you often
come and visit us?"
He looked into her arch smiling face, took both her hands and kissed
her. "Dearest, what am I to do? Tell me yourself. You can imagine how
hard it will be for me. But what else is there for me to do? I've got
to make a beginning. I've already told you we've given notice to leave
the apartment," he added hastily, as though that cut off all retreat.
"Felician is probably going to Athens. Yes, it would of course be fine
if I could take you with me. But I am afraid that isn't possible.
There ought above all to be something more or less certain, I mean one
ought--ought at least to be certain that I shall remain in the same
place for a longish time."
She had listened with quiet seriousness. She then started to speak
about her latest idea. He must not believe, she said, that she was
thinking of putting the whole burden of responsibility upon him. She
was determined as soon as it was feasible to found a music-school. If
he left her alone for a long time the school would be here in Vienna.
If he soon came to fetch her it would be wherever she and he had their
home. And when she was once in an independent position she meant to
take and keep her child whether she was his wife or not. She was very
far from being ashamed of it, he knew that quite well. She was rather
proud ... yes, proud of being a mother.
He took her hands in his and stroked them. It would all come right
enough, he said, feeling somewhat depressed. He suddenly saw himself
sitting at supper between wife and child, beneath the modest light of a
hanging lamp in an extremely simple home. And this family scene of his
imagination wafted towards him, as it were, an atmosphere of troubled
boredom. Come, it was still too early for that, he was still too young.
Was it possible, then, that she was to be the last woman whom he was
to embrace? Of course it might come in years, even in months, but not
to-day. As for bringing lies and deceit into a well-ordered home, he
had a horror of the idea. Yet the thought of rushing away from her to
others whom he desired, with the consciousness that he would find Anna
again just as he had left her, was at once tempting and reassuring.
The well-known whistle was heard from outside. The dog got up, made
George stroke her yellow-spotted back once again and sadly slunk away.
"By Jove," said George, "I had almost forgotten all about it. Heinrich
will be here any minute." He told Anna about his visit and did not
suppress the fact that he had made the acquaintance of the faithless
actress.
"Did she succeed then?" exclaimed Anna, who did not fancy ladies with
roving eyes.
"I don't think that she succeeded at all," replied George. "Heinrich
was rather annoyed at her turning up, so far as I could see."
"Well, perhaps he'll bring her along too," said Anna jestingly, "then
you will have some one to flirt with again, as you did with the
regicide at Lugano."
"Upon my word," said George innocently, and then added casually: "But
what's the matter with Therese? why doesn't she come to see you any
more? Demeter is no longer in Vienna. She would have plenty of time."
"She was here only a few days ago. Why, I told you so. Don't pretend."
"I'd really forgotten it," he answered honestly. "What did she tell you
then?"
"All there was to tell. The Demeter affair is over. Her heart is
throbbing once more only for the poor and the miserable--until it is
called back." And Anna confided Therese's winter plans to him under the
seal of a most rigid silence. Disguised as a poor woman she meant to
undertake expeditions through shelters, soup- and tea-kitchens, refuges
for the homeless and workmen's dwellings, with a view to shedding a
light into the most hidden corners for the benefit of the so-called
golden heart of Vienna. She seemed quite ready for it and was perhaps a
little sanguine of discovering some horrors.
George looked in front of him. He remembered the stylish lady in the
white dress who had stood in the sunshine in Lugano in front of the
post-office, far from all the cares of the world. "Strange creature,"
he thought.
"Of course she'll make a book out of it," said Anna. "But mind you
don't tell any one, not even your friend Bermann."
"Shouldn't think of it! But I say, Anna, hadn't you better get
something ready for this evening?"
She nodded. "Come, take me downstairs. I'll see what there is and
consult Marie too ... so far as is possible to do so."
They got up. The shadows had lengthened. The children were making a
noise in the next garden. Anna took her lover's arm and walked slowly
with him. She told him the newest instances of the fantastic stupidity
of the maid.
The idea of my being a husband, thought George, and listened
reflectively. When they got to the house he announced his intention of
going to meet Heinrich, left Anna and went into the street.
At this precise moment a one-horse carriage jogged up. Heinrich got
out and paid the driver. "Hallo!" he said to George, "have you really
waited for me after all? It's not so late then?"
"Not at all. You're very punctual. We'll go for a short walk if it
suits you."
"Delighted."
They walked on into the forest past the yellow inn with the red
terraces.
"It is wonderful here," said Heinrich, "and your villa too looks
awfully nice. Why don't you live out here?"
"Yes, it's absurd not to," agreed George without further explanation.
Then they were silent for a while.
Heinrich was in a light grey summer suit and carried his cloak over
his arm, letting it trail a little behind him. "Did you recognise her
again?" he asked suddenly, without looking up.
"Yes," replied George.
"She only came up for one day from her summer engagement. She goes back
by train to-night. A surprise attack, so to speak. But it didn't come
off." He laughed.
"Why are you so hard?" asked George, and thought of the big envelope
with the grey seals and the silly inscription. "There is really no
occasion for you to be so. It is only a fluke that she did not get
anonymous letters just like you did, Heinrich. And who knows, if you
hadn't left her alone for God knows what reasons...."
Heinrich shook his head and looked at George almost as though he pitied
him. "Do you mean by any chance that it is my intention to punish her
or avenge myself? Or do you think I'm one of those mugs who don't
know what to make of the world because something has happened to them
which they know has already happened to thousands before them and will
happen to thousands after them? Do you think I despise the 'faithless
woman' or that I hate her? Not a bit of it. Of course I don't mean
to say that I don't at times assume the pose of hatred and contempt,
only of course to produce better results upon her. But as a matter of
fact I understand all that has happened far too well for me to...." He
shrugged his shoulders.
"Well, if you do understand it?..."
"But, my dear friend, understanding a thing is no earthly good at all.
Understanding is a game like anything else. A very 'classy' game and a
very expensive one. One can spend one's whole soul over it and finish
up a poor devil. But understanding hasn't got the least thing in the
world to do with our feelings, almost as little as it has to do with
our actions. It doesn't protect us from suffering, from revulsion,
from ruin. It leads absolutely nowhere. It's a kind of _cul-de-sac_.
Understanding always signifies the end."
As they walked slowly and silently up a side path with a moderate
incline, each one engrossed in his own thoughts, they emerged out
of the woods into open meadowland, which gave a clear view of the
valley. They looked out over the town and then further on towards the
haze-breathing plain through which the river ran shining; they looked
towards the far line of the mountains, over which a thin haze was
spreading. Then in the peace of the evening sun they walked on further
towards George's favourite seat on the border of the forest. The sun
was not visible. George watched the track of the Sommerhaidenweg on the
other side of the valley run along the wooded hills; it looked pale and
cooled. He then looked down and knew that in the garden at his feet
there was a pear-tree, beneath which he had sat a few hours before with
some one who was very dear to him, and who carried his child under her
bosom, and he felt moved. He felt a slight contempt for the women who
were perhaps waiting for him somewhere, but that did not extinguish his
desire for them. Summer visitors were walking about down below on the
path between the garden and the meadows. A young girl looked up and
whispered something to another.
"You are certainly a popular personality in the place here," remarked
Heinrich, contracting the corners of his mouth ironically.
"Not that I know of."
"Those pretty girls looked at you with great interest. People always
find an inexhaustible source of excitement in other people not being
married. Those holiday-makers down there are bound to look upon you as
a kind of Don Juan and ... your friend as a seduced maiden who has gone
wrong, don't you think so?"
"I don't know," said George, anxious to cut short the conversation.
"And I wonder what I represented," continued Heinrich unperturbed, "to
the theatrical people in the little town. Clearly the deceived lover.
Consequently an absolutely ridiculous character. And she? Well, one can
imagine. Things are awfully simple for lookers-on. But when one gets
to close quarters everything looks utterly different. But the question
is whether the complexion it has in the distance isn't the right one?
Whether one does not persuade oneself into believing a lot of rot, if
one's got a part to play in the comedy oneself?"
He might quite as well have stayed at home, thought George. But as he
could not send him home, and with the object at any rate of changing
the conversation, he asked him quickly: "Do you hear anything from the
Ehrenbergs?"
"I had a rather sad letter from Fräulein Else a few days ago," replied
Heinrich.
"You correspond with her?"
"No, I don't correspond with her. At any rate I have not yet answered
her."
"She is taking the Oskar business much more to heart than she will
own," said George. "I spoke to her once in the nursing-home. We
remained standing quite a time outside in the passage in front of the
white varnished door behind which poor Oskar was lying. At that time
they were afraid of the other eye as well. It's really a tragic affair."
"Tragi-comic," corrected Heinrich with hardness.
"You see the tragi-comic in everything. I'll tell you why, too. Because
you're more or less callous. But in this case the comic element takes a
back seat."
"You make a mistake," replied Heinrich. "Old Ehrenberg's box on the
ear was a piece of crudeness, Oskar's suicide a piece of stupidity,
his making such a bad shot at himself a piece of bungling. These
elements certainly can't produce anything really tragic. It is a rather
disgusting business, that's all."
George shook his head angrily. He had felt genuine sympathy for Oskar
since his misfortune. He was also sorry for old Ehrenberg, who had
been staying in Neuhaus since then, was only living for his work and
refused to see any one. They had both paid their penalty, which was
heavier than they had deserved. Couldn't Heinrich see that and feel
it just as he did? They really got on one's nerves at times, these
people, with their exaggerated Jewish smartness and their relentless
psychology--these Bermanns and Nürnbergers. Their principal object in
life was to be surprised by nothing whatsoever. What they lacked was
kindness. It was only when they grew older that a certain gentleness
came over them. George thought of old Doctor Stauber, of Frau Golowski,
of old Eissler, but so long as they were young ... they always kept
on the _qui vive_. Their one ideal was not to be scored off! A
disagreeable lot. He felt more and more that he missed Felician and
Skelton, who as a matter of fact were really quite clever enough. He
even missed Guido Schönstein.
"But in spite of all her melancholy," said Heinrich after a time,
"Fräulein Else seems to be having a pretty good time of it. They are
having people down again at Auhof. The Wyners were there the other
day, Sissy and James. James got his doctor's degree the other day at
Cambridge. Classy, eh?"
The word Sissy darted through George's heart like a flashing dagger. He
realised it all of a sudden. He would be with her in a few days. His
desire surged up so strongly that he himself scarcely understood it.
The dusk came down. George and Heinrich got up, went down the fields
and entered the garden. They saw Anna come down the centre path
accompanied by a gentleman.
"Old Doctor Stauber," said George. "You know him, I suppose?"
They exchanged greetings.
"I am very glad," said Anna to Heinrich, "that you should come and see
us at last."
"Us!" repeated George to himself, with a sense of surprise which he
immediately repudiated. He went in front with Doctor Stauber. Heinrich
and Anna slowly followed.
"Are you satisfied with Anna?" George asked the doctor.
"Things couldn't be going on better," replied Stauber, "only she must
continue to take exercise regularly and properly."
It struck George, who had not seen the doctor before since his return,
that he had not yet given him back the books which he had borrowed and
he made his apologies.
"There's time enough for that," replied Stauber. "I am only too glad if
they came in handy." And he asked what impressions he had brought home
from Rome.
George told him of his wanderings through the old imperial palaces,
of his drives through the Campagna in the evening light, of a sultry
hour in Hadrian's garden just before a storm. Doctor Stauber begged him
to stop, otherwise he might be induced to leave all his patients here
in the lurch so as to run away at once to the city he loved so much.
Then George made polite inquiries after Doctor Berthold. Was there any
foundation for the rumour that he would be engaged again in active
political life in the approaching winter?
Doctor Stauber shrugged his shoulders. "He comes back in September,
that's the only thing certain so far. He has been very industrious at
Pasteur's and he wants to elaborate at the pathological institute
here a great piece of serum research work which he began in Paris.
If he takes my advice he'll stick to it, for in my humble opinion
what he is now doing is much more important for humanity than the
most glorious revolution. Of course talents vary, and I've certainly
nothing to say against revolutions now and again. But speaking between
ourselves, my son's talent is far more on the scientific side. It's
rather his temperament which drives him in the other direction ...
perhaps only his temper. Well, we shall see. But how about your plans
for the autumn?" he added suddenly, as he looked at George with his
good-natured fatherly expression. "Where are you going to swing your
bâton?"
"I only wish I knew myself," replied George.
Doctor Stauber was walking by his side, his lids half closed and his
cigar in his mouth, and while George told him about his efforts and
his prospects with self-important emphasis he thought he felt that
Doctor Stauber simply regarded everything he said as nothing more than
an attempted justification of his putting off his marriage with Anna.
A slight irritation against her arose within him; she seemed to be
standing behind them and perhaps was enjoying quietly that he was, as
it were, being cross-examined by Doctor Stauber.
He deliberately assumed a lighter and lighter tone, as though his own
personal plans for the future had nothing at all to do with Anna, and
finished up by saying merrily: "Why, who knows where I shall be this
time next year? I may finish up in America."
"You might do worse," replied Doctor Stauber quietly. "I have a cousin
who is a violinist in Boston, a man named Schwarz, who earns there at
least six times as much as he gets here at the opera."
George did not like being compared with violinists of the name of
Schwarz and asserted with an emphasis which he himself thought rather
exaggerated that it was not at all a question of money-making, at any
rate at the beginning. Suddenly, he did not know where the thought came
from, the idea ran through his mind: "Supposing Anna dies.... Supposing
the child were her death...." He felt deeply shocked, as though he had
committed a crime by the very thought, and he saw in his imagination
Anna lying there with the shroud drawn over her chin and he saw the
candlelight and daylight streaming over her wax-pale face. He turned
round almost anxiously, as though to assure himself that she was there
and alive. The features of her face were blurred in the darkness and
this frightened him. He remained standing with the doctor till Anna
arrived with Heinrich. He was happy to have her so near him. "You must
be quite tired now, dear," he said to her in his tenderest tone.
"I've certainly honestly performed my day's work," she replied.
"Besides," and she pointed to the verandah, where the lamp with the
green paper shade was standing on the laid table, "supper will soon be
ready. It would be so nice, Doctor, if you could stay; won't you?"
"I'm afraid it's impossible, my dear child. I ought to have been back
in town ages ago. Remember me kindly to Frau Golowski. See you again
soon. Good-bye, Herr Bermann. Come," he added, "is one going to get
another chance soon of seeing or reading one of your fine pieces of
work?"
Heinrich shrugged his shoulders, vouchsafed a social smile and was
silent. Why, he thought, are even the best-bred men usually tactless
when they meet people like myself? Do I ask him about his affairs?
The doctor went on to express in a few words his sympathy with Heinrich
over old Bermann's death. He remembered the dead man's celebrated
speech in opposition to the introduction of Tschech as the judicial
language in certain Bohemian districts. At that time the Jewish
provincial advocate had come within an ace of being Minister of
Justice. Yes, times had changed.
Heinrich started to listen. After all this could be made use of in the
political comedy.
Doctor Stauber took his leave. George accompanied him to the carriage
which was waiting outside, and availed himself of the opportunity to
ask the doctor some medical questions. The latter was able to reassure
him in every respect.
"It's only a pity," he continued, "that circumstances do not allow Anna
to nurse the child herself."
George stood still meditatively. It could not hurt her, could it?... At
any rate, only the child? Or her as well?... He asked the doctor.
"Why talk about it, my dear Baron, if it's not practicable? That's
all right, don't you worry," he added, with one foot already in the
carriage. "One needn't be nervous about the child of people like you
two."
George looked him straight in the eye and said: "I will at any rate
take care that he lives the first years of his life in healthy air."
"That's very nice," said Doctor Stauber gently. "But speaking generally
there is no healthier air in the world for children than their parents'
home."
He shook hands with George and the carriage rolled away.
George remained standing for a moment and felt a lively irritation
against the doctor. He vowed mentally that he would never allow the
conversation with him to take a turn that would as it were entitle him
to give unsolicited advice or make veiled reproaches. What did the old
man know? What did he really understand about the whole thing? George's
antagonism became more and more violent. When I choose to, he said to
himself, I will marry her. Can't she have the child with her anyway?
Hasn't she said herself that she will be proud of having a child? I
am not going to repudiate it either, and I will do everything in my
power. And later on sometime.... But I should be doing an injustice to
myself, to her, to the child if I were to make up my mind to-day to do
something which at any rate is still premature.
He had slowly walked past the short side of the house into the garden.
He saw Anna and Heinrich sitting on the verandah. Marie was just coming
out of the house, very red in the face, and putting a warm dish on the
table, from which the steam mounted up. How quiet Anna sits there,
thought George, and remained standing in the darkness. How serene, how
free from care, as though she could trust me implicitly, as though
there were no such things as death, poverty, treacherous desertion, as
though I loved her as much as she deserves. And again he felt alarmed.
Do I love her less? Is she not right in trusting me? When I sit over
there on my seat on the edge of the forest so much tenderness often
wells up in me that I can scarcely stand it. Why do I feel so little of
that now? He was standing only a few paces away and watched her first
carve and then stare into the darkness out of which he was to come,
while her eyes began to shine as he stepped suddenly into the light. My
one true love, he thought.
When he sat down by the others Anna said to him: "You've had a very
long consultation with the doctor."
"It wasn't a consultation. We were chatting. He also told me about his
son who is coming back soon."
Heinrich inquired after Berthold. The young man interested him and
he hoped very much to make his acquaintance next winter. His speech
last year on the Therese Golowski case, together with his open letter
to his constituents, in which he had explained the reasons for his
resignation, yes, they had been really first-class performances....
Yes, and more than that--documents of the period.
A light almost proud smile flew over Anna's face. She looked down to
her place and then quickly up to George. George also was smiling. Not a
trace of jealousy stirred within him. Did Berthold have any idea...? Of
course. Did he suffer?... Probably. Could he forgive Anna? To think of
having to forgive at all! What nonsense.
A dish of mushrooms was served. On its appearance Heinrich could not
refrain from asking if it were at all poisonous.
George laughed.
"You needn't make fun of me," said Heinrich. "If I wanted to kill
myself I wouldn't choose either poisoned mushrooms or decayed sausage,
but a nobler and swifter poison. At times one is sick of life, but
one is never sick of health, even in one's last quarter of an hour.
And besides, nervousness is a perfectly legitimate, though usually
shamefully repudiated, daughter of reason. What does nervousness
really mean? considering all the possibilities that may result from an
action, the bad and good ones equally. And what is courage? I mean,
of course, real courage, which is manifested far more rarely than one
thinks. For the courage which is affected or the result of obedience
or simply a matter of suggestion doesn't count. True courage is often
really nothing else than the expression of an as it were metaphysical
conviction of one's own superfluity."
"Oh, you Jew!" thought George, though without malice, and then said to
himself, "Perhaps he isn't so far out after all."
They found the beer so good, although Anna did not drink any, that they
sent Marie to the inn for a second jugful. Their mood became genial.
George described his trip again. The days at Lugano in the broiling
sun, the journey over the snowy Brenner, the wandering through the
roofless city, which after a night of two thousand years had surged
up again to the light; he conjured up again the minute in which
they had been present, he and Anna, when workmen were carefully and
laboriously excavating a pillar out of the ashes. Heinrich had not yet
seen Italy. He meant to go there next spring. He explained that he was
frequently torn by a desire for, if not exactly Italy, at any rate
foreign lands, distance, the world. When he heard people talking about
travels he often got heart palpitation like a child the evening before
its birthday. He doubted whether he was destined to end his life in his
home. It might be, perhaps, that after wandering about for years on end
he would come back and find in a little house in the country the peace
of his later manhood. Who knew--life was so full of coincidences--if he
were not destined to finish his life in this very house in which he was
now a guest and felt better than he had for a long time?
Anna thanked him with an air which indicated that she was not merely
the hostess of the country house but of the whole world itself with its
evening calm.
A soft light began to shine out of the darkness of the garden. A warm
moist odour came from the grass and flowers. The long fields which ran
down to the railing swept into view in the moonlight and the white
seat under the pear-tree shimmered as though very far away. Anna
complimented Heinrich on the verses in the opera libretto which George
had read to her the other day.
"Quite right," remarked George, smoking a cigar with his legs
comfortably crossed, "have you brought us anything fresh?"