She lay wide awake until late at night. She heard him go into the
kitchen and get a drink of water and then return to his room. He had
forbidden her to come to the door and ask whether he was not going to
bed soon: she was not to do this, it made no difference how late it was.
Then he lay beside her, his head on his arm, and looked at her with eyes
that had lost their earthly, temporal glow. Man, where are your eyes
anyway, she would have liked to exclaim. And yet she knew where they
were; she knew, too, that it is dangerous to disturb a somnambulist by
calling to him.
One night he had found it impossible to do his work. He sat down on the
edge of the bed and stared into the light of the lamp for an hour or so,
hating himself. Gertrude saw how he raged at himself; how he really fed,
nourished his lack of confidence in himself. But she could not say
anything.
A publisher had returned one of his manuscripts with a courteous but
depressing conventional rejection slip. Daniel spoke disparagingly of
his talents; he had lost hope in his future; he was bitter at the world;
he felt that he was condemned to a life of unceasing obscurity.
The only thing she could do was look at him; merely look at him.
He became tired of having her look at him; a fresh, vigorous remark
would have served his purpose much better, he thought.
She measured her work and his not in terms of reward; she did not seek
for connection of any kind between privation and hope; nor did she
measure Daniel's love in terms of tender expressions and embraces. She
waited for him with much patience. In time her patience irritated him.
"A little bit more activity and insistence would not hurt you," he said
one day, and thrust her timid, beseeching hands from him.
He saw himself cared for: He had a home, a person who prepared his
meals, washed his clothes, and faithfully attended to his other
household needs. He should have been grateful. He was, too, but he could
not show it. He was grateful when he was alone, but in Gertrude's
presence his gratitude turned to defiance. If he was away from home, he
thought with pleasure of his return; he pictured Gertrude's joy at
seeing him again. But when he was with her, he indulged in silent
criticism, and wanted to have everything about her different.
The judge's wife on the first floor complained that Gertrude did not
speak to her. "Be kind to your neighbours," he remarked with the air of
a professional scold. The next Sunday they took a walk, on which they
met the judge's wife. Gertrude spoke to her: "Well, you don't need to
fall on her neck," he mumbled. She thought for a long while of how she
might speak to people without offending them and without annoying
Daniel. She was embarrassed; she was afraid of Daniel's criticism.
On such days she would put too much salt in the soup, everything went
wrong, and in her diligent attempt to be punctual she lost much time.
She was fearfully worried when he got up from the table and went to his
room without saying a word. She would sit perfectly still and listen;
she was frightened when he went to the piano to try a motif. When he
again entered her room, she looked into his face with the tenseness of a
soul in utter anguish. Then it suddenly came about that he would sit
down by her side and caress her. He told her all about his life, his
home, his father, his mother. If she could only have heard each of his
words twice! If she could only have drunk in the expression in his eyes!
They were filled with peace; his nervous hands lay in quiet on his knees
when he spoke to her in this way on these subjects. His twitching,
angular face, weather-beaten by the storms of life, took on an expression
of sorrow that was most becoming to it.
When she had a headache or was tired, he expressed his anxiety for her
in touching tones. He would go about the house on tiptoes, and close the
doors with infinite care. If a dog barked on the street, he rushed to
the window and looked out, enraged at the beast. When she retired, he
would help her undress, and bring her whatever she needed.
It was also strange that he disliked the idea of leaving her alone.
There was something child-like in his restlessness when he was at home
and she was out. He pictured her surrounded by grievous dangers; he
would have liked to lock her up and hold her a captive, so as to be sure
that she was quite safe. This made her all the weaker and more dependent
upon him, while he was like a man who presses what he has to his heart,
plagued with the thought that by some mischance it might escape, and
yet clings to it also lest he be disturbed by the thought of another
more precious possession he loved long since and lost a while.
Once he came to Gertrude while she was playing the harp, threw his arms
about her, looked into her face with a wild, gloomy expression, and
stammered: "I love you, I love you, I do." It was the first time he had
spoken these eternal words. She grew pale, first from joy and then from
fear; for there was more of hatred than of love in his voice.