At the castle of Waldleiningen there was a wine room in which one
could drink comfortably. In it Crammon and Christian drank one evening
to their deeper friendship. And when the bottle was emptied of its
precious vintage Crammon proposed that, since it was a beautiful night,
they should take a turn in the park. Christian agreed.
In the moonlight they walked over the pebbles of the paths. Trees and
bushes swam in a silvery haze.
“Gossamers and the mist of autumn,” said Crammon. “Quite as the poets
describe it.”
“What poet?” Christian asked innocently.
“Almost any,” Crammon answered.
“Do you read poetry?” Christian was curious.
“Now and then,” Crammon answered, “when prose gets stale. Thus I pay my
debts to the world-spirit.”
They sat down on a bench under a great plantain. Christian watched the
scene silently for a while. Then he asked suddenly, “Tell me, Bernard,
what is this seriousness of life that most people make such a fuss
about?”
Crammon laughed softly to himself. “Patience, my dear boy, patience!
You’ll find out for yourself.”
He laughed again and folded his hands comfortably over his abdomen. But
over the lovely landscape and the lovely night there fell a veil of
melancholy.