In spite of a gently persistent rain, he walked with Letitia through
the twilit park. Many times they wandered up and down the path from the
hot-houses to the pavillion, and heard the sound of a piano from the
house. Fräulein von Einsiedel was playing.
At first their conversation was marked by long pauses. Something in
Letitia was beseeching: Take me, take me! Christian understood. He
wore his arrogant smile, but he did not dare to look at her. “I love
music heard from afar,” Letitia said. “Don’t you, Christian?”
He drew his raincoat tighter about him, and replied: “I care little
about music.”
“Then you have a bad heart, or at least a hard one.”
“It may be that I have a bad heart; it is certainly hard.”
Letitia flushed, and asked: “What do you love? I mean what things.
What?” The archness of her expression did not entirely conceal the
seriousness of her question.
“What things I love?” he repeated lingeringly, “I don’t know. Does one
have to love things? One uses them. That is all.”
“Oh, no!” Letitia cried, and her deep voice brought a peculiar
warmth to Christian. “Oh, no! Things exist to be loved. Flowers, for
instance, and stars. One loves them. If I hear a beautiful song or see
a beautiful picture, at once something cries within me: That is mine,
mine!”
“And do you feel that too when a bird suddenly drops down and dies, as
you have seen it happen? Or when a wounded deer dies before you when
you are hunting?” Christian asked, hesitatingly.
Letitia was silent, and looked at him with a touch of fear. The glance
of her eyes was inexpressibly grateful to him. Take me, take me, that
silent voice pleaded with him again. “But those are not things,” she
said softly, “they are living beings.”
His voice was gentler than hitherto when he spoke again: “All things
that are fragrant and glowing, that serve adornment and delight are
yours indeed, Letitia. But what are mine?” He stood still, and asked
again with a look of inner distress which shook Letitia’s soul. Never
had she expected such words or such a tone of him.
Her glance reminded him: you kissed me once! Think of it--you kissed me
once!
“When is your wedding going to be?” he asked, and his lids twitched a
little.
“I don’t know exactly. We’re not even formally engaged at present,”
Letitia answered, laughing. “He has declared that I must be his wife
and won’t be contradicted. Christmas my mother is coming to Heidelberg,
and then, I suppose, the wedding will take place. What I do look
forward to is the voyage overseas and the strange country.” And in her
radiant eyes flamed up the impassioned plea: Oh, take me, take me!
My yearning is so great! But with a coquettish turn of the head, she
asked: “How do you like Stephen?”
He did not answer her question, but said softly: “Some one is watching
us from the house.”
Letitia whispered: “He is jealous of the very earth and air.” It began
to rain harder, and so they turned their steps toward the house. And
Christian felt that he loved her.
An hour later he entered the smoking room. Imhof, Crammon, Wolfgang,
and Stephen Gunderam sat about a round table, and played poker. The
demeanour of each accorded with his character: Imhof was superior and
talkative, Crammon absent-minded and sombre, Wolfgang distrustful and
excited. Stephen Gunderam’s face was stonily impassive. He was as
utterly dedicated to his occupation as a somnambulist. He has been
winning uninterruptedly, and a little mountain of bank notes and gold
was rising in front of him. Crammon and Imhof moved aside to make room
for Christian. At that moment Stephen jumped up. Holding his cards in
his hand, he stared at Christian with eyes full of hatred.
Christian regarded him with amazement. But when the other three, rather
surprised, also moved to get up, Stephen Gunderam sank back into his
chair, and said with sombre harshness: “Let us play on. May I ask for
four cards?”
Christian left the neighbourhood of the table. He felt that he loved
Letitia. His whole heart loved her, tenderly and with longing.