Rosshalde (11 page)

Here everything is as usual. Albert is playing the sophisticated gentleman, you can't imagine how respectfully we treat each other, like the ambassadors of two hostile powers.

Before we leave, I shall expect you again at Rosshalde. I must show you a painting that will be finished any day now. It's good work, a good thing to wind up my career with in case your crocodiles gobble me up, which, I have to admit, would displease me in spite of everything.

I must go to bed now, though I am not sleepy. I was at my easel for nine hours today.

Your Johann

He addressed the letter and put it out in the hall for Robert to take to the post office next day.

Looking out of the window before getting into bed, the painter heard the whishing of the rain that he had disregarded while writing. It descended in soft swathes from the darkness and for a long time he lay awake listening as it fell in little tinkling streams from the sodden foliage to the thirsty earth.

Chapter Ten

P
IERRE IS SO TEDIOUS
, said Albert to his mother as they went out into the rain-fresh garden to cut roses. “He hasn't paid much attention to me the whole time, but yesterday I couldn't get
anything
out of him. A few days ago when I suggested going for a drive together, he was full of enthusiasm. But yesterday he didn't really want to go, I almost had to plead with him. It wasn't much fun for me, not being able to take the two horses, I really went mostly for his sake.”

“Wasn't he well behaved?” Frau Veraguth asked.

“Oh, very well behaved, but so tedious. There's something so blasé about him sometimes. No matter what I suggested or showed him or offered him, I could hardly get a smile or an ‘Oh, yes' out of him. He didn't want to sit on the box, he didn't want to learn how to handle the reins, he didn't even want to eat apricots. He was like a spoiled little prince. It was annoying; I'm telling you because I really don't want to take him out with me any more.”

His mother stopped still and looked at him searchingly; his eyes flashed with indignation and she could not repress an amused smile.

“My big baby,” she said soothingly. “You must have patience with him. Perhaps he wasn't feeling very well, he hardly ate a thing for breakfast this morning. That happens now and then with all children, it was the same with you. It usually comes from an upset stomach or from bad dreams at night, and it's true that Pierre is rather frail and sensitive. And besides, he may be a little jealous. Don't forget that he usually has me all to himself, and now you're here and he has to share me with you.”

“But it's my vacation! He must realize that, he's not stupid!”

“He's a little boy, Albert. You'll just have to be more intelligent than he is.”

Rain was still dripping from the fresh, metallically glistening leaves. They had come to pick the yellow roses that Albert was especially fond of. He bent the crowns of the bushes apart and his mother with her garden shears cut the flowers, which still drooped a little, weighed down by the rain.

“Was I like Pierre when I was his age?” Albert asked thoughtfully.

Frau Adele tried to remember. Lowering the hand that held the shears, she looked into her son's eyes and then closed her own, trying to evoke his image as a child.

“You looked a good deal like him except for the eyes, but you weren't so tall and thin, you started growing a little later.”

“And the rest? My character, I mean.”

“Well, my boy, you too had your moods. But I think you were steadier, you didn't jump from one game or occupation to another as quickly as Pierre does. And he's more emotional than you were, not as well balanced.”

Albert took the shears from his mother's hand and bent over a rose bush. “There's more of Papa in Pierre,” he said softly. “Isn't it strange, Mother, how the qualities of parents and grandparents, or a mixture of them, recur in children? My friends say that every child has all the elements in him that will shape his whole life, and that there's nothing to be done about it, absolutely nothing. For instance, if somebody has the makings of a thief or murderer, it just can't be helped, he'll be a criminal and that's that. It's horrible. You believe it, don't you? It's absolutely scientific.”

“That may be,” Frau Adele smiled. “When a person becomes a thief or a murderer, scientists may be able to prove that he has always had it in him. But I'm sure there are lots of good straight people who have inherited plenty of evil from their parents and grandparents and go on being good all the same, but science can't very well investigate that. I should say that good will and a good upbringing are more reliable than heredity. We all know what's good and right, or we can learn, and that's what we've got to go by. Nobody knows exactly what hereditary mysteries any man has inside him, and it's best not to worry too much about them.”

Albert knew that his mother never let herself in for dialectical arguments, and instinctively he felt that her naïve reaction was right. Yet he knew that this was not the last word on the frightening subject, and he would have liked to say something decisive about the theory of causality, which had seemed so convincing when some of his friends had spoken of it. He cast about in vain for clear, compelling formulations, though—unlike those friends, whom he nevertheless admired—he felt that at heart he inclined far more to an ethical or aesthetic attitude than to the objective, scientific view which he professed among his fellow students. In the end, he let the matter drop and turned back to the roses.

Meanwhile, Pierre, who was indeed not feeling well and had awakened much later than usual and without zest, had stayed in his room with his toys until he began to feel bored. He was quite wretched, and it seemed to him that something special must happen to make this lackluster day bearable and just a little pleasant.

Hesitating between anticipation and distrust, he left the house and went to the lime grove in search of something new, some discovery or adventure. He had a dismal feeling in his stomach; that had happened before, but never had his head felt so tired and heavy. He would have liked to run to his mother and cry. But that was impossible in the presence of his big proud brother, who always, even on normal days, made it plain that he was still a little boy.

If only it occurred to his mother to do something, to call him and suggest a game and be nice to him. But of course she had gone off with Albert again. Pierre felt that this was an unlucky day, that there was little to hope for.

Listless and dejected, he sauntered along the gravel paths, his hands in his pockets, chewing on the withered stem of a lime blossom. It was damp and morning cool in the garden and the stem had a bitter taste. He spat it out and stopped still, thoroughly out of sorts. He couldn't think of anything, today he felt like being neither prince nor bandit, neither ferryman nor builder.

Frowning, he looked about on the ground, poked at the gravel with the tips of his shoes, kicked a gray slimy slug off the walk and into the wet grass. Nothing would speak to him, no bird or butterfly, nothing would smile at him and beguile him into gaiety. Everything was silent, everything looked drab and hopeless. He tried a little shiny-red currant from the first bush he passed; it tasted cold and sour. It would be good to lie down and sleep, he thought, and not wake up until everything looked new and beautiful and happy again. There was no point in wandering around like this, making himself miserable and waiting for things that were not going to happen. How lovely it would be, for instance, if a war had broken out and a lot of soldiers came up the road on horseback, or if a house was on fire somewhere or there was a big flood. Ah, such things only happened in picture books, in real life you never got to see them, maybe they didn't even exist.

Sighing and woebegone, the child sauntered on; the light had gone out of his fine, handsome face. When he heard the voices of Albert and his mother behind the trellis, he was so overcome with jealousy and rancor that the tears rose to his eyes. He turned around and went away very quietly for fear they would hear him and call out to him. He didn't want to answer, he didn't want anybody to make him speak and pay attention and be good. He was feeling so wretched and nobody cared; well, then he wanted at least to savor his loneliness and sadness and feel really miserable.

He remembered God-in-His-heaven, whom at times he thought very highly of; the thought brought a remote glimmer of comfort and warmth, but it soon vanished. Probably God-in-His-heaven was a fake too. And yet, now more than ever, he would have been so glad to have someone he could rely on, someone with something pleasant and comforting to offer.

Then he thought of his father. Perhaps, he felt hopefully, perhaps his father would understand him, because he himself usually looked still and tense and unhappy. His father would surely be standing in his big quiet studio, painting his pictures, he always was. It wasn't really a good idea to disturb him. But he had said only very recently that Pierre should always come to see him when he felt like it. Perhaps he had forgotten, grownups always forgot their promises so quickly. But there was no harm in trying. Heavens, no, since he could think of no other consolation and needed one so badly.

Slowly at first—then, as his hopes rose, more briskly—he went down the shaded walk to the studio. He put his hand on the latch and stood still, listening. Yes, his father was inside, he could hear him breathing and clearing his throat, and he heard the delicate wooden click of the brush handles he was holding in his left hand.

Cautiously he pressed the latch, opened the door without a sound, and looked in. He recoiled at the strong smell of turpentine and varnish, but his father's broad powerful frame aroused hope. Pierre went in, closing the door behind him.

At the click of the latch, the painter's broad shoulders, closely observed by Pierre, quivered, and he turned his head. There was an injured, questioning look in his sharp eyes, and his mouth hung open unpleasantly.

Pierre stood motionless. He looked into his father's eyes and waited. Instantly the eyes became friendlier and the irritation went out of the painter's face. “Well, if it isn't Pierre! We haven't seen each other in a whole day. Did Mama send you?”

The child shook his head and let his father kiss him.

“Would you like to stay here a while and watch?” his father asked in a friendly tone. He turned back to his painting and aimed a little pointed brush at a certain spot. Pierre watched. He saw the painter study his canvas, saw his eyes staring intensely and almost angrily and his strong nervous hand aiming the brush, saw him frown and bite his lower lip. And he smelled the pungent studio air, which he had always hated and which was especially repugnant to him that day.

The light went out of his eyes and he stood by the door as though paralyzed. He knew all this, the smell and his father's eyes and those grimaces of concentration, and he knew it had been silly to expect this day to be different from any other day. His father was working, he was deep in his foul-smelling paint, all he could think of was his stupid paintings. It had been silly to come.

The boy's face fell in disappointment. He had known it all along! There was no refuge, not with his mother, and certainly not here.

For a long moment he stood vacuous and sad, looking at the large painting with its glistening wet paint, but seeing nothing. His papa had time for that, but not for him. He put his hand on the latch and pressed it down, meaning to slip away quietly.

But Veraguth heard the timid sound. He looked around, grumbled, and went over to the child. “What's the matter, Pierre? Don't run away. Don't you want to stay here with your papa awhile?”

Pierre withdrew his hand and nodded feebly.

“Is there something you wanted to tell me?” the painter asked affectionately. “Come, we'll sit down together. Then you'll tell me. How was your drive yesterday?”

“Oh, it was nice,” said Pierre like a well-behaved child.

Veraguth ran his hand through the child's hair. “Didn't it do you good? You're looking kind of sleepy, my boy. They didn't by any chance give you wine to drink yesterday? No? Well, what shall we do now? Shall we draw?”

“I don't feel like it, Papa. It's so dull today.”

“Really? You didn't sleep well, that must be it. How about some gymnastics?”

Pierre shook his head. “I don't feel like it. I just want to be with you. But it smells so bad here.”

Veraguth caressed him and laughed. “That really is bad luck, not liking the smell of paint when you're a painter's child. I suppose you don't ever want to be a painter?”

“No, I don't.”

“What do you want to be?”

“Nothing. I'd like best to be a bird or something like that.”

“That wouldn't be bad. But tell me, sweetheart, what you want of me. You see, I've got to work on this big picture. If you like, you can stay here and play. Or shall I give you a picture book to look at?”

No, that was not what he wanted. Just to get away, he said he would go and feed the pigeons, and it did not escape him that his father was relieved to see him go. He was dismissed with a kiss and went out. His father closed the door and Pierre was alone again, feeling emptier than ever. He ambled across the lawn, where he was not really supposed to go, and absently and dolefully broke off a flower or two. He saw that the wet grass had spotted and darkened his light tan shoes, but he didn't care. Finally, overcome with despair, he flung himself down in the middle of the lawn, sobbing and burying his head in the grass. He could feel the water-soaked sleeves of his light-blue blouse sticking to his arms.

It was only when he began to shiver that he calmed down and crept timidly back into the house.

Soon they would call him; they would see he had been crying, they would see his wet, dirty blouse and his damp shoes, and scold him. They were all enemies. He slipped past the kitchen door, he didn't want to meet anyone now. He wished he were somewhere far away where no one knew him and no one would ask after him.