Rosshalde (15 page)

“When will you be leaving?” she asked.

“Oh, that depends entirely on Otto; whenever it suits him. About the end of September, I should think.”

“So soon? I haven't had much time to think things over, I've been so busy with Pierre. But in connection with Pierre, I don't think you should ask too much of me.”

“I agree with you, I was thinking about that this morning. I want you to feel perfectly free. I understand that it won't do for me to go traveling around the world and still expect to have a voice in your affairs here. You must do whatever you think right. There's no reason why you should have less freedom than I'm asking for myself.”

“And what's to become of the house? I shouldn't like to stay here alone, it's too out-of-the-way and too big, and besides it's too full of memories that trouble me.”

“I've already told you, go where you like. Rosshalde is yours, you know that, and before I leave I shall put it in writing, just in case.”

Frau Adele had turned pale. She observed her husband's face with almost hostile attentiveness.

“You almost sound,” she said in a tone of distress, “as though you were meaning never to come back.”

He blinked thoughtfully and looked at the floor. “One never knows. I still have no idea how long I shall be away, and I hardly think that India is very healthy for a man my age.”

She shook her head emphatically. “That's not what I meant. We can all die. I meant, have you any intention of coming back?”

He blinked and said nothing. At length he smiled feebly and rose. “Suppose we speak of that another time. Our last quarrel was about that question, a few years ago, do you remember? I don't want any more quarrels here in Rosshalde, least of all with you. I assume you still have the same ideas on the subject you did then. Or would you let me have Pierre today?”

Frau Veraguth shook her head in silence.

“Just as I thought,” said her husband calmly. “We had better let these things rest. As I said, you can do what you like with the house. I attach no importance to keeping Rosshalde; if anyone offers you a good price for the place, why not sell it?”

“Then this is the end of Rosshalde,” she said in a tone of deep bitterness, thinking of the early days, of Albert as a baby, and of all her old hopes and expectations.

Veraguth, who had already turned toward the door, turned around and said gently: “Don't take it so hard, child. Hold on to it if you like.”

He went out and unchained the dog; the jubilant animal leapt around him barking as he crossed over to the studio. What was Rosshalde to him? It was one of the things he had left behind. Now for the first time he felt stronger than his wife. He had drawn a line. In his heart he had made his sacrifice, he had given up Pierre. Once that was done, his whole being looked only forward. For him Rosshalde was ended, ended like the many other miscarried hopes of those days, ended like his youth. There was no point in lamenting it.

He rang and Robert appeared.

“I shall be painting outside for a few days. Kindly have the small paint boxes and the sun shade ready for tomorrow. And wake me up at half past five.”

“Certainly, Herr Veraguth.”

“That's all. I suppose the weather will hold? What do you think?”

“I believe it will … But, excuse me, Herr Veraguth, there's something I should like to ask you.”

“Well?”

“I beg your pardon, but I've heard you were going to India.”

Veraguth laughed in surprise. “The news has traveled mighty fast. So Albert has been talking. Well, yes, I shall be going to India, and you can't very well come along, Robert, I'm sorry. There aren't any European servants out there. But you can always come back to me later if you like. Meanwhile, I'll find you another good position, and anyway your wages will be paid until New Year's.”

“Thank you, Herr Veraguth, thank you very much. Perhaps you would give me your address. I shall want to write you. You see—it's not so easy to say—you see, I have a fiancée, Herr Veraguth.”

“Oh, you have a fiancée?”

“Yes, Herr Veraguth, and if you let me go, I shall have to marry her. You see, I promised her I wouldn't take another position if I leave here.”

“Well, then you'll be glad to get away. But I shall be sorry, Robert. What do you mean to do when you're married?”

“Well, she wants to open a cigar store with me.”

“A cigar store? Robert, that's not for you.”

“There's no harm in trying, Herr Veraguth. But begging your pardon … mightn't it be possible to continue in your service, Herr Veraguth?”

The painter clapped him on the shoulder. “Good Lord, man, what's going on here? You want to get married, you want to open an idiotic shop, and you want to stay with me too? Something seems to be wrong … I have the impression, Robert, that you're not exactly dead set on this marriage?”

“No, Herr Veraguth, begging your pardon, I'm not. My fiancée is a good worker, I won't deny it. But I'd rather stay with you. She has a sharp disposition and…”

“But, my dear fellow, why get married then? You're afraid of her! There isn't a child, I hope?”

“No, it's not that. But she leaves me no peace.”

“In that case, Robert, give her a nice brooch, I'll contribute a taler. Give it to your fiancée and tell her to go find someone else for her cigar store. Tell her I said so. You ought to be ashamed! I'll give you a week's time. And then I'll want to know whether or not you're the kind of man that's afraid of a mere girl.”

“All right, all right. I'll tell her…”

Veraguth stopped smiling. His eyes flashed angrily at the dismayed Robert: “You'll send that girl packing, Robert, or you and I are through. Humph—letting yourself be dragged to the altar! You may go now. See that this thing is settled in short order.”

He filled a pipe and, taking with him a larger sketchbook and a bag full of charcoal, went out to the wooded hill.

Chapter Fourteen

F
ASTING DID NOT SEEM TO HELP
. Pierre Veraguth lay huddled up in his bed, his cup of tea untouched. As far as possible, the others left him in peace, because he never answered when spoken to and recoiled irritably when anyone entered the room. Sometimes his mother sat by his bed, half mumbling, half singing words of tenderness and comfort. She felt strangely uneasy; it seemed to her that the little patient was stubbornly entrenching himself in a secret sorrow. He made no response to any question or plea or suggestion, stared gloomily into space, and showed no desire to sleep or play or drink or be read to. The doctor had come two days in succession; he had said little and recommended lukewarm compresses. A good deal of the time Pierre lay in a half sleep such as comes of fever, muttering incomprehensible words in a subdued, dreamlike delirium.

Veraguth had been out painting for several days. When he came home at dusk, he inquired after the boy. His wife asked him not to go into the sickroom because Pierre reacted so sensitively to the slightest disturbance and now he seemed to have dozed off. Since Frau Adele was not talkative and seemed since their recent conversation to feel ill-at-ease in his presence, he asked no further questions and went calmly off to his bath. He spent the evening in the warm, pleasant agitation that he always felt while preparing for a new piece of work. He had painted several studies and was planning to attack the painting itself the next day. With satisfaction he selected cardboards and canvases, repaired some stretchers that had come loose at the corners, gathered together brushes and painting materials of all kinds, and equipped himself as though for a short trip, even making ready his full tobacco pouch, pipe and lighter, in the manner of a tourist who is planning to climb a mountain in the morning and knows of no better way of spending the expectant hours before bedtime than to think lovingly of the day to come and to make ready every little thing he will need.

Later he settled himself with a glass of wine and looked over the evening mail. There was a joyful, affectionate letter from Burkhardt, who with the meticulousness of a good housewife had appended a list of everything Veraguth should take with him on the trip. With amusement Veraguth read through the whole list, which omitted neither woolen waist bands nor beach slippers, neither nightdress nor leggings. At the bottom Burkhardt had written in pencil: “I shall attend to everything else, including our cabins. Don't let anyone talk you into buying chemicals for seasickness, or Indian literature. I shall take care of all that.”

Smiling, he turned to a large roll of cardboard containing some etchings which a young Düsseldorf painter had sent him with a respectful dedication. Today he found time for such things, he was in the mood, he examined the etchings with care and chose the best for his portfolios; he would give Albert the rest. He wrote the painter a friendly note.

Last, he opened his sketchbook and studied at length the many drawings he had made. He was not quite satisfied with any of them, he would try again next day, taking in a little more of the view, and if the picture was still not right, he would go on doing studies until he had it. In any case, he would work hard the next day, the rest would take care of itself. And this painting would be his farewell to Rosshalde; this was undoubtedly the most impressive and alluring piece of landscape in the region, and it would not be for nothing, he hoped, that he had time and again put off painting it. This was a subject that could not be disposed of in a dashing sketch, it demanded careful reflection. Later on in the tropics he would again relish the adventure of quick assaults on nature, with their difficulties, defeats, and victories.

He went to bed early and slept soundly until Robert awakened him. Then he arose in joyful haste, shivering in the sharp morning air, drank a bowl of coffee standing up, meanwhile urging haste upon Robert, who was to carry his canvas, camp chair, and paintbox. A little while later he left the house and disappeared, followed by Robert, into the morning-pale meadows. He had meant to drop into the kitchen to ask if Pierre had had a quiet night, but found the house closed up and no one awake.

Frau Adele had sat up a part of the night with the child, who seemed slightly feverish. She had listened to his incoherent mumbling, felt his pulse, and straightened his bed. When she said good night and kissed him, he opened his eyes and looked into her face but did not answer. The night was quiet.

Pierre was awake when she entered his room in the morning. He wanted no breakfast but asked for a picture book. His mother went to get one. She wedged another pillow under his head, pushed aside the window curtains, and put the book into Pierre's hands; it was open to a picture he was especially fond of, showing a large, gleaming, golden-yellow Lady Sun.

He lifted the book to his face, the bright joyful morning light fell on the page. But instantly a dark shadow of pain and disappointment crossed his sensitive face.

“Ugh, it hurts!” he cried out in torment and let the book drop.

She caught it and held it up to his eyes again. “But it's Lady Sun whom you love so dearly,” she pleaded.

He held his hands before his eyes. “No, take it away. It's so disgustingly yellow!”

With a sigh she removed the book. What could be the matter with the child! She knew his moods and sensibilities, but he had never been like this.

“I have an idea,” she said hopefully. “Suppose I bring you a lovely cup of tea and you can put sugar in it and have a nice piece of zwieback to go with it.”

“I don't want it!”

“Just try. It will do you good, you'll see.”

He gave her a tortured, furious look. “But I don't want it!”

She left the room and stayed away for some time. He blinked at the light, it seemed unusually glaring and hurt him. He turned away. Was there never again to be any comfort, any bit of pleasure, any little joy for him? Whimpering, he buried his face in his pillow and bit angrily into the soft, insipid-tasting linen. This was a remote echo of his earliest childhood. When as a very little boy he had been put to bed and sleep did not come quickly, it had been his habit to bite into his pillow and to chew it rhythmically until he grew tired and fell asleep. Now he did so again and slowly worked himself into a silent stupor that made him feel better. Then he lay still.

His mother came back an hour later. She bent over him and said: “Well now, is Pierre going to be a good boy again? You were very naughty before and Mama was sad.”

In former times this had been strong medicine which he seldom resisted. As she said the words now, she was almost afraid he would take them too much to heart and burst into tears. But he seemed to pay no attention, and when she asked him with a note of severity: “You do know you were naughty before?” his lip curled almost scornfully and he looked at her with utter indifference.

Just then the doctor arrived.

“Has he vomited again? No? Fine. And he's had a good night? What did he have for breakfast?”

When he raised the child in his bed and turned his face toward the window, Pierre winced with pain and closed his eyes. The doctor was struck by the intense look of revulsion and misery in the child's face.

“Is he also sensitive to sounds?” he asked Frau Adele in a whisper.

“Yes,” she said softly. “We can't play the piano any more, it was driving him to despair.”

The doctor nodded and half closed the curtains. Then he lifted the child out of bed, listened to his heart, and tapped the ligaments under his kneecaps with a little hammer.

“That will do,” he said in a friendly tone. “We won't bother you any more, my boy.”

He carefully put him back into bed, took his hand, and smiled at him.

“May I drop in on you for a moment?” he asked Frau Veraguth with a note of gallantry, and she led him into her sitting room.

“Now tell me a little more about your boy,” he said encouragingly. “It seems to me that he's very nervous; we shall have to take good care of him for a while, you and I. His upset stomach is nothing. He must absolutely start eating again. Good things that will build up his strength: eggs, bouillon, fresh cream. Try him on egg yolks. If he prefers them sweet, beat them up in a cup with sugar. And now tell me, have you noticed anything else?”