But you can also go before that, if you like, as you won't be needed any more."
"Thank you," she said and went off to her little room.
Meanwhile the others had begun sharing out the old woman's things among themselves. They were like wolves devouring a dead member of the pack, and they were already in a state of general irritation when he asked whether the Fräulein, who had got so little money out of it all, should not at least be given something of some value in memory of Grandmamma.
"We've decided to give her Grandmamma's big prayer-book."
"Well, yes, but I'm sure something useful would please her more. What about this, for instance?" He picked up a brown fur tippet that was lying on the table.
"That's for Emmi"—a cousin of his—"and anyway you must be mad, it's mink!"
He laughed. "Is there any law that poor girls can only be given something for the good of their souls? You don't want to make a miserly impression, do you?"
"I'd thank you to leave that to us," his mother said, and because she did not think he was entirely wrong, she added: "These are things you know nothing about. She won't be treated unfairly." And, with a gesture at once lavish and irritable, she put aside for Tonka some of the old woman's handkerchiefs, chemises, and drawers, and then added a black woollen dress that had scarcely been worn. "There, I think that'll do. It's not as though the Fräulein had been such a treasure, and she can't exactly be called sentimental, either. She never shed so much as a single tear, either when Granny died or at the funeral. So please don't let us hear any more about it."
"Some people don't cry easily. I mean, that doesn't prove anything," he said, not because it seemed important to say it, but because he felt the urge to argue for the sake of arguing. "That will do!" his mother said. "Don't you realise that your remarks are out of place?"
At this rebuke he fell silent, not because he was in awe of his mother, but because suddenly he felt vastly pleased at the thought that Tonka had shed no tears. His relatives were all talking eagerly, all talking at once, and he noticed how skilfully each of them turned the situation to his or her own advantage. They expressed themselves, if not clearly, at least to some purpose and with the courage of their convictions. In the end each of them got what he or she wanted.
For them the ability to talk was not a medium of thought, but a sort of capital, something they wore like jewellery to impress others. As he stood by the table with the heaps of things to be given away on it, he found himself recalling a line of verse, ‘To him Apollo gave the gift of song, and music sweet to hear', and for the first time he realised that it really was a gift. How inarticulate Tonka was! She could neither talk nor weep. But how is one to define something that neither can speak nor is spoken of, something that dumbly merges with the anonymous mass of mankind, something that is like a little line scratched on the tablets of history? What is one to make of such a life, such a being, which is like a snowflake falling all alone in the midst of a summer's day? Is it real or imaginary? Is it good, or evil, or indifferent? One senses the fact that here the categories have reached a frontier beyond which they cease to be valid.
Without another word he left the room and went to tell Tonka that he would provide for her.
He found her packing up her things. There was a big cardboard box on a chair, and there were two others on the floor. One of them was already tied up with string. The two others were not big enough for the amount of stuff still scattered about the room, and she was trying to solve the problem by taking things out again and putting them in differently—stockings and handkerchiefs, laced boots and sewing things—laying them first this way and then that. However scanty her possessions were, she would never get everything stowed away, for her luggage was still scantier.
Since
"Thank you," she said and went off to her little room.
Meanwhile the others had begun sharing out the old woman's things among themselves. They were like wolves devouring a dead member of the pack, and they were already in a state of general irritation when he asked whether the Fräulein, who had got so little money out of it all, should not at least be given something of some value in memory of Grandmamma.
"We've decided to give her Grandmamma's big prayer-book."
"Well, yes, but I'm sure something useful would please her more. What about this, for instance?" He picked up a brown fur tippet that was lying on the table.
"That's for Emmi"—a cousin of his—"and anyway you must be mad, it's mink!"
He laughed. "Is there any law that poor girls can only be given something for the good of their souls? You don't want to make a miserly impression, do you?"
"I'd thank you to leave that to us," his mother said, and because she did not think he was entirely wrong, she added: "These are things you know nothing about. She won't be treated unfairly." And, with a gesture at once lavish and irritable, she put aside for Tonka some of the old woman's handkerchiefs, chemises, and drawers, and then added a black woollen dress that had scarcely been worn. "There, I think that'll do. It's not as though the Fräulein had been such a treasure, and she can't exactly be called sentimental, either. She never shed so much as a single tear, either when Granny died or at the funeral. So please don't let us hear any more about it."
"Some people don't cry easily. I mean, that doesn't prove anything," he said, not because it seemed important to say it, but because he felt the urge to argue for the sake of arguing. "That will do!" his mother said. "Don't you realise that your remarks are out of place?"
At this rebuke he fell silent, not because he was in awe of his mother, but because suddenly he felt vastly pleased at the thought that Tonka had shed no tears. His relatives were all talking eagerly, all talking at once, and he noticed how skilfully each of them turned the situation to his or her own advantage. They expressed themselves, if not clearly, at least to some purpose and with the courage of their convictions. In the end each of them got what he or she wanted.
For them the ability to talk was not a medium of thought, but a sort of capital, something they wore like jewellery to impress others. As he stood by the table with the heaps of things to be given away on it, he found himself recalling a line of verse, ‘To him Apollo gave the gift of song, and music sweet to hear', and for the first time he realised that it really was a gift. How inarticulate Tonka was! She could neither talk nor weep. But how is one to define something that neither can speak nor is spoken of, something that dumbly merges with the anonymous mass of mankind, something that is like a little line scratched on the tablets of history? What is one to make of such a life, such a being, which is like a snowflake falling all alone in the midst of a summer's day? Is it real or imaginary? Is it good, or evil, or indifferent? One senses the fact that here the categories have reached a frontier beyond which they cease to be valid.
Without another word he left the room and went to tell Tonka that he would provide for her.
He found her packing up her things. There was a big cardboard box on a chair, and there were two others on the floor. One of them was already tied up with string. The two others were not big enough for the amount of stuff still scattered about the room, and she was trying to solve the problem by taking things out again and putting them in differently—stockings and handkerchiefs, laced boots and sewing things—laying them first this way and then that. However scanty her possessions were, she would never get everything stowed away, for her luggage was still scantier.
Since
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