door.”
“Sometimes I think I will never do it. That when I am ready to open it I will draw back.”
“No. You will open it.”
“If you say that it must be because you think I have chosen the best way of getting what I want, of ending my present life and finally becoming something?”
“Yes, I do think so. I think the way you have chosen is the best for you.”
“If you say that it must be because you think there are other ways which other people would have taken?”
“I expect there are other ways but I also believe they would suit you less well.”
“Are you sure of what you are saying?”
“I believe what I am saying, but neither I nor anyone else could tell you with complete certainty.”
“I ask because you said you understood things through traveling and seeing so many different places and people.”
“Perhaps I understand less well where hope is concerned. I think that if I understand anything it’s probably more than the small, ordinary things of everyday life: little problems rather than big ones. And yet I can say this: even if I am not absolutely and entirely sure of the means you have chosen, that before this summer is out you will have opened that door.”
“Thank you ail the same, very much. But tell me once again, what about you?”
“Spring is on its way and the fine weather. I will be off again.”
They were silent one last time. And one last time it was the girl who took up the conversation:
“What was it that made you get up and start off again after sleeping in the wood?”
“I don’t really know. Probably simply that one just had to get up and go on.”
“A short while ago you said it was because from then on you knew it was possible not to be alone, even if only by accident?”
“It was later that I knew that. Some days later. At the time it was different. I knew nothing at all.”
“You see how different we really are. I think I should have refused to get up.”
“But of course you would not. What or who would you have refused?”
“Nothing or no one. I would have simply refused.”
“You’re wrong. You would have done as I did. It was cold, I was cold, and I got up.”
“But we are different all the same.”
“Oh, doubtless we are different in the way we take our troubles.”
“No, I think we are even more different than that.”
“I don’t think so. I don’t think we are more different than anyone is different from anyone else.”
“Perhaps I am mistaken.”
“Since we understand each other. Or at least we try to. And we both like dancing. You said you went to the Mecca?”
“Yes. It is a well-known place. A lot of people like us go there.”
Three
T HE CHILD CAME OVER quietly from the far side of the Square and stood beside the girl.
“I’m tired,” he announced.
The man and the girl looked around them. It was darker than it had been. It was evening.
“It is true, it is late,” said the girl.
This time the man made no comment. The girl wiped the child’s hands, picked up his toys and put them into her bag, all without rising from the bench. Tired of playing, the child sat down at her feet to wait.
“Time seems shorter when one is talking,” said the girl.
“And then afterwards, suddenly, much longer.”
“Yes, like another kind of time. But it does one good to talk.”
“Yes, it does one good. It is only afterwards that it is rather sad: after one has stopped talking. Then time becomes too slow. Perhaps one should never talk.”
“Perhaps,” said the girl after a pause.
“Only because of the slowness afterwards: that was all I meant.”
“And perhaps because of the silence to which we are both returning.”
“Yes, it is true that we are both returning to silence. It seems as though we are already there.”
“No one wilt talk to me again this evening: I will go to bed in silence. And I am only twenty. What have I done to the world that my life should be like this?”
“Nothing. There are no answers to be
“Sometimes I think I will never do it. That when I am ready to open it I will draw back.”
“No. You will open it.”
“If you say that it must be because you think I have chosen the best way of getting what I want, of ending my present life and finally becoming something?”
“Yes, I do think so. I think the way you have chosen is the best for you.”
“If you say that it must be because you think there are other ways which other people would have taken?”
“I expect there are other ways but I also believe they would suit you less well.”
“Are you sure of what you are saying?”
“I believe what I am saying, but neither I nor anyone else could tell you with complete certainty.”
“I ask because you said you understood things through traveling and seeing so many different places and people.”
“Perhaps I understand less well where hope is concerned. I think that if I understand anything it’s probably more than the small, ordinary things of everyday life: little problems rather than big ones. And yet I can say this: even if I am not absolutely and entirely sure of the means you have chosen, that before this summer is out you will have opened that door.”
“Thank you ail the same, very much. But tell me once again, what about you?”
“Spring is on its way and the fine weather. I will be off again.”
They were silent one last time. And one last time it was the girl who took up the conversation:
“What was it that made you get up and start off again after sleeping in the wood?”
“I don’t really know. Probably simply that one just had to get up and go on.”
“A short while ago you said it was because from then on you knew it was possible not to be alone, even if only by accident?”
“It was later that I knew that. Some days later. At the time it was different. I knew nothing at all.”
“You see how different we really are. I think I should have refused to get up.”
“But of course you would not. What or who would you have refused?”
“Nothing or no one. I would have simply refused.”
“You’re wrong. You would have done as I did. It was cold, I was cold, and I got up.”
“But we are different all the same.”
“Oh, doubtless we are different in the way we take our troubles.”
“No, I think we are even more different than that.”
“I don’t think so. I don’t think we are more different than anyone is different from anyone else.”
“Perhaps I am mistaken.”
“Since we understand each other. Or at least we try to. And we both like dancing. You said you went to the Mecca?”
“Yes. It is a well-known place. A lot of people like us go there.”
Three
T HE CHILD CAME OVER quietly from the far side of the Square and stood beside the girl.
“I’m tired,” he announced.
The man and the girl looked around them. It was darker than it had been. It was evening.
“It is true, it is late,” said the girl.
This time the man made no comment. The girl wiped the child’s hands, picked up his toys and put them into her bag, all without rising from the bench. Tired of playing, the child sat down at her feet to wait.
“Time seems shorter when one is talking,” said the girl.
“And then afterwards, suddenly, much longer.”
“Yes, like another kind of time. But it does one good to talk.”
“Yes, it does one good. It is only afterwards that it is rather sad: after one has stopped talking. Then time becomes too slow. Perhaps one should never talk.”
“Perhaps,” said the girl after a pause.
“Only because of the slowness afterwards: that was all I meant.”
“And perhaps because of the silence to which we are both returning.”
“Yes, it is true that we are both returning to silence. It seems as though we are already there.”
“No one wilt talk to me again this evening: I will go to bed in silence. And I am only twenty. What have I done to the world that my life should be like this?”
“Nothing. There are no answers to be
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