Rosshalde by Hermann Hesse

his work, he breathed the cold air of creative loneliness, desiring nothing of a world he had forgotten. Quickly and surely, his eyes protruding with concentration, he laid on color with little sharp thrusts, gave a shadow greater depth, made a swaying leaf or a playful lock of hair hover more softly and freely in the light. He gave no thought to what his picture expressed. That lay behind him; it had been an idea, an inspiration; now he was concerned not with meanings, feelings, or thoughts, but with pure reality. He had gone so far as to attenuate and almost obliterate the expression of the faces, he had no desire to tell a story; the fold of a cloak gathered around a knee was as important and sacred to him as a bowed forehead or a closed mouth. The picture was to make nothing visible but three human figures seen purely as objects, connected with one another by space and air, yet each surrounded by the unique aura that disengages every deeply seen image from the world of irrelevant relationships and calls forth a tremor of astonishment at its fateful necessity. Thus from the paintings of dead masters, over-life-size strangers whose names we do not know and do not wish to know look out at us enigmatically as symbols of all being.
    The picture was far advanced, almost completed. He had left the finishing touches on the charming figure of the child for the last; he would work on it tomorrow or the day after.
    It was well past lunchtime when the painter felt hungry and looked at his watch. He washed in haste, dressed, and went to the manor house, where he found his wife alone at table and waiting.
    â€œWhere are the boys?” he asked in surprise.
    â€œThey’ve gone for a drive. Didn’t Albert drop in to see you?”
    It was only then that he remembered Albert’s visit. Distracted and somewhat embarrassed, he began to eat. Frau Adele watched him wearily and absently cutting his meat. She had rather given up expecting him. The strain in his features touched her with a kind of compassion. She served him in silence and poured wine for him, and he, sensing a vague friendliness, made an effort to say something pleasant.
    â€œDoes Albert mean to become a musician?” he asked. “I believe he has a good deal of talent.”
    â€œYes, he is gifted. But I don’t know if he’s cut out for an artist. I don’t believe he wants to become one. So far, he hasn’t shown much enthusiasm for any profession, his ideal is to be a kind of gentleman who would engage in sports and studies, social life and art all at once. I don’t see how he can make a living that way, I shall have to make that clear to him little by little. Meanwhile he works hard and has good manners, I shouldn’t like to upset him and worry him needlessly. After graduating from school he wants to do his military service first, in any case. After that, we shall see.”
    The painter said nothing. He peeled a banana and took pleasure in the mealy, nutritious smell of the ripe fruit.
    â€œIf it doesn’t inconvenience you, I should like to take my coffee here,” he said finally. His tone was friendly, considerate, and a trifle weary, as though it would soothe him to rest here and enjoy a little comfort.
    â€œI’ll have it brought in. —Have you been working hard?”
    That had slipped out almost unawares. She meant nothing by it; she wished only, since it was a moment of unusual pleasantness, to show a little interest, and that did not come easy, she had lost the habit.
    â€œYes, I’ve been painting for a few hours,” her husband answered dryly.
    It disturbed him that she should ask. It had become customary between them that he did not speak of his work, there were many of his more recent paintings that she had never seen.
    She felt that the bright moment was slipping away and did nothing to hold it. And he, who was already reaching for his cigarette case and about to ask leave to smoke, lost his