Rosshalde by Hermann Hesse Page A

desire and let his hand drop.
    But he drank his coffee without haste, asked a question about Pierre, thanked his wife politely, and stayed on another few minutes, contemplating a small painting he had given her some years before.
    â€œIt holds up rather well,” he said, half to himself. “It still looks pretty good. Except for the yellow flowers, they shouldn’t really be there, they draw too much light.”
    Frau Veraguth made no reply; it so happened that the delicate, finely painted yellow flowers were what she liked best in the picture.
    He turned around with a shadow of a smile. “Goodbye; don’t let the time hang too heavy on your hands until the boys get back.”
    Then he left the room and descended the stairs. Outside, the dog jumped up on him. He took his paws in his left hand, stroked him with his right hand, and looked into his eager eyes. Then he called through the kitchen window for a piece of sugar, gave it to the dog, cast a glance at the sunny lawn, and went slowly back to the studio. It was a fine day to be out of doors, the air was marvelous; but he had no time, his work was waiting for him.
    There stood his painting in the quiet diffused light of the high studio. On a green surface dotted with a few wildflowers sat the three figures: the man bent over, deep in hopeless brooding, the woman waiting in resigned and joyless disillusionment, the child bright and guileless, playing in the flowers; and over them all an intense, vibrant, triumphantly flowing light glittered with the same carefree warmth in every flower as in the boy’s luminous hair and in the little gold ornament on the disconsolate woman’s throat.

Chapter Nine
    T HE PAINTER HAD WORKED ON TOWARD EVENING . Now, deadened with fatigue, he sat for a while in his armchair, his hands in his lap, utterly drained, with slack cheeks and slightly inflamed eyelids, old and almost inert, like a peasant or woodcutter after heavy toil.
    He would have liked best to remain in his chair and surrender to his fatigue and craving for sleep. But habit and stern discipline would not let him; after ten or fifteen minutes he jolted himself awake. He stood up and without so much as a glance at the painting went down to the landing, undressed, and swam slowly around the lake.
    It was a milky-pale evening; muffled by the woods, the sound of creaking hay wagons and the weary cries and laughter of farm hands returning from the day’s work could be heard from the nearby road. Veraguth stepped shivering out of the water, carefully rubbed himself warm and dry, went into his little living room, and lighted a cigar.
    He had planned to write letters this evening, now he opened his desk drawer without conviction, but irritably closed it again and rang for Robert.
    The servant appeared.
    â€œTell me, when did the boys get back with the carriage?”
    â€œThey didn’t, Herr Veraguth.”
    â€œWhat, they’re not back yet?”
    â€œNo, Herr Veraguth. I only hope Herr Albert hasn’t tired the bay too much. He tends to be a little hard on the horses.”
    His master did not answer. He would have liked to spend half an hour with Pierre, who, he supposed, had returned long ago. Now he was angry and rather frightened at the news.
    He ran across to the manor house and knocked at his wife’s door. There was astonishment in her answer, he never came to see her at this hour.
    â€œExcuse me,” he said, repressing his agitation, “but where is Pierre?”
    Frau Adele looked at her husband with surprise. “The boys have gone for a drive, don’t you remember?”
    Sensing his irritation, she added: “You’re not worried?”
    He shrugged his shoulders impatiently. “No. But it’s thoughtless of Albert. A few hours, he said. He might have phoned at least.”
    â€œBut it’s still early. They’ll surely be back before dinner.”
    â€œThe little fellow is always gone when I