love. Everyone knows that.
I stare through the window, realizing that jealousy is not love but possessiveness—but what does it matter? The twilight distorts your thoughts, and you ought not to argue with women, Georg says. But that's exactly what I have been doing! Full of remorse I smell the fragrance of the roses, which have transformed my room into a Venusberg. I realize that I am melting into universal forgiveness, universal conciliation and hope. Quickly I write a few lines, seal the envelope without even rereading them, and go into the office to get the issue paper in which the last shipment of porcelain angels was sent. I wrap up the roses and go to look for Fritz Kroll, the youngest sprig of the firm. Fritz is twelve years old. "Fritz," I say, "do you want to earn two thousand?"
"You bet," Fritz replies. "Same address?"
"Yes."
He disappears with the roses—the third clearheaded person this evening. They all know what they want, Kurt, Lisa, Fritz —I alone have no idea. It's not Erna either; I realize that the minute it's too late to call Fritz back. But what is it? Where are the altars, where the gods and where the sacrifices? I decide to go to the Mozart concert—even though I shall be alone and the music will make it still worse.
The sky is full of stars when I come back. My steps reverberate in the street and I am full of excitement. Quickly I open the office door, turn on the light, and stop short. There are the roses beside the Presto mimeographing machine and there, too, is my letter, unopened, and beside it a scarp of paper with a message from Fritz. "The lady says to go bury yourself. Sincerely Fritz."
Bury myself! A thoughtful joke! There I stand, disgraced to the marrow, full of shame and rage. I put Fritz's note into the cold grate. Then I sit down in my chair and brood. My rage outweighs my shame, as always happens when one is really ashamed and knows he ought to be. I write another letter, pick up the roses, and go to the Red Mill. "Please give these to Fräulein Gerda Schneider," I say to the doorman. "The acrobat."
The man in the braided uniform looks at me as though I had made him an immoral proposal. Then he gestures haughtily over his shoulder with his thumb. "Give them to a page."
I find a page and tell him to present the bouquet during the performance.
He promises to do so. I hope Erna will be there to see it. Then I wander for a while through the city until I grow tired and go home.
I am greeted by a melodious tinkle. Knopf is once more standing in front of the obelisk relieving himself. I say nothing; I want no more arguments. I take a pail, fill it with water, and empty it at Knopf's feet. The Sergeant Major gapes, "Inundation," he mutters. "Had no idea it had rained." And he staggers into the house.
Chapter Six
6.
Over the woods hangs a dusky, red moon. The evening is sultry and very still. The glass man walks past silently. Now he can venture out; there is no danger that the sun will turn his head into a burning glass. However, he is wearing heavy rubbers as a precaution—there might be a thunderstorm and that is even more dangerous for him than the sun. Isabelle is sitting beside me on one of the garden benches in front of the pavilion for incurables. She is wearing a tight black dress and there are high-heeled golden shoes on her bare feet.
"Rudolf," she says, "you abandoned me again. Last time you promised to stay. Where have you been?"
Rudolf, I think, thank God! I couldn't have stood being Rolf tonight. I have had a depressing day and feel as though I had been shot at with rock salt.
"I have not abandoned you," I say. "I was away—but I have not abandoned you."
"Where were you?"
"Somewhere out there—"
Out there with the madmen is what I almost said, but I caught myself in time.
"Why?"
"I don't know, Isabelle. People do so many things without knowing why—"
"I was looking for you last night. There was a moon—not that one up there, the red, restless,
I stare through the window, realizing that jealousy is not love but possessiveness—but what does it matter? The twilight distorts your thoughts, and you ought not to argue with women, Georg says. But that's exactly what I have been doing! Full of remorse I smell the fragrance of the roses, which have transformed my room into a Venusberg. I realize that I am melting into universal forgiveness, universal conciliation and hope. Quickly I write a few lines, seal the envelope without even rereading them, and go into the office to get the issue paper in which the last shipment of porcelain angels was sent. I wrap up the roses and go to look for Fritz Kroll, the youngest sprig of the firm. Fritz is twelve years old. "Fritz," I say, "do you want to earn two thousand?"
"You bet," Fritz replies. "Same address?"
"Yes."
He disappears with the roses—the third clearheaded person this evening. They all know what they want, Kurt, Lisa, Fritz —I alone have no idea. It's not Erna either; I realize that the minute it's too late to call Fritz back. But what is it? Where are the altars, where the gods and where the sacrifices? I decide to go to the Mozart concert—even though I shall be alone and the music will make it still worse.
The sky is full of stars when I come back. My steps reverberate in the street and I am full of excitement. Quickly I open the office door, turn on the light, and stop short. There are the roses beside the Presto mimeographing machine and there, too, is my letter, unopened, and beside it a scarp of paper with a message from Fritz. "The lady says to go bury yourself. Sincerely Fritz."
Bury myself! A thoughtful joke! There I stand, disgraced to the marrow, full of shame and rage. I put Fritz's note into the cold grate. Then I sit down in my chair and brood. My rage outweighs my shame, as always happens when one is really ashamed and knows he ought to be. I write another letter, pick up the roses, and go to the Red Mill. "Please give these to Fräulein Gerda Schneider," I say to the doorman. "The acrobat."
The man in the braided uniform looks at me as though I had made him an immoral proposal. Then he gestures haughtily over his shoulder with his thumb. "Give them to a page."
I find a page and tell him to present the bouquet during the performance.
He promises to do so. I hope Erna will be there to see it. Then I wander for a while through the city until I grow tired and go home.
I am greeted by a melodious tinkle. Knopf is once more standing in front of the obelisk relieving himself. I say nothing; I want no more arguments. I take a pail, fill it with water, and empty it at Knopf's feet. The Sergeant Major gapes, "Inundation," he mutters. "Had no idea it had rained." And he staggers into the house.
Chapter Six
6.
Over the woods hangs a dusky, red moon. The evening is sultry and very still. The glass man walks past silently. Now he can venture out; there is no danger that the sun will turn his head into a burning glass. However, he is wearing heavy rubbers as a precaution—there might be a thunderstorm and that is even more dangerous for him than the sun. Isabelle is sitting beside me on one of the garden benches in front of the pavilion for incurables. She is wearing a tight black dress and there are high-heeled golden shoes on her bare feet.
"Rudolf," she says, "you abandoned me again. Last time you promised to stay. Where have you been?"
Rudolf, I think, thank God! I couldn't have stood being Rolf tonight. I have had a depressing day and feel as though I had been shot at with rock salt.
"I have not abandoned you," I say. "I was away—but I have not abandoned you."
"Where were you?"
"Somewhere out there—"
Out there with the madmen is what I almost said, but I caught myself in time.
"Why?"
"I don't know, Isabelle. People do so many things without knowing why—"
"I was looking for you last night. There was a moon—not that one up there, the red, restless,
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