father asked.
"To my friend there," said Georg, seeking his father's eye.—"He's so different at the office," he thought, "sitting here so expansively with his arms crossed over his chest."
"Yes. To your friend," the father emphasized.
"Well, you know, Father, that I didn't want to tell him about my engagement at first. Out of consideration for him, no other reason. You know yourself he's a difficult man. I said to myself that, however unlikely, considering his solitary life, he might hear of my engagement some other way. I can't stop that, but he wasn't going to hear it from me."
"And now you've reconsidered?" asked his father, placing the huge newspaper on the windowsill and his spectacles on top of it, then covering them with his hand.
"Yes, now I've reconsidered. If he is a good friend of mine, I said to myself, then my happy engagement should also make him happy. And so then I didn't hesitate any longer to tell him. But before I posted it, I did want to let you know."
"Georg," said his father, opening wide his toothless mouth, "listen to me! You've come to me with this matter to consult me. No doubt that's to your credit. But it is nothing, less than nothing, if you do not tell me the whole truth. I don't want to stir up inappropriate matters here. Since the death of our dear mother, certain unpleasant things have occurred. Perhaps the time to speak of them will come too and perhaps it will come sooner than we think. At the office there is much that escapes me, perhaps things aren't exactly being kept from me—I won't assume they are being kept from me—but I'm not up to it any longer: My memory's failing and I can't keep track of so many things anymore. First of all, that's the course of nature, and second, I was hit harder than you by the death of our precious mother.—But since we're just talking about this, this letter, I beg of you, Georg, don't lie to me. It's a trivial matter, barely worth one's breath, so don't lie to me. Do you really have this friend in St. Petersburg?"
Georg stood up, embarrassed. "Never mind my friends. A thousand friends cannot replace my father. Do you know what I think? You're not taking good enough care of yourself. But your age demands it. You know very well that you are indispensable to me at the office, but if the business is going to endanger your health, then tomorrow I'll shut it down for good. But that won't do. We have to make changes in your daily routine. From the ground up. You sit here in the dark while the living room is streaming with light. You pick at your breakfast instead of nourishing yourself properly. You sit by a closed window when the air would do you so much good. No, Father! I will fetch the doctor and we will follow his instructions. We'll switch rooms, you'll take the front room and I'll take this one. It won't be any different for you, we'll move all your things in there. But all in due time, just lie down in bed for a bit now, you really need to rest. Come, I'll help you undress, you'll see, I know how. Or would you rather go straight to the front room and lie down in my bed for now? That would be the most sensible thing."
Georg stood close to his father, whose head, with its fleecy white hair, had sunk onto his chest.
"Georg," his father said softly, without moving.
Georg immediately knelt down by his father, he saw the enormous pupils fixing him from the corners of the eyes in his father's worn face.
"You have no friend in St. Petersburg. You have always been a prankster and you've also never spared me from your pranks. How could you possibly have a friend there! I simply can't believe it."
"Just think back a bit, Father," said Georg, lifting his father out of the chair and slipping off the dressing gown as soon as he rather feebly stood there, "it'll soon be three years since my friend came to visit us. I still remember that you didn't especially like him. At least twice I pretended to you that he wasn't here, even though he was sitting in my
"To my friend there," said Georg, seeking his father's eye.—"He's so different at the office," he thought, "sitting here so expansively with his arms crossed over his chest."
"Yes. To your friend," the father emphasized.
"Well, you know, Father, that I didn't want to tell him about my engagement at first. Out of consideration for him, no other reason. You know yourself he's a difficult man. I said to myself that, however unlikely, considering his solitary life, he might hear of my engagement some other way. I can't stop that, but he wasn't going to hear it from me."
"And now you've reconsidered?" asked his father, placing the huge newspaper on the windowsill and his spectacles on top of it, then covering them with his hand.
"Yes, now I've reconsidered. If he is a good friend of mine, I said to myself, then my happy engagement should also make him happy. And so then I didn't hesitate any longer to tell him. But before I posted it, I did want to let you know."
"Georg," said his father, opening wide his toothless mouth, "listen to me! You've come to me with this matter to consult me. No doubt that's to your credit. But it is nothing, less than nothing, if you do not tell me the whole truth. I don't want to stir up inappropriate matters here. Since the death of our dear mother, certain unpleasant things have occurred. Perhaps the time to speak of them will come too and perhaps it will come sooner than we think. At the office there is much that escapes me, perhaps things aren't exactly being kept from me—I won't assume they are being kept from me—but I'm not up to it any longer: My memory's failing and I can't keep track of so many things anymore. First of all, that's the course of nature, and second, I was hit harder than you by the death of our precious mother.—But since we're just talking about this, this letter, I beg of you, Georg, don't lie to me. It's a trivial matter, barely worth one's breath, so don't lie to me. Do you really have this friend in St. Petersburg?"
Georg stood up, embarrassed. "Never mind my friends. A thousand friends cannot replace my father. Do you know what I think? You're not taking good enough care of yourself. But your age demands it. You know very well that you are indispensable to me at the office, but if the business is going to endanger your health, then tomorrow I'll shut it down for good. But that won't do. We have to make changes in your daily routine. From the ground up. You sit here in the dark while the living room is streaming with light. You pick at your breakfast instead of nourishing yourself properly. You sit by a closed window when the air would do you so much good. No, Father! I will fetch the doctor and we will follow his instructions. We'll switch rooms, you'll take the front room and I'll take this one. It won't be any different for you, we'll move all your things in there. But all in due time, just lie down in bed for a bit now, you really need to rest. Come, I'll help you undress, you'll see, I know how. Or would you rather go straight to the front room and lie down in my bed for now? That would be the most sensible thing."
Georg stood close to his father, whose head, with its fleecy white hair, had sunk onto his chest.
"Georg," his father said softly, without moving.
Georg immediately knelt down by his father, he saw the enormous pupils fixing him from the corners of the eyes in his father's worn face.
"You have no friend in St. Petersburg. You have always been a prankster and you've also never spared me from your pranks. How could you possibly have a friend there! I simply can't believe it."
"Just think back a bit, Father," said Georg, lifting his father out of the chair and slipping off the dressing gown as soon as he rather feebly stood there, "it'll soon be three years since my friend came to visit us. I still remember that you didn't especially like him. At least twice I pretended to you that he wasn't here, even though he was sitting in my
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