Aroused by the sudden silence, Machold took a firm hold on the reins, smiled to see the woods and the sky sunny and clear after his few minutes of twilight, and with a friendly click of his tongue started the horse off again. Then he pulled himself up straight -- he didn't approve of dozing in the daytime -- and lit a cigar. The nag went on at a slow walk; two women in broad-brimmed hats called greetings from behind a long row of filled potato sacks.
By now the top of the slope was near; the horse raised his head in expectation, looking forward to the long downhill trot home. Just then a man appeared on the bright nearby horizon, a wayfarer. For a moment he stood tall and free against the glittering blue; then, descending the slope, he became gray and small. He came closer,, a thin man with a small beard, poorly dressed, obviously at home on the road. His gait was weary and painful, but he lifted his hat graciously and said Grüss Gott.
"Grüss Gott," said Dr. Machold, and looked after the stranger when he had passed. Then suddenly he stopped his horse. Rising to his feet and turning back over the creaking carriage top, he called out: "Hey! Come here a minute!"
The dusty wayfarer stopped and looked back. He smiled faintly, turned away and seemed about to go on, then he changed his mind and complied.
Now he was standing hat in hand beside the fly.
"May I ask where you're going?" said Machold.
"Straight ahead -- to Berchtoldsegg."
"Don't we know each other? It's only the name that escapes me. You know me, don't you?"
"I'd say you were Dr. Machold."
"What did I tell you? But what's your name?"
"You must know me, doctor. We were in Plocher's class together; you used to copy my Latin exercises."
Machold jumped out and looked the man in the eye. Then he laughed and slapped him on the back.
"That's it!" he said. "You're the famous Knulp, and we were classmates. Let me shake your hand, old friend! It must be ten years since we last met. Still on the road?"
"Still on the road. A man gets set in his ways as he gets older."
"That's true. But where are you heading? Back home again?"
"That's right. I'm going to Gerbersau, I've a little something to attend to."
"I see. Any of your people still living?"
"No, there's nobody left."
"You don't look exactly young any more, Knulp. We're only in our forties, you and I. And you wanting to pass me by like that, that wasn't nice of you. -- You know, I think you might need a doctor."
"There's nothing much wrong with me, and what there is, no doctor can cure."
"We'll see about that. Just hop in and come along. We can talk better that way."
Knulp stepped back a little and put his hat on. With a look of embarrassment, he resisted when the doctor tried to help him into the carriage.
"What for?" he said. "Your horse won't run away while we're standing here."
But then a fit of coughing came over him and the doctor, who by then knew what was what, grabbed hold of him without further ado and boosted him into the fly.
"There," he said, driving on. "We'll be at the top in a minute. From then on it's a trot and we'll be home in half an hour. You don't have to say anything now with your cough, we can talk when we get home. -- What? -- No, none of that! The place for sick people is bed, not the road. You helped me often enough in Latin class, now it's my turn."
They drove over the crest and the brake whistled as they descended the long incline; down below, one could already see the roofs of Bulach over the fruit trees. Machold held the reins short and kept his eyes on the road, while Knulp surrendered half contentedly to the pleasure of driving and to his friend's dictatorial hospitality. Tomorrow, he thought, or at worst the day after, I'll trundle along to Gerbersau if my bones still hold together. He wasn't a young whippersnapper any more who can afford to squander his days and years. He was a sick old man, and his last remaining wish was to see his home town again before the end.
In Bulach his friend took him into the big room and gave him milk and bread and ham. They chatted together and slowly recaptured their old intimacy. Only then did the doctor begin his examination, which the patient tolerated good-naturedly, with a touch of mockery.
"Tell me," said Machold when he had finished, "do you know what you've got?" He said it lightly, without solemnity, and Knulp was grateful to him for that.
"Yes, Machold, I know. It's consumption, and I know I can't last long."
"Oh, you never can tell. You've just got to get it through your head that you need a bed and care. For the present you can stay here with me; later on I'll find you a place in the nearest hospital. You've got crazy ideas, my boy; you'll have to get some sense into you if you want to pull through."
Knulp put his jacket on and turned to the doctor with a roguish look on his haggard gray face. "Machold," he said good-naturedly, "you're going to a lot of trouble on my account. It's kind of you. But it's too late. You mustn't expect too much of me."
"That remains to be seen. Right now you're going to sit in the sun, as long as it's shining in the garden. Lina will make up the bed in the guest room. We've got to keep an eye on you, Knulp. When a man who's spent his whole life in the sun and fresh air gets lung trouble, of all things, there must be something wrong."
With that he left his friend.
Lina, the housekeeper, wasn't pleased; the idea of letting a common tramp into the guest room! But the doctor cut her off short.
"That'll do, Lina. The man hasn't long to live, let's just make him comfortable for a little while. He's always been clean, and we'll see that he takes a bath before he goes to bed. Lay one of my night shirts out for him, and maybe you could give him my winter slippers. And don't forget that he's a friend of mine."
Knulp had slept eleven hours and dozed away the foggy morning. It was some time before he remembered where he was. When the sun came out, Machold had let him get up, and now, after lunch, they were sitting on the sunny terrace over a glass of red wine. The good meal and his half glass of wine had made Knulp lively and talkative. The doctor was taking an hour off from his work, to chat with his strange old friend and perhaps learn a thing or two about his extraordinary life.
"So all in all," he said with a smile, "you're satisfied with the life you've led. That makes it all right. Otherwise I'd be tempted to say that you might have made more of yourself. You wouldn't have had to become a pastor or a schoolteacher, you could have been a naturalist or a poet. I don't know to what extent you've developed your talents or made use of them, but if you have made any use of them it's been entirely for your own benefit. Or am I wrong?"
Propping his chin with its sparse little beard in the hollow of his hand, Knulp watched the red reflections playing over the sun-bright tablecloth behind his wine glass.
"That's not quite true," he said slowly. "My talents, as you call them, don't amount to much. I'm a pretty good whistler, I can play the accordion, and I make up a little poem now and then; I used to be a good runner and I wasn't a bad dancer. That's the sum of my talents. But I didn't enjoy them alone. Almost always there were friends about, or young girls or children. My little gifts gave them pleasure and sometimes they were thankful to me. Why ask for more? Can't we content ourselves with that?"
"Yes," said the doctor. "Indeed we can. But I've got one more thing to ask you. You attended Latin school up to the fifth class, I remember that distinctly, and you were a good student, though not exactly a paragon. And then one fine day you were gone. I heard you were at public school and that was the end of our friendship. In those days a Latin student simply didn't have a friend in public school. How did it come about? Later on, whenever someone mentioned you, I thought: If he'd stayed with us in Latin school, his whole life would have been different. So tell me: what happened? Were you sick of it? Couldn't your old man keep up the tuition? Or was it something else?"
The sick man clasped his glass in his brown, emaciated hand and raised it
, but he did not drink. He peered through the wine at the green garden light and carefully set the glass down again. Then he closed his eyes in silence and lost himself in thought.
"Do you mind talking about it?" his friend asked. "There's no need to."
Knulp opened his eyes and gave Machold a long, searching look.
"No," he said, still hesitantly, "I believe there is a need. You see, I've never spoken of those things to anybody. But now maybe someone ought to know. It's only a child's story, but to me it was important, it's plagued me for years. Strange you should bring it up!"
"Why?"
"Because it's been on my mind lately, and that's why I'm on my way to Gerbersau."
"In that case, tell me about it."
"Do you remember, Machold? We were good friends then, anyway up to the third or fourth class. After that we saw less of each other. Quite a few times you whistled outside our house and I didn't answer."
"By God, that's right! I hadn't given it a thought for more than twenty years. What a memory you have! Go on."
"Now I can tell you what happened. Girls were to blame. I grew curious about them rather early. At a time when you still believed in the stork and the babywell, I had a pretty fair idea what boys and girls do together. I couldn't think of anything else, and that's why I stopped playing Indians with you and my other friends."
"But you were only twelve!"
"Almost thirteen. I'm a year older than you. Once when I was sick in bed, a girl cousin came to stay with us. She was three or four years older than I, and she began to play around with me. When I was well again, I went to her room one night. I found out what a woman looks like, I was scared out of my wits and I ran away. After that I wouldn't speak to my cousin, I was disgusted and afraid of her. But she'd given me the idea and all I did after that was to chase after girls. Haasis the tanner had two daughters my age, and there were other girls from the neighborhood. We played hide-and-seek in the dark attics, and we giggled and tickled and did things in secret. Most of the time I was the only boy; now and then one of the girls let me braid her hair or gave me a kiss. We were all children, we didn't really know what was what, but it was all very loving, and when the girls went swimming I hid in the bushes and watched them. -- Then one day a new girl turned up, she lived in the outskirts, her father worked in the knitting mill. Her name was Franziska and I liked her from the first."
The doctor interrupted him. "What was her father's name? Maybe I know her."
"I'm sorry, Machold, I'd rather not tell you. It has nothing to do with the story and I wouldn't want anyone to know this about her. -- Well anyway, she was bigger and stronger than I. Sometimes we tumbled and wrestled together. When she squeezed me till it hurt, it made me feel dizzy and half drunk. I fell in love with her. She was two years older than I. She kept saying she meant to have a sweetheart soon and the only thing I wanted in all the world was for her sweetheart to be me. -- One day she was sitting all by herself in the tanner's garden down by the river. Her feet were dangling in the water, she'd been bathing and all she had on was her shift. I went and sat down beside her. Suddenly I plucked up my courage and told her I wanted to be her sweetheart. But she gave me a pitying look out of her brown eyes and said: 'You're only a little boy in short pants. What do you know about loving?' I told her I knew all about it and if she wouldn't be my sweetheart I'd throw her in the river and myself with her. That roused her interest. She gave me a woman's look and said: 'Let's give it a try. Do you know how to kiss?' Yes, I said, and gave her a quick kiss on the lips. I thought that was all there was to it, but she grabbed my head and held it tight and kissed me for real like a woman till I couldn't see straight. 'You'd suit me all right, sonny. But it can't be done. I can't have a sweetheart that goes to Latin school. They don't turn out real men. I need a real man for my sweetheart, a mechanic or a workman; not a scholar. So it's not possible.' But she'd pulled me up on her lap, she was so firm and warm and good to hold in my arms that I couldn't dream of giving her up. So I promised Franziska that I'd leave Latin school and become a mechanic. She only laughed, but I wouldn't give in, and in the end she kissed me again and promised that once I'd left Latin school she'd be my sweetheart and I'd be very well off with her."
Knulp stopped, seized with a fit of coughing. His friend looked at him attentively, and for a time they were both silent. Then Knulp went on: "Well, now you know the story. Of course it didn't work out as quickly as I expected. My father boxed my ears when I told him I didn't want to go to Latin school any more. At first I didn't know what to do; more than once I thought of setting fire to our school. That was childish nonsense, but I was serious about my main idea. Finally I thought of a way out. I simply stopped being a good student. Don't you remember?"
"Yes, it comes back to me now. For a while you were kept in almost every day."
"That's right. I cut classes, I gave wrong answers, I didn't do my homework, I lost my copybooks. Every day I did something wrong, and in the end I began to enjoy it. I certainly gave the teachers a bad time. By then I'd really lost interest in Latin and all that. I've always been impulsive, you know. When I had some new enthusiasm, everything else in the world eased to exist. That's how it had been with gymnastics, then with trout fishing, and then with botany. And now it was the same way with girls. Until I'd sown my wild oats and had my experience, nothing else mattered. And it is pretty painful to sit in a schoolroom reciting conjugations when all you can really think about is what you saw the other day when the girls were bathing and you were spying on them. -- Well, there you have it. The teachers may have guessed what was going on, they liked me and shut their eyes as long as possible. My plan would still have failed if I hadn't taken up with Franziska's brother. He was in the last class of public school, and he was no good; I learned a lot from him, and everything I learned was bad. In a few months I finally got what I wanted. My father gave me the licking of my life, but I'd been expelled from Latin school and I was in Franziska's brother's class."
"And the girl?" Machold asked. "What about her?"
"That was the worst of it. She never did get to be my sweetheart. When her brother started bringing me to their house, she stopped being so nice to me; she treated me as if I'd gone down in the world. After a couple of months at public school I got into the habit of sneaking out after dark. It was then that I discovered the truth. One night I was roaming around in the park. There were two lovers sitting on a bench and I stood there, as I did now and then, spying and listening. When I crept closer, I saw it was Franziska and a young mechanic. They took no notice of me, he had his arm around her neck and was holding a cigarette; her blouse was unbuttoned and, well, it was horrible. All my trouble had been for nothing."
Machold patted his friend on the back. "Hm. Maybe you were better off."
But Knulp shook his angular head strenuously.
"No, certainly not. I'd still give my right hand for it to have turned out differently. Don't say a word against Franziska, she wasn't to blame. If it had come out right, my first experience of love would have been a beautiful and happy one. Maybe that would have helped me to get used to public school and straighten things out with my father. Because, you see -- what can I say? -- since then I've had good friends and casual friends, and even girl friends; but I've never relied on anyone's word and I've never given my own. Never again. I've lived my life as I saw fit, I've had my share of freedom and good things, but I've always been alone."
He picked up his glass, carefully drained the last few drops of wine, and stood up.
"If you don't mind, I think I'll lie down again. I don't want to talk about it any more. And you must have things to do."
The doctor nodded. "Just one word. I'm going to write a letter now -- to see if I can get you into a hospital. The idea may not appeal to you, but there's no other way. You're done for unless you get proper care very soon."
"What difference does it make?" cried Knulp with unaccustonied violence. "I'm done for in any case
. Nothing can help now, you know that yourself. Why should I let myself be shut up?"
"Don't say that, Knulp. Be reasonable. What kind of a doctor would I be if I let you run around loose in your condition? We'll get you a bed in Oberstetten; I'll give you a letter. And next week I'll come and see how you're doing. That's a promise."
The tramp sank back into his chair; he seemed on the verge of tears and rubbed his hands as though they were cold. Then he turned to the doctor with a look of childlike supplication.
"Well," he said very softly. "If that's how it is, I've a great favor to ask of you. Don't be angry. It's not nice of me, you've done so much, you've even given me red wine. You've been too good. I don't deserve it. But. . ."
Machold tapped him reassuringly on the shoulder. "Don't be silly, old friend. Nobody's trying to force you. Out with it!"
"You won't be angry?"
"Of course not. Why should I be?"
"Then, Machold, I beg of you. It's a big favor. Don't send me to Oberstetten. If I must go to a hospital, I'd like it to be in Gerbersau. There people know me, I'll be at home. It's probably better for the poor relief too, I was born there, and besides. . ."
His eyes begged fervently, he was so agitated he could hardly speak.
He's feverish, Machold thought. And he said calmly: "If that's all you want, it's settled. Good idea! I'll write to Gerbersau. And now go and lie down, you've been talking too much."
He looked after the tramp as he shuffled into the house, and suddenly he remembered the summer when Knulp had taught him how to fish for trout. He thought of the handsome, passionate twelve-year-old boy and of his knowing, masterful manner toward his friends.
The next morning was foggy and Knulp spent the whole day in bed. The doctor brought him a few books but he scarcely touched them. He was listless and dejected, for now that he was living in comfort, with fine food and a soft bed, he felt more plainly than ever that the end was in sight.