Only when they left the room did Frau Veraguth begin to ask questions. But she obtained no further information.
"His stomach seems to be quite upset and the child is obviously sensitive and nervous. No trace of fever. You can take his temperature this evening. His pulse is a little weak. If he's not better, I'll come again tomorrow. I don't think it's anything serious."
He quickly said goodbye and was very much in a hurry again. Veraguth accompanied him to the motorcar.
"Can it last long?" he asked at the last moment.
The doctor gave a harsh laugh.
"I shouldn't have expected you to be such a worrier. The child is rather delicate and we all of us had plenty of spoiled stomachs as children. Good morning!"
Veraguth knew that he was not needed in the house and sauntered thoughtfully off into the fields. The doctor's succinct, austere manner had set his mind at rest, and now he was surprised that he should have been so agitated and fearful.
With a sense of relief, he strode along, drawing in the warm air of the deep-blue morning. It seemed to him that this was his farewell walk through these meadows and rows of fruit trees, and he felt passably happy and free at the thought. He wondered what had given him this new feeling that a decision had been made and a solution arrived at, and soon realized that it stemmed from his talk with Frau Adele that morning. That he had told her of his travel plans, that she had listened so calmly and made no attempt at resistance, that he had blocked off all possible loopholes and evasions between his decision and its execution, and that the immediate future now lay plain and clear before him--all this was a comfort to him, a source of peace and new self-confidence.
Without knowing where he was going, he had turned into the path he had taken a few weeks before with his friend Burkhardt. Only when the path began to climb did he notice where he was and remember his walk with Otto. He had intended in the autumn to paint the copse on the far side of the hill, the bench and the mysterious light-dark passage leading through the trees into the clear bluish valley framed like a picture in the distance; he had meant to seat Pierre on the bench, his bright boyish face resting softly in the subdued brown light of the forest.
Eagerly looking about him, he climbed, no longer aware of the noonday heat, and as he awaited the moment when he would see the edge of the woods over the crest of the hill, the day spent with Burkhardt came back to him, he remembered their conversation down to his friend's exact words and recalled the early summer green of the landscape, which had since then become much deeper and milder. He was overcome by a feeling he had not known in a long while and its unexpected recurrence reminded him sharply of his youth. For it seemed to him that since that walk in the woods with Otto a long long time had elapsed and that he himself had grown, had changed and gone forward to such a degree that he could not help looking back on himself as he was then with a certain ironic commiseration.
Surprised by this very youthful feeling, which twenty years earlier had been a part of his everyday life and now struck him as a rare enchantment, he looked back over the short summer and discovered something that had been unknown to him only yesterday. Recalling the days of two or three months past, he found himself transformed; today he found clarity and a feeling of certainty as to the road ahead, where only a short time ago there had been only darkness and perplexity. It was as though his life had become once more a limpid stream or river, driving resolutely in the direction assigned to it, whereas hitherto it had stagnated in the swampy lake of indecision. Now it became clear to him that his journey could not possibly lead him back here, that there was nothing more for him to do here than take his leave, perhaps with a bleeding heart, but no matter. His life was flowing again, driving resolutely toward freedom and the future. Though still unaware of it, he had inwardly renounced and cut himself off from the town and countryside, from Rosshalde and his wife.
He stopped still, breathing deeply, suffused and buoyed up by a wave of clarity. He thought of Pierre, and a keen wild pain pierced his whole being as the certainty came to him that he would have to travel this road to the end and part also with Pierre.
For a long while he stood there, his face twitching, and if what he felt was burning pain, still it was life and light, clarity and a sense of the future. This was what Otto Burkhardt had wanted of him. This was the hour for which his friend had been waiting. At last he had cut open the old abscesses he had so long feared to touch. A painful operation, bitterly painful, but now that he had abjured his cherished wishes, his unrest and disunity, the conflict and paralysis of his soul had died away with them. Daylight had risen around him, cruelly bright, beautiful, luminous daylight.
Deeply moved, he took the last steps to the hilltop and sat down on the shaded stone bench. A profound feeling of life poured through him as though his youth had returned, and in gratitude at his deliverance he thought of his distant friend, without whom he could never have found his way, without whom he would have perished in dull, sick captivity.
But it was not in his nature to meditate for long, or to sustain an extreme mood for long. Side by side with his feeling that he had recovered his health and his will, a new consciousness of energy and imperious personal power invaded his whole being.
He stood up, opened his eyes, and looked out avidly as though to take possession of his new picture. For a long while he peered through the forest shadow into the bright distant valley below. This was he wanted to paint, and he would not wait until fall. Here there was a challenging task, an enormous difficulty, a precious riddle to be solved: this wonderful passage through the woods had to be painted with love, with as much love and care as one of the fine old masters, an Altdorfer or a Durer, would have put into it. Command of the light and its mystic rhythm would not be enough, every minute form would have to be given its full rights, to be as subtly appraised and modulated as the grasses in his mother's wonderful bouquets of wildflowers. The cool bright valley in the distance would have to be doubly thrust back, by the warm flowing light of the foreground and by the forest shade; it must be made to shine like a jewel from the depths of the picture, cool and sweet, strange and alluring.
He looked at his watch. It was time to go home. Today he did not wish to keep his wife waiting. But first he took out his little sketchbook and, standing in the noonday sun at the edge of the hill, he blocked in the picture with bold strokes, setting down the over-all perspective lines and the promising oval of the sparkling little scene in the distance.
Then he was late after all and, disregarding the heat, he ran down the steep sunny path. He thought of the painting materials he would need and decided to get up very early the next day in order to see the landscape in the first morning light. His heart rejoiced at the thought that once again a fine, challenging task awaited him.
"How is Pierre?" was his first question as he hurried into the house.
The child was tired and resting, Frau Adele answered; he seemed to have no pain and was lying patiently on his bed. She thought it best not to disturb him, he seemed strangely on edge, starting up whenever a door opened or there was any unexpected sound.
"Oh well," he nodded in reply, "I'll drop in on him later, toward evening perhaps. Forgive me for being a little late, I've been out. I shall be painting in the open for the next few days."
The luncheon was peaceful and quiet. Through the lowered blinds a green light filtered into the cool room, the windows were all open, and in the noonday silence the splashing of the little fountain in the yard could be heard.
"You'll be having to outfit yourself for India," said Albert. "Are you taking hunting equipment?"
"I don't think so, Burkhardt has everything. He'll tell me what to take. I believe my painting materials will have to be packed in sealed lead boxes."
"Will you wear a tropical helmet?"
"Of course. But I can buy one on the way."
When the meal was over and Albert had left the table, Frau Adele asked her husband to stay awhile. She sat down in her wicker chai
r by the window and he moved an armchair over beside her.
"When will you be leaving?" she asked.
"Oh, that depends entirely on Otto; whenever it suits him. About the end of September, I should think."
"So soon? I haven't had much time to think things over, I've been so busy with Pierre. But in connection with Pierre, I don't think you should ask too much of me."
"I agree with you, I was thinking about that this morning. I want you to feel perfectly free. I understand that it won't do for me to go traveling around the world and still expect to have a voice in your affairs here. You must do whatever you think right. There's no reason why you should have less freedom than I'm asking for myself."
"And what's to become of the house? I shouldn't like to stay here alone, it's too out-of-the-way and too big, and besides it's too full of memories that trouble me."
"I've already told you, go where you like. Rosshalde is yours, you know that, and before I leave I shall put it in writing, just in case."
Frau Adele had turned pale. She observed her husband's face with almost hostile attentiveness.
"You almost sound," she said in a tone of distress, "as though you were meaning never to come back."
He blinked thoughtfully and looked at the floor. "One never knows. I still have no idea how long I shall be away, and I hardly think that India is very healthy for a man my age."
She shook her head emphatically. "That's not what I meant. We can all die. I meant, have you any intention of coming back?"
He blinked and said nothing. At length he smiled feebly and rose. "Suppose we speak of that another time. Our last quarrel was about that question, a few years ago, do you remember? I don't want any more quarrels here in Rosshalde, least of all with you. I assume you still have the same ideas on the subject you did then. Or would you let me have Pierre today?"
Frau Veraguth shook her head in silence.
"Just as I thought," said her husband calmly. "We had better let these things rest. As I said, you can do what you like with the house. I attach no importance to keeping Rosshalde; if anyone offers you a good price for the place, why not sell it?"
"Then this is the end of Rosshalde," she said in a tone of deep bitterness, thinking of the early days, of Albert as a baby, and of all her old hopes and expectations.
Veraguth, who had already turned toward the door, turned around and said gently: "Don't take it so hard, child. Hold on to it if you like."
He went out and unchained the dog; the jubilant animal leapt around him barking as he crossed over to the studio. What was Rosshalde to him? It was one of the things he had left behind. Now for the first time he felt stronger than his wife. He had drawn a line. In his heart he had made his sacrifice, he had given up Pierre. Once that was done, his whole being looked only forward. For him Rosshalde was ended, ended like the many other miscarried hopes of those days, ended like his youth. There was no point in lamenting it.
He rang and Robert appeared.
"I shall be painting outside for a few days. Kindly have the small paint boxes and the sun shade ready for tomorrow. And wake me up at half past five."
"Certainly, Herr Veraguth."
"That's all. I suppose the weather will hold? What do you think?"
"I believe it will ... But, excuse me, Herr Veraguth, there's something I should like to ask you."
"Well?"
"I beg your pardon, but I've heard you were going to India."
Veraguth laughed in surprise. "The news has traveled mighty fast. So Albert has been talking. Well, yes, I shall be going to India, and you can't very well come along, Robert, I'm sorry. There aren't any European servants out there. But you can always come back to me later if you like. Meanwhile, I'll find you another good position, and anyway your wages will be paid until New Year's."
"Thank you, Herr Veraguth, thank you very much. Perhaps you would give me your address. I shall want to write you. You see--it's not so easy to say--you see, I have a fiancee, Herr Veraguth."
"Oh, you have a fiancee?"
"Yes, Herr Veraguth, and if you let me go, I shall have to marry her. You see, I promised her I wouldn't take another position if I leave here."
"Well, then you'll be glad to get away. But I shall be sorry, Robert. What do you mean to do when you're married?"
"Well, she wants to open a cigar store with me."
"A cigar store? Robert, that's not for you."
"There's no harm in trying, Herr Veraguth. But begging your pardon ... mightn't it be possible to continue in your service, Herr Veraguth?"
The painter clapped him on the shoulder. "Good Lord, man, what's going on here? You want to get married, you want to open an idiotic shop, and you want to stay with me too? Something seems to be wrong ... I have the impression, Robert, that you're not exactly dead set on this marriage?"
"No, Herr Veraguth, begging your pardon, I'm not. My fiancee is a good worker, I won't deny it. But I'd rather stay with you. She has a sharp disposition and..."
"But, my dear fellow, why get married then? You're afraid of her! There isn't a child, I hope?"
"No, it's not that. But she leaves me no peace."
"In that case, Robert, give her a nice brooch, I'll contribute a taler. Give it to your fiancee and tell her to go find someone else for her cigar store. Tell her I said so. You ought to be ashamed! I'll give you a week's time. And then I'll want to know whether or not you're the kind of man that's afraid of a mere girl."
"All right, all right. I'll tell her..."
Veraguth stopped smiling. His eyes flashed angrily at the dismayed Robert: "You'll send that girl packing, Robert, or you and I are through. Humph--letting yourself be dragged to the altar! You may go now. See that this thing is settled in short order."
He filled a pipe and, taking with him a larger sketchbook and a bag full of charcoal, went out to the wooded hill.
Chapter Fourteen
FASTING DID NOT SEEM TO HELP. Pierre Veraguth lay huddled up in his bed, his cup of tea untouched. As far as possible, the others left him in peace, because he never answered when spoken to and recoiled irritably when anyone entered the room. Sometimes his mother sat by his bed, half mumbling, half singing words of tenderness and comfort. She felt strangely uneasy; it seemed to her that the little patient was stubbornly entrenching himself in a secret sorrow. He made no response to any question or plea or suggestion, stared gloomily into space, and showed no desire to sleep or play or drink or be read to. The doctor had come two days in succession; he had said little and recommended lukewarm compresses. A good deal of the time Pierre lay in a half sleep such as comes of fever, muttering incomprehensible words in a subdued, dreamlike delirium.
Veraguth had been out painting for several days. When he came home at dusk, he inquired after the boy. His wife asked him not to go into the sickroom because Pierre reacted so sensitively to the slightest disturbance and now he seemed to have dozed off. Since Frau Adele was not talkative and seemed since their recent conversation to feel ill-at-ease in his presence, he asked no further questions and went calmly off to his bath. He spent the evening in the warm, pleasant agitation that he always felt while preparing for a new piece of work. He had painted several studies and was planning to attack the painting itself the next day. With satisfaction he selected cardboards and canvases, repaired some stretchers that had come loose at the corners, gathered together brushes and painting materials of all kinds, and equipped himself as though for a short trip, even making ready his full tobacco pouch, pipe and lighter, in the manner of a tourist who is planning to climb a mountain in the morning and knows of no better way of spending the expectant hours before bedtime than to think lovingly of the day to come and to make ready every little thing he will need.
Later he settled himself with a glass of wine and looked over the evening mail. There was a joyful, affectionate letter from Burkhardt, who with the meticulousness of a good housewife had appended a list of everything Veraguth should take with him on the trip. With amuseme
nt Veraguth read through the whole list, which omitted neither woolen waist bands nor beach slippers, neither nightdress nor leggings. At the bottom Burkhardt had written in pencil: "I shall attend to everything else, including our cabins. Don't let anyone talk you into buying chemicals for seasickness, or Indian literature. I shall take care of all that."
Smiling, he turned to a large roll of cardboard containing some etchings which a young Dusseldorf painter had sent him with a respectful dedication. Today he found time for such things, he was in the mood, he examined the etchings with care and chose the best for his portfolios; he would give Albert the rest. He wrote the painter a friendly note.
Last, he opened his sketchbook and studied at length the many drawings he had made. He was not quite satisfied with any of them, he would try again next day, taking in a little more of the view, and if the picture was still not right, he would go on doing studies until he had it. In any case, he would work hard the next day, the rest would take care of itself. And this painting would be his farewell to Rosshalde; this was undoubtedly the most impressive and alluring piece of landscape in the region, and it would not be for nothing, he hoped, that he had time and again put off painting it. This was a subject that could not be disposed of in a dashing sketch, it demanded careful reflection. Later on in the tropics he would again relish the adventure of quick assaults on nature, with their difficulties, defeats, and victories.
He went to bed early and slept soundly until Robert awakened him. Then he arose in joyful haste, shivering in the sharp morning air, drank a bowl of coffee standing up, meanwhile urging haste upon Robert, who was to carry his canvas, camp chair, and paintbox. A little while later he left the house and disappeared, followed by Robert, into the morning-pale meadows. He had meant to drop into the kitchen to ask if Pierre had had a quiet night, but found the house closed up and no one awake.
Frau Adele had sat up a part of the night with the child, who seemed slightly feverish. She had listened to his incoherent mumbling, felt his pulse, and straightened his bed. When she said good night and kissed him, he opened his eyes and looked into her face but did not answer. The night was quiet.