Free Andreas by Hugo von Hofmannsthal

being arranged. He is a Knight of Malta,” he went on, but at once paused as the writer raised his head, “but as you see, he doesn’t wear on his cloak the cross which it is not only his right, but his dutyto wear. He has travelled a great deal, they say; he has been far into the interior of India, and even at the Great Wall of China, and some say he is in the service of the Jesuits, but others say he is no more than a freemason.”
    The rich Greek and his beggarly nephew stood up—the gross callousness of the one, the bestial servility of the other, were revolting. In both, human nature seemed to have lost its dignity. For Andreas it was past understanding that so vile a spectacle could take place in the neighbourhood of a being such as he imagined the Knight to be. When the two raised their voices, the one spitting like a cat, the other in a kind of whimper, he even felt he must rush between them and silence them with his stick. The Knight of Malta raised his eyes for a moment, but looked away over the two, as if they were not there, and, closing his letter as he rose, nodded to a lad who now ran up, took the letter with a bow, and went off with it, while the Knight walked away in the other direction.
    When he had disappeared round the corner the square seemed desolate to Andreas. Zorzi bent and picked up a folded sheet of notepaper from under the table. “The wind has blown some of Knight Sacramozo’s correspondence under our feet,” he said. “Excuse me a moment. I’ll go and take it to him.”
    “Let me take it,” came from Andreas’s mouth: his tongue seemed to say it of its own will. The fulfilment of his wish meant infinitely much to him; he snatched the paper out of the other’s hand and ran after the Knight down a narrow alley.
    There was more than grace, there was a really inimitable distinction in the way the Knight listened to him and took the paper, and Andreas thought he had never experienced so wonderful a harmony between the bearing of a human being and the sound of his voice. “You are very kind, sir,” came from his lips in German, in the best pronunciation. His genial, and at the same time spiritual face seemed to express a profound kindliness arising from his soul. In the space of a moment Andreas felt himself received with benevolence, caught up into an atmosphere which elevated every fibre of his being, and then dismissed. He stood before the stranger as if inanimate, his body felt clumsy, his attitude uncouth. But every limb of his body was aware of every other, and, as flame quivers on flame, imprinted deep within him was the image of the tall figure which, in easy assurance, in gracious civility, bent slightly towards him.
    He went back, already striving dully within himself to retain the expression of those eyes, the sound of that voice, as though he had lost them for ever—wondering, “have I ever seen him before? How else could his image have been impressed on me in one moment? I can learn about him from myself!” But great was his astonishment when he felt, rather than heard, swift and light steps hurrying after him, which could belong to nobody but the Knight, when he saw him catch up with him and, in the same winning voice, with the most perfect courtesy, assure him that he must have made a mistake. “The letter you were so kind as to give me, sir, is neither written by my hand nor addressed to me. It must belong to you—in any case, I must beg you to dispose of it!”
    Andreas was embarrassed and confused. A few hazy thoughts crossed his mind, the fear of seeming to intrude stabbed him like a hot needle. In his predicament, he felt it at any rate easier to say something definite than to make some vague reply, for which he would never have found the words. He reddened at a sudden movement of his hands, which had already stretched out for the letter, but all the more definitely he averred that the letter most certainly did not belong to him, that it was in no way his to