Free Rosshalde by Hermann Hesse Page A

But you see, Otto, he’s all I’ve got. I’m living among ruins, and if I died today, no one but you and a few journalists would care. I’m a poor man, but I still have this child, I still have this darling little boy whom I can live for and love, whom I suffer for and with whom in happy hours I can forget myself. You understand that, don’t you? And you want me to give him up.”
    â€œIt’s not easy, Johann. It’s a bad business. I can’t see any other way. Look, you’ve forgotten what the outside world is like. You sit here buried, engrossed in your work and your unhappy marriage. Take the step, break away from all that; you’ll open your eyes and see that the world has thousands of wonderful things to offer you. You’ve been living with dead things too long, you’ve lost your contact with life. Of course you’re attached to Pierre, he’s a delightful child; but that’s not the main point. Be a little cruel for once and ask yourself whether he really needs you.”
    â€œWhether he needs me…?”
    â€œYes. What you can give him is love, tenderness, feeling—things that children in general need less of than we old people suppose. And on the other hand the child is growing up with a father and mother who are almost strangers to each other, who are actually jealous of each other on his account. He isn’t being educated by the good example of a happy, healthy home, he’s precocious, and he’ll grow up to be a misfit. —And one day, forgive me, he will have to choose between you and his mother after all. Don’t you see that?”
    â€œPerhaps you’re right. You’re definitely right. But at that point I stop thinking. I’m attached to the child, I cling to his love, because I haven’t known any other warmth or light in a long time. Perhaps he will let me down in a few years, perhaps he will disappoint me or even hate me some day—as Albert hates me; once when he was fourteen he threw his jackknife at me. But for a few years I can still be with him and love him, I can take his little hand in mine and listen to his little bright bird-like voice—I still have that. Now tell me: must I give that away? Must I?”
    Burkhardt shrugged his shoulders sadly and frowned. “You must, Johann,” he said very softly. “I believe you must. It doesn’t have to be today, but soon. You must throw away everything you have and wash yourself clean of the past; otherwise you will never again be able to face the world as a free happy man. Do what you can. If the step is too much for you, stay here and go on living this life—I’ll still be your friend, you’ll still have me, you know that. But I should regret it.”
    â€œGive me some advice. I can see nothing but darkness before me.”
    â€œI’ll give you some advice. This is July; in the fall I shall be going back to India. Before I go, I shall come back here; by then I hope your bags will be packed and you’ll be ready to go with me. If by then you’ve made your decision and say yes, so much the better. But if you haven’t made up your mind, come with me and get out of this air for a year, six months if you prefer. With me you’ll be able to paint and ride horseback, you’ll be able to hunt tigers too and fall in love with Malay women—some of them are pretty—in any case, you’ll be away from here for a while, you’ll have a chance to see if it isn’t a better life. What do you think?”
    Eyes closed, the painter rocked his large shaggy head with its pale face and indrawn lips.
    â€œThank you,” he cried with half a smile. “Thank you. You’re very kind. In the fall I’ll tell you if I’m coming. Please leave the photographs here.”
    â€œYou can keep them. But—couldn’t you make up your mind about the trip today or tomorrow? It would be better for