Free Rosshalde by Hermann Hesse Page B

you.”
    Veraguth rose and went to the door. “No, I can’t do that. Heaven knows what will happen between now and then. For years I haven’t been without Pierre for more than three, four weeks. I believe I shall go with you but I don’t want to say anything now that I might regret.”
    â€œWell, we’ll let it go at that. You’ll always know where to reach me. And if one of these days you wire three words, saying you’re coming, you won’t have to stir a finger about the trip. I’ll attend to everything. Just take some shirts and underwear and painting materials, plenty of those; I’ll have everything else sent to Genoa.”
    Veraguth embraced him in silence.
    â€œYou’ve helped me, Otto. I’ll never forget it. —Now I’ll send for the carriage, they’re not expecting us for meals today. And let’s not do anything but enjoy a fine day together, as we used to on our summer vacations. We’ll drive through the country, look at a few beautiful villages, and lie in the woods. We’ll eat trout and drink good country wine out of thick glasses. How marvelous the weather is today!”
    â€œIt hasn’t been any different in ten days,” Burkhardt laughed. And Veraguth laughed with him.
    â€œOh, it seems to me the sun hasn’t shone like this for years!”

Chapter Seven
    A FTER BURKHARDT’S DEPARTURE the painter was overcome by a strange feeling of loneliness. The very same loneliness with which he had lived for years and years, to which by long habituation he had hardened and almost desensitized himself, assailed him like a strange new enemy, moving in on him from all sides to stifle him. At the same time he felt more cut off from his family than ever, and even from Pierre. He did not know it, but the reason was that he had spoken of these things for the first time.
    At times he even became acquainted with the wretched, humiliating feeling of boredom. Until then Veraguth had lived the unnatural but consistent life of a man who, having immured himself of his own free will, had lost interest in life, which he endured rather than lived. His friend’s visit had pierced his wall; through a hundred chinks the sound and glitter, the fragrance and feel of life penetrated to the lonely man; an old spell was broken, and as he waked, the call from outside rang loudly and half painfully in his ears.
    He flung himself furiously into his work, starting two large compositions at almost the same time. He began his day with a cold bath at sunrise and worked without pause until noon; after a short rest he revived himself with coffee and a cigar, and sometimes awoke at night with palpitations and a headache. But drive and discipline himself as he would, he carried with him, obscured by only the lightest of veils, the awareness that a door was open and that one quick step could carry him to freedom whenever he chose.
    He did not think about it, he deadened his thoughts with constant work. His feeling was: you can go at any time, the door is open, your shackles can be broken—but it will cost you a hard decision and a heavy, heavy sacrifice—so don’t think about it, above all don’t think about it! The decision which Burkhardt expected of him, and which inwardly he had perhaps already made, was lodged in his mind like a bullet in the flesh of a wounded man; the question was only whether it would work its way out of the suppurating sore or become more and more firmly embedded. It festered and ached, but it did not yet hurt him enough; the pain he feared from his sacrifice was still too great. So he did nothing; he let his hidden wound burn, and all the while he was desperately curious to know how it would all end.
    In the midst of his affliction he painted a large composition; the plan had long been present in his mind, but now suddenly it fascinated him. At first, some years ago, he had taken pleasure in the idea, then it had come