happened, as I have had the honor of informing you, on the ninth of May; and in July I visited Orlovius.
The decision, which I had formed and which was now swiftly brought into execution, met with his full approval, the more so, as I was following an old piece of advice of his.
A week later I asked him to dinner. He tucked the corner of his napkin sideways into his collar. While tackling his soup, he expressed displeasure with the trend of political events. Lydia breezily inquired whether there would be any war and with whom? He looked at her over his spectacles, taking his time (such, more or less, was the glimpse you caught of him at the beginning of this chapter) and finally answered: “It is heavy to say, but I think war excluded. When I young was, I came upon the idea of supposing only the best” (he all but turned “best” into “pest,” so gross were his lip-consonants). “I hold this idea always. The chief thing by me is optimismus.”
“Which comes in very handy, seeing your profession,” said I with a smile.
He lowered at me and replied quite seriously:
“But it is pessimismus that gives clients to us.”
The end of the dinner was unexpectedly crowned with tea served in glasses. For some unaccountable reason Lydia thought such a finish very clever and nice. Orlovius at any rate was pleased. Ponderously and lugubriously telling us of his old mother, who lived in Dorpat, he held up his glass to stir what remained of his tea in the German fashion—that is, not with a spoon, but by means of a circular motion of the wrist—so as not to waste the sugar settled at the bottom.
The agreement I signed with his firm was, on my part, a curiously hazy and insignificant action. It was about that time I became so depressed, silent, absent-minded; even my unobservant wife noticed a change in me—especially as my lovemaking had lapsed into a drab routine after all that furious dissociation. Once, in the middle of the night (we were lying awake in bed, and the room was impossibly stuffy, notwithstanding the wide-open window), she said:
“You do seem overworked, Hermann; in August we’ll go to the seaside.”
“Oh,” I said, “it’s not only that, but town life generally, that’s what is boring me to death.”
She could not see my face in the dark. After a minute she went on:
“Now, take for instance Aunt Elisa—you know that aunt of mine who lived in France, in Pignan. There
is
such a town as Pignan, isn’t there?”
“Yes.”
“Well, she doesn’t live there any more, but has gone to Nice with the old Frenchman she married. They’ve got a farm down there.”
She yawned.
“My chocolate is going to the devil, old girl,” said I and yawned also.
“Everything will be all right,” Lydia muttered. “You must have a rest, that’s all.”
“A change of life, not a rest,” said I with the pretense of a sigh.
“Change of life,” said Lydia.
“Tell me,” I asked her, “wouldn’t you like us to live somewhere in a quiet sunny nook, wouldn’t it be a treat for you, if I retired from business? The respectable
rentier
sort of thing, eh?”
“I’d like living with you anywhere, Hermann. We’d have Ardalion come too, and perhaps we’d buy a great big dog.”
A silence.
“Well, unfortunately we shan’t go anywhere. I’m practically broke. That chocolate will have to be liquidated, I suppose.”
A belated pedestrian passed by. Chock! And again: chock! He was probably knocking the lamposts with his cane.
“Guess: my first is that sound, my second is an exclamation, my third will be prefixed to me when I’m no more; and my whole is my ruin.”
The smooth sizzle of a passing motorcar.
“Well—can’t you guess?”
But my fool of a wife was already asleep. I closed my eyes, turned on my side, tried to sleep too; was unsuccessful. Out of the darkness, straight towards me, with jaw protruding and eyes looking straight into mine, came Felix. As he closed up on me he dissolved, and
The decision, which I had formed and which was now swiftly brought into execution, met with his full approval, the more so, as I was following an old piece of advice of his.
A week later I asked him to dinner. He tucked the corner of his napkin sideways into his collar. While tackling his soup, he expressed displeasure with the trend of political events. Lydia breezily inquired whether there would be any war and with whom? He looked at her over his spectacles, taking his time (such, more or less, was the glimpse you caught of him at the beginning of this chapter) and finally answered: “It is heavy to say, but I think war excluded. When I young was, I came upon the idea of supposing only the best” (he all but turned “best” into “pest,” so gross were his lip-consonants). “I hold this idea always. The chief thing by me is optimismus.”
“Which comes in very handy, seeing your profession,” said I with a smile.
He lowered at me and replied quite seriously:
“But it is pessimismus that gives clients to us.”
The end of the dinner was unexpectedly crowned with tea served in glasses. For some unaccountable reason Lydia thought such a finish very clever and nice. Orlovius at any rate was pleased. Ponderously and lugubriously telling us of his old mother, who lived in Dorpat, he held up his glass to stir what remained of his tea in the German fashion—that is, not with a spoon, but by means of a circular motion of the wrist—so as not to waste the sugar settled at the bottom.
The agreement I signed with his firm was, on my part, a curiously hazy and insignificant action. It was about that time I became so depressed, silent, absent-minded; even my unobservant wife noticed a change in me—especially as my lovemaking had lapsed into a drab routine after all that furious dissociation. Once, in the middle of the night (we were lying awake in bed, and the room was impossibly stuffy, notwithstanding the wide-open window), she said:
“You do seem overworked, Hermann; in August we’ll go to the seaside.”
“Oh,” I said, “it’s not only that, but town life generally, that’s what is boring me to death.”
She could not see my face in the dark. After a minute she went on:
“Now, take for instance Aunt Elisa—you know that aunt of mine who lived in France, in Pignan. There
is
such a town as Pignan, isn’t there?”
“Yes.”
“Well, she doesn’t live there any more, but has gone to Nice with the old Frenchman she married. They’ve got a farm down there.”
She yawned.
“My chocolate is going to the devil, old girl,” said I and yawned also.
“Everything will be all right,” Lydia muttered. “You must have a rest, that’s all.”
“A change of life, not a rest,” said I with the pretense of a sigh.
“Change of life,” said Lydia.
“Tell me,” I asked her, “wouldn’t you like us to live somewhere in a quiet sunny nook, wouldn’t it be a treat for you, if I retired from business? The respectable
rentier
sort of thing, eh?”
“I’d like living with you anywhere, Hermann. We’d have Ardalion come too, and perhaps we’d buy a great big dog.”
A silence.
“Well, unfortunately we shan’t go anywhere. I’m practically broke. That chocolate will have to be liquidated, I suppose.”
A belated pedestrian passed by. Chock! And again: chock! He was probably knocking the lamposts with his cane.
“Guess: my first is that sound, my second is an exclamation, my third will be prefixed to me when I’m no more; and my whole is my ruin.”
The smooth sizzle of a passing motorcar.
“Well—can’t you guess?”
But my fool of a wife was already asleep. I closed my eyes, turned on my side, tried to sleep too; was unsuccessful. Out of the darkness, straight towards me, with jaw protruding and eyes looking straight into mine, came Felix. As he closed up on me he dissolved, and
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