autumn.”
Earlier, he hadn’t been so withdrawn, so remote. Quite the opposite: he had participated in everything, and tried to behave exactly like the villagers, be as one of them. He had gone with them from pub to pub, and had a better head for drink than a good many of the locals. “He always used to take part in the drinking on Three Kings.’ ” And never had he got so drunk that they had to carry him home, like some of the others, even though he had had just as much as them. “He was a great eater of black puddings, the painter,” said the knacker. He had been to Goldegg for the ice-shooting, and in the Braugasthof, where they “unlock the virgins like so many wooden trunks.” “Contemplative but friendly,” that was how he’d always struck him before. The experience on the path had alarmed him. He told the innkeeper to put some extra wood in the painter’s stove. To “warm him up, as much as possible.” He had the feeling, the knacker, that if he hadn’t run into the painter, he would have stayed sitting where hewas, and wouldn’t have made it back alive. You could freeze “between one thought and the next.” You wouldn’t even notice. You would go into a dream from which you would fail to emerge. The painter seemed to be in bad shape, said the knacker. “He talked about some problem. But I don’t know what problem he was talking about.” He, the knacker, had always got along well with the painter. And the painter for his part had always enjoyed the stories he told about the war.
He has pains in his feet. These pains in his feet prevented him from walking as much as he usually walked, and as much as he wanted to walk. “There is probably a hidden connection between the pain in my head and the pains in my feet,” he said. It was well-established that there was a connection between the one and the other. “However hidden. And hence between other parts of the body as well.” But between his head and his left foot there was a very particular connection. The pains he feels in his foot, and that suddenly announced themselves one morning, were connected to the pains in his head. “It seems to me, they are the same pain.” It was possible to have the same pain in two different parts of the body, far away from one another, “and for it to be one and the same pain.” Just as one might experience certain pains of the soul (he continues to say soul, from time to time!) in certain parts of the body. Also physical pains in the soul! Now it was his left foot that was making him scared. (What is at issue is nothing more than a bursal inflammation on the inside of his left foot, below the ankle.) He showed me the swelling on the stairs once, when it was still dark. “Isn’t the swelling extraordinary?” he said. “Overnight, the malady in my head has moved down to my foot. Extraordinary.” He had been walkingfor decades, a lot, every day. “So it can’t be a question of overstraining my foot. It’s got nothing to do with my foot. It comes from my head. From my brain.” The swelling was an indication of the fact that his illness was now spreading across his body. “Before long, I’ll have swellings like that breaking out all over my body,” he said. I could see right away that what he had was a common or garden bursitis, caused by yesterday’s long tramp along the path, and I told him the swelling was perfectly harmless, and had nothing to do with his brain, or the pain in his head. In medical terms, absolutely nothing. I had once had a swelling just like it myself. I almost betrayed myself. By the use of a certain expression, I would have become the medical intern I was trying so doggedly to keep concealed from him. But he seemed oblivious to it, and I said: “The formation of such swellings is perfectly ordinary.” He didn’t believe me, though. “You’re saying that because you don’t want to finish me off, at least not utterly finish me off,” he said. “Why not tell me the truth?
Earlier, he hadn’t been so withdrawn, so remote. Quite the opposite: he had participated in everything, and tried to behave exactly like the villagers, be as one of them. He had gone with them from pub to pub, and had a better head for drink than a good many of the locals. “He always used to take part in the drinking on Three Kings.’ ” And never had he got so drunk that they had to carry him home, like some of the others, even though he had had just as much as them. “He was a great eater of black puddings, the painter,” said the knacker. He had been to Goldegg for the ice-shooting, and in the Braugasthof, where they “unlock the virgins like so many wooden trunks.” “Contemplative but friendly,” that was how he’d always struck him before. The experience on the path had alarmed him. He told the innkeeper to put some extra wood in the painter’s stove. To “warm him up, as much as possible.” He had the feeling, the knacker, that if he hadn’t run into the painter, he would have stayed sitting where hewas, and wouldn’t have made it back alive. You could freeze “between one thought and the next.” You wouldn’t even notice. You would go into a dream from which you would fail to emerge. The painter seemed to be in bad shape, said the knacker. “He talked about some problem. But I don’t know what problem he was talking about.” He, the knacker, had always got along well with the painter. And the painter for his part had always enjoyed the stories he told about the war.
He has pains in his feet. These pains in his feet prevented him from walking as much as he usually walked, and as much as he wanted to walk. “There is probably a hidden connection between the pain in my head and the pains in my feet,” he said. It was well-established that there was a connection between the one and the other. “However hidden. And hence between other parts of the body as well.” But between his head and his left foot there was a very particular connection. The pains he feels in his foot, and that suddenly announced themselves one morning, were connected to the pains in his head. “It seems to me, they are the same pain.” It was possible to have the same pain in two different parts of the body, far away from one another, “and for it to be one and the same pain.” Just as one might experience certain pains of the soul (he continues to say soul, from time to time!) in certain parts of the body. Also physical pains in the soul! Now it was his left foot that was making him scared. (What is at issue is nothing more than a bursal inflammation on the inside of his left foot, below the ankle.) He showed me the swelling on the stairs once, when it was still dark. “Isn’t the swelling extraordinary?” he said. “Overnight, the malady in my head has moved down to my foot. Extraordinary.” He had been walkingfor decades, a lot, every day. “So it can’t be a question of overstraining my foot. It’s got nothing to do with my foot. It comes from my head. From my brain.” The swelling was an indication of the fact that his illness was now spreading across his body. “Before long, I’ll have swellings like that breaking out all over my body,” he said. I could see right away that what he had was a common or garden bursitis, caused by yesterday’s long tramp along the path, and I told him the swelling was perfectly harmless, and had nothing to do with his brain, or the pain in his head. In medical terms, absolutely nothing. I had once had a swelling just like it myself. I almost betrayed myself. By the use of a certain expression, I would have become the medical intern I was trying so doggedly to keep concealed from him. But he seemed oblivious to it, and I said: “The formation of such swellings is perfectly ordinary.” He didn’t believe me, though. “You’re saying that because you don’t want to finish me off, at least not utterly finish me off,” he said. “Why not tell me the truth?
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