Rosshalde by Hermann Hesse Page A

where you are.”
    He went out, forgetting to close the door, and Otto heard his slow heavy steps receding in the hallway and on the creaking stairs.
    Burkhardt closed the door and followed the lady of the house to the drawing room, where the evening breeze was leafing through the music on the still open piano.
    â€œI was going to ask you to play something,” he asked in embarrassment. “But I believe your husband isn’t feeling very well, he was working in the sun half the afternoon. If you don’t mind, I think I shall keep him company for a while.”
    Frau Veraguth nodded gravely and made no attempt to detain him. He took his leave and Albert saw him to the stairs.

Chapter Five
    N IGHT WAS FALLING when Otto Burkhardt stepped out of the entrance hall, where the large chandelier had already been lighted, and took his leave of Albert. Under the chestnut trees he stopped, thirstily sucking in the delicately cooled, leaf-scented evening air and wiping great drops of perspiration from his forehead. If he could help his friend a little, this was the time to do it.
    There was no light in the painter’s quarters; he found Veraguth neither in the studio nor in any of the other rooms. He opened the door on the lake side and with short slow steps made the circuit of the house, looking for him. At length he saw him sitting in the wicker chair he himself had occupied that afternoon while Veraguth was painting him. The painter was huddled forward, his face in his hands, so still that he seemed to be asleep.
    â€œJohann!” Burkhardt called softly, and laid his hand on the bowed head.
    Submerged in weariness and suffering, Veraguth did not reply. Burkhardt stood beside him in silence, waiting and stroking his short coarse hair. Only the wind in the trees broke the evening stillness. Minutes passed. Then suddenly through the dusk a great surge of sound came from the manor house, a full, sustained chord and then another—the first measures of a piano sonata.
    The painter raised his head, gently shook his friend’s hand, and stood up. He looked at Burkhardt silently out of tired, dry eyes, tried to produce a smile, but gave up; his rigid features went slack.
    â€œLet’s go in,” he said with a gesture, as though to defend himself against the torrent of music.
    He went ahead. At the studio door he stopped. “I imagine we won’t have you with us much longer?”
    How he senses everything! Burkhardt thought. In a controlled voice, he replied: “What’s a day more or less? I think I’ll be leaving the day after tomorrow.”
    Veraguth groped for the light buttons. A thin metallic click and the studio was filled with glaring light.
    â€œIn that case, let’s have a bottle of good wine together.”
    He rang for Robert and gave him orders. Burkhardt’s portrait, almost finished, had been placed in the middle of the studio. They stood looking at it while Robert moved the table and chairs, brought wine and ice, and set out cigars and ashtrays.
    â€œThat will do, Robert. You can have the evening off. Don’t wake me tomorrow. Leave us now.”
    They sat down and clinked glasses. The painter squirmed restlessly, stood up, and turned out half the lights. Then he dropped heavily into his chair.
    â€œThe picture isn’t quite finished,” he began. “Take a cigar. It would have been pretty good, but it doesn’t really matter. We’ll be seeing each other again.”
    He selected a cigar, cut it with deliberation, turned it between nervous fingers, and put it down again. “You haven’t found things in very good shape this time, have you, Otto? I’m sorry.”
    His voice broke, he huddled forward, reached for Burkhardt’s hands, and clasped them firmly in his.
    â€œNow you know it all,” he moaned wearily, and a tear or two fell on Otto’s hand. But Veraguth was unwilling to let himself go. He straightened up and