He
went to bed and lit a cigar. Then he wanted a book out of his
portmanteau and he had to get up again. Everything was packed so
beautifully, it was a pity to disturb it. In looking for the book, he
came across his slippers. She had forgotten nothing. Then he found the
book. But he couldn't read. He lay in bed and thought of the past, of
his wife, as she had been ten years ago. He saw her as she had been
then; the picture of her, as she now was, disappeared in the blue-grey
clouds of smoke which rose in rings and wreaths to the rain-stained
ceiling. An infinite yearning came over him. Every harsh word he had
ever spoken to her now grated on his ears; he thought remorsefully of
every hour of anguish he had caused her. At last he fell asleep.
The following day brought much work and another banquet with a toast
to the Prison-Governor--the prisoners were still unremembered. In the
evening solitude, emptiness, coldness. He felt a pressing need to talk
to her. He fetched some notepaper and sat down to write. But at the
very outset he was confronted by a difficulty. How was he to address
her? Whenever he had sent her a few lines to say that he would not be
home for dinner, he had always called her "Dear Mother.
Pages:
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240
241
242