All these things would have softened Victor’s heart, if the man had not earlier touched his heart most nearly by letting him free his dog.
As a consequence, the young man began for his part to do the same, that is to observe the old man more closely, and often the thought came to him: “Who knows whether he is as hard-hearted as all that, or isn’t instead much more likely an unhappy old man.”
And so the two continued living together, two stems from the same family tree, and who should therefore have been closer to each other than to anyone else but who could not in fact have been further apart—two stems from the same family tree and yet so different: Victor, like all beginnings, free and full of life, his eyes shining softly, a blank sheet for deeds and joys to come—the other man, in sharp decline, with his defeated air and with every feature marked by a bitter past; but it was this same past that at the time he had seized hold of both for his pleasure and, as he had thought, his profit. In the whole house there lived but four people: his uncle, old Christopher, Rosalie—that was the name of the old housekeeper and cook—and lastly the dim-witted Agnes, who was Rosalie’s drudge. It was amongst these old people and between these old walls that Victor walked about like a fish on dry land. Even the dogs were old; the fruit trees growing there were old, the stone dwarves, the wooden beams in the boathouse—they were all old! Victor had only one companion who, like him, was in bloom, and that was the whole plant world, the trees, bushes and flowers, which burgeoned and sprouted vigorously in the midst of this decay.
There was one matter which gave Victor pause for thought and which had occupied him often before. He did not know, namely, where his uncle’s bedroom was, and was unable to discover this, however watchful he was. The thought came to him therefore that this might even have been deliberately concealed out of mistrust. Once, when the young man happened to be passing the stairs down to the kitchen, he overheard the housekeeper saying: “He doesn’t trust a soul; how then could he be persuaded to take anyone from Hul into his service? He won’t do it. That’s why he shaves himself so that no one can cut his throat, and why he locks up the dogs at night so they won’t gobble him up while he’s asleep!”
Victor now found himself constantly dwelling on such signs of extreme helplessness on his uncle’s part, the more especially so just now, when he was experiencing a softening in his unfavourable disposition towards him. The iron-trellised door in the corridor that led to his bedroom was no longer locked; the wooden gate was regularly open during swimming hours; and his uncle had given him, instead of a key, a whistle for the main grille in the perimeter wall—when he blew on this, the grille opened, since it could not normally be locked or opened except by means of a device operated from one of his uncle’s rooms, the only thing being that no one knew which room it was.
The first proper conversations between the two relations came about in a strange fashion—one might say that envy was the cue. It happened one evening when Victor returned from a trek round the island, something he often did now, accompanied by all four dogs, his uncle’s included, for these had taken to following him around for a while now and had become livelier and more high-spirited in his and his dog’s company than they had formerly been. It was on seeing this that his uncle, who happened to be still in the garden, said: “Your Pomeranian is a far better specimen than my three creatures—they’re not to be trusted. I can’t understand what makes them so keen on you.”
At this, and because he felt it so strongly, the boy instantly replied: “Be affectionate with them like I am with mine and they’ll be as good, too.”
The man gave him a strangely searching look and said nothing more on the subject. But this became the anchor to which, in the evenings at table, other conversations on other topics were linked. And so things continued thus and uncle and nephew now spoke to each other again whenever they were together, which was the case at the three mealtimes in fact.
Victor became particularly lively on one occasion when the old man, by chance or intentionally, got him to speak about his future and his plans. He would now be taking up his post, Victor said, would be working as hard as he could, improving every shortcoming he came across, putting forward to his superiors everything that could be changed, not tolerating any lounging about and any malpractice—in his free time he would take up the study of the sciences and languages of Europe, so as to prepare himself for future literary work; then he wanted to learn about the business of war, too, in order to have a complete picture of how things worked once he was in the upper echelons of the civil service, or in order, in times of danger, to be fit to serve his country, even as a general. If, furthermore, his talents could extend to it, he would also not want to neglect the muses totally, but see whether he might not succeed in producing something that could enthuse and rouse his countrymen.
During this speech his uncle had been rolling little balls of bread and had listened, smiling with his thin, pinched lips.
“Let’s hope you can pull it all off,” he said. “At the moment you can swim well, that is, quite well. I watched you again yesterday for a while—but the arc you make with your right arm still comes a little short, as if you were holding your hand back, and also you still move your feet too vigorously. Wouldn’t you like to try your hand out at some hunting, too? Do you know how to fire and gun and load it? I’ll give you a pair from my gun room and you can take them with you round the whole island.”
“Yes, of course I know how to handle a gun,” Victor replied, “but I don’t want to shoot the songbirds I see here, for I feel too sorry for them and on the whole island I can see only ancient old fruit trees grown over with woodland vegetation, so there’s unlikely to be any fox or other game for the shooting.”
“You’ll find it all right, you just have to know about how to track them.”
So saying, his uncle emptied his wine glass, ate his dessert and let the matter drop. After this they soon went off to bed. Victor was no longer taken to his sleeping quarters by his uncle, as in the early days, but, ever since the grille door to his rooms was no longer locked, he would light a candle at the end of the meal, wish his uncle a goodnight and head off for his rooms with his dog, who now ate peaceably with the other dogs.
It was under these circumstances that the time Victor had in fact been forced into agreeing to spend on the island finally came to an end. He was never tempted to say anything about this matter as he was too proud. But when the last day had passed when it was still possible to be there and yet be on time to take up his post, his heart was in his mouth. The evening meal was over. His uncle had left the table and was rummaging about among a number of different bits of paper, clumsily shoving them here and there, as old people do. But then he put everything down in one corner and left it all lying there. Victor could see clearly from his whole behaviour that the old man didn’t want to say anything more about the matter, so he took up his light and headed for bed.
The next day breakfast was eaten at the same slow pace as ever. Victor had packed his knapsack in his room and now sat over his breakfast, waiting to hear what his uncle would begin by saying. The old man, who was dressed in his loosely-fitting grey coat, stood up and went in and out of the concealed door a couple of times. Then he said to Victor: “When do you want to be off, today or tomorrow?”
“It must be today, uncle, if I’m not to get there too late,” Victor replied.
“Over there in Attmaning you’ll be able to get transport.”
“I had already reckoned with that and that’s definitely what I’ll have to do now,” said Victor, “for since you didn’t mention it at all, I’ve waited till the last minute.”
“So you must go today,” the old man said hesitatingly, “you must … well, if you must, then Christoph will have to take you across, as I said. Have you put all your belongings together?”
“I packed everything yesterday.”
“Yesterday already—and so you must be really looking forward—well, well! But there was something mor
e I wanted to say to you … what was it? Listen, Victor!”
“Yes, uncle?”
“I think … I believe … if you were now to try, if you would now of your own free will stay a little longer with an old man who has no one.”
“How can I, though?”
“I thought I had your leave of absence there—wait a moment, in the pipe table—I thought I put it there.”
So saying, his uncle now opened and closed several drawers of the table and cupboard on which the pipes and pouches were, until he pulled a piece of paper out of one of them and handed it to Victor.
“There you are.”
The young man was greatly astonished and embarrassed for the paper was indeed a leave of absence with no date specified.
“You can do as you please now,” his uncle said. “I can have you taken across immediately—but I’ve asked you to stay here a short while longer, to see if we might get along living together. Meanwhile you can go over to Hul or wherever else you want, and when you finally want to leave, then you can.”
Victor was nonplussed. He had waited a long time for this day—he now looked at this strange man he actually hated, standing there in front of him, and asking something of him. He found his old, wizened face unutterably forlorn—indeed he even had the impression that some kind of feeling might be trembling within. The boy had always had a good, gentle heart and this now stirred in him. He stood there for a moment only and then, with his characteristic frankness, said: “I’m happy to stay a while longer, uncle, if you wish it, if on examination you deem it right and have your reasons.”
“I have no other reason other than wanting you to be here a little longer,” the old man said.
He then picked up from the table the paper containing the leave of absence and put it, after first trying three drawers, into a fourth one, in which there was collection of stones.
Victor, who had left his room that morning having no inkling that matters would take such a turn, returned there and slowly unpacked his knapsack. He was now doubly uncertain and doubly intrigued as to where all this was heading and what had led to his uncle to go to such special lengths as to procure leave for him before he had even taken up his post. For a moment there flashed through his mind the question: was it affection—would the man in fact prefer in the end a living human being to the dead and inert profusion of objects and clutter with which he surrounded himself? But then he remembered how nonchalantly the old man had taken the piece of paper from the table and looked for a drawer he could hide it away in. Victor had for some time made the general observation that his uncle never put a thing back in the same place but always in a new one. And while he’d been hunting about, he had not given the young man a second glance but let him leave without saying anything to him.
And so he stayed.
His uncle had a library in the house but he hadn’t read anything for a long while, as a result of which the various works had dust and moths in them. He gave Victor the key to this room and this pleased the boy greatly. He had never seen a collection of books, apart from the public ones in town, in which, however, he was understandably not allowed to rummage freely. He made a note of the passageway and often went into this room. He put the ladder against all the shelves and first he cleaned all the books and then read and looked at those that came to hand and which drew his attention.
It also afforded him great pleasure to be able to jump down into the lake by going into the upper floor of the boathouse and out of the door from which his uncle had watched him. The purpose of the door and upper floor had been to enable the monks to unload straight away from the boat those things that would otherwise have been too heavy to take up the steps. And he did after all select a beautiful old German gun from his uncle’s gun cabinet, enjoyed cleaning it and then, despite its unwieldiness, firing it. These gunshots, stirring the mountain echoes into life, must have been the first heard on the island for many a long while. Christoph had shown the boy a dark passageway, through which you could go directly from the old man’s house across into the cloister. He had also unlocked for him many rooms that were otherwise always closed. He showed him the large hall in which there were gold mouldings and embellishments, where the painted windows glowed white, grey and blue, where long wooden benches, at which the monks had sat, ran the length of the wall and where an unusually large oven stood, each tile of which held colour-enamelled portraits and stories of the saints. He showed him the chapter house, where the monks would confer and where now only the plain, rough wooden benches stood and where a few worthless pictures were hanging, which had been left behind. He showed him the empty treasury room, he showed him the sacristy, where the cupboards for the chalices now stood open, revealing nothing but the threadbare and once dark-red lining, and where the drawers in which once the vestments had been kept and which now contained dust. They went back through the church, the cloisters and the abbot’s summer residence, where, untouched, many fine pictures were still hanging and where wood and stone decorative work stood out, since the value of these works had not been recognised when the rest had been taken out of this house of God.
It wasn’t only in the buildings and over the whole island that Victor was allowed to wander round and explore but his uncle also offered to have him taken in a boat to any part of the lake he wanted. The young man made little use of this offer because, never having been in mountain country before, he didn’t actually know how best to unearth its treasures so as to enjoy and profit from the experience. He went over on his own just twice to Mount Orla and stood on the shore, looking at the high grey rock faces, with the light flashing sporadically on them.
Despite everything Victor gradually began to regret staying there, and in particular because he was not able to fathom the purpose and reason for the whole business.
“I’ll be letting you go soon,” his uncle said one day after lunch, just as a magnificent storm was crossing over Mount Grisel and noisily pelting down rain like diamond bullets into the lake, so that the water stirred and seethed in small upward spurts. It was because of this storm that they had lingered a little longer at table.
Victor made no reply but listened to hear what would follow.
“It’s all futile at the end of the day,” his uncle began again, speaking slowly, “it’s all futile—youth and old age don’t mix. Look at you—you’re fine enough—firm and upright, and you amount to more than your father did at the same age. I’ve watched you for some time and you’re someone who might perhaps be relied on. You have a naturally strong and fine-looking physique, and you enjoy employing your strength, whether it’s walking around under the cliffs, or in the open air, or swimming in the water—but what’s the use of all that? For me it’s a blessing that time and space have put far, far beyond my reach. Always I’ve heard this secret voice saying: you won’t get him to look at you, you won’t win his heart because it’s a treasure you didn’t sow, didn’t plant. And that is the case, I know it. The years that might have been used for that are over now, they’re setting beyond the mountains and there’s no power that can drag them over to this side where the cold shadows are lying already. So go to the old woman—you can hardly expect a letter from her now—go and be happy and cheerful.”
Victor was deeply affected. The old man was sitting there in such a way that the flashes of lightning lit up his face, and sometimes in the dimly-lit room it seemed as if fire were flowing through the man’s grey hair and a rippling light were passing across his weather-worn face. If before the young man had found the empty silences and cold indifference bleak and disturbing, he was now all the more moved by this excited outburst. The old man had sat up tall and straight in the armchair and come near to showing deep emotion. For a while the youth gave no reply to his uncle’s speech, the meaning of which he more guessed at than understood. But then he said: “You spoke of letters, Uncle. I must truly confess it has greatly disturbed me that I have still not had a single reply to the numerous letters I have sent home, even though Chris
toph has been over in Hul and Attmaning more than twenty times since I have been here.”
“I knew it would,” his uncle replied, “but you cannot receive a reply.”
“Why not?”
“Because that’s how I arranged things and agreed with them that they wouldn’t write to you for the length of your stay here. In any case, if you are worried, they are all fine and healthy.”
“That was not a good thing to do, uncle,” Victor said, much affected. “I should have dearly loved to hear what my foster-mother might have written.”
“There, you see how much you love the old woman,” his uncle said. “I always thought so.”
“If you loved someone, then someone would love you,” replied Victor.
“I might have loved you,” the old man cried out, almost making Victor tremble. There were a few moments of silence.
“And old Christoph loves me,” he resumed, “and the old maidservant, too, perhaps.”
“Why are you silent, then?” he said to the boy after a while. “What are the chances of love being reciprocated? Say something, will you.”
Victor was silent, unable to utter a single word.
“You see,” his uncle repeated, “I knew it. But don’t worry, everything’s all right, it’s fine. You want to leave and I’ll give you a boat so that you can. You’ll wait, though, until the rain has stopped?”
“Yes, and longer if you have something serious you want to say to me,” the young man said. “But you must recognise that a person cannot be bound merely by some cold whim. It is certainly strange, to say the very least, how to begin with you held me prisoner on this island you had summoned me to earlier, and to which I came in good faith because you demanded it and because my guardian and mother warmly urged it. It is furthermore strange how you cut off all correspondence from my mother—and what may or may not have gone on earlier I find even stranger.”
The Bachelors Page 10