And Agathe thought: “A man in pajamas doesn’t look like an angel!” But he looked fierce and broad-shouldered, and she was suddenly ashamed of the wish that this powerful face framed by dense hair would darken her sight. She had, in a carnal and innocent way, been sensually aroused; her blood rushed through her body in vehement waves and spread out into her skin, robbing her inner self of all its strength. Since she was not such a fanatical person as her brother, she felt what she felt. When she felt tenderness, she was tender, not lit up with ideas or moral inspirations, although that was something she loved in him as much as she shied away from it. And again and again, day by day, Ulrich summed it all up in the idea: Basically it’s a protest against life! They walked arm in arm through the city. Matched in height, matched in age, matched in their views and values. Strolling along side by side, they could not see much of one another. Tall figures, pleasing to each other, they took to the street out of pure enjoyment, feeling at every step the breath of their contact in the midst of alien surroundings. We belong together! This feeling, which is far from uncommon, made them happy, and half given over to it, half against it, Ulrich said: “It’s funny that we’re so content to be brother and sister. For the rest of the world it’s an ordinary relationship, and we’re making something special out of it, aren’t we?”

Perhaps he had hurt her by saying this. He added: “But it’s what I always wished for. When I was a boy, I made up my mind to marry only a woman I had already adopted as a little girl and brought up myself. I’m fairly sure many men have such fantasies, they’re downright banal. But as an adult I once actually fell in love with such a child, even though it was only for two or three hours!” And he went on to tell her about it: “It happened on a streetcar. A young girl got on, maybe twelve years old, together with her very young father or an older brother. The way she steps in, sits down, casually hands the conductor the fare for both of them, she’s a lady; but totally, and without any childish affectation. There was the same quality in the way she spoke with her companion or silently listened to him. She was stunningly beautiful; suntanned, full lips, strong eyebrows, a slightly upturned nose: maybe a dark-haired Polish girl or a southern Slav. I believe she was wearing a dress that suggested some national costume, but with a long, narrow-waisted jacket that had corded trim and ruffles at the throat and hands and was in its way just as perfect as that whole little person. Maybe she was Albanian? I was sitting too far away to hear what she was saying. It struck me that the features of her serious face were mature beyond her years, so that she seemed fully adult. And yet this was not the face of a dwarfishly small woman. It was a child’s face, without question. On the other hand, this child’s face was not at all the immature preliminary to an adult’s face. It seems that sometimes a woman’s face is complete at the age of twelve, even spiritually, fully formed as if by masterful brushstrokes in a first draft, so that everything added by subsequent touches only spoils the original greatness. It’s possible to fall passionately in love with such an apparition, mortally, and essentially without desire. I remember looking around shyly at the other passengers, because I felt as if all order was shrinking away from me. When the little girl got out, I followed her, but I lost sight of her in the crowded street,” he said, ending his little account.