Nevertheless, on this day, and not for the first time since the day before, Lindner had appeared at mealtime nearly fifteen minutes late. The table was set; the plates, stacked three high at each of the two seats, looked at him with the round glare of reproach; the little glass knife rests, from which knives, spoons, and forks stared like gun barrels from their mounts, and the rolled-up napkins in their rings, were arrayed like an army left in the lurch by its general. Lindner had hastily stuck the mail, which he usually opened before the meal, into his pocket and with a bad conscience hurried into the dining room, uncertain in his bewilderment what it was that befell him there—it might well have been something like mistrust, for at the same moment, from the other side and just as hastily as he, his son, Peter, stepped in as if he had merely been waiting for his father to arrive.

27

THE DO-GOODER AND THE GOOD-FOR-NOTHING. BUT ALSO AGATHE

Peter was a quite robust fellow, about seventeen years old, in whom Lindner’s precipitous height had been pervaded and reduced by a broader physique; he came up only as far as his father’s shoulders, but his head, which was shaped like a large squarish-round billiard ball, sat on a neck of sturdy flesh whose circumference would have sufficed for one of Papa’s thighs. Peter had lingered on a soccer field instead of in school and had on his way home unfortunately accosted a girl, from whom his manly beauty had wrung a half promise to meet with him again: delayed by this development, he had secretly slunk into the house and to the door of the dining room, uncertain till the last moment how he was going to excuse himself; but when to his surprise he heard no one in the room, he had rushed in, and, just on the point of putting on the bored expression of long waiting, was now very embarrassed when he collided with his father. His red face flushed with still redder spots, and he immediately let loose a great flood of words, casting sidelong glances at his father when he thought he wasn’t noticing, but then letting his gaze leap fearlessly into the older Lindner’s eyes when he felt them directed at himself. This was calculated, time-tested behavior; its purpose was to create the impression of a young man who was candid and unrestrained to the point of folly, and who might be capable of anything except keeping something hidden. But when that was not sufficient, Peter did not shy away from letting slip, apparently inadvertently, words disrespectful of his father or in some other way offensive to him, which then worked like lightning rods to attract a flash of displeasure and thereby divert his father’s attention from more dangerous paths. For Peter feared his father the way hell fears heaven, with the dignity of roasting flesh on which the spirit gazes from above. He loved soccer, but even there he preferred watching from the sidelines with an expert mien and making weighty judgments to exerting himself on the field. He intended to become a pilot and perform heroic feats someday; however, he did not conceive of this as a goal toward which one must work but thought of it as a personal disposition, an innate attribute of people who will one day be able to fly. Nor did it make a difference to him that his aversion to work was in contradiction to the teachings of school: this son of a recognized pedagogue had not the slightest interest in being respected by his teachers; it was enough for him to be the physically strongest in the class, and if one of his classmates struck him as being too smart, he was prepared to adjust the imbalance with a punch to the nose or stomach. As everyone knows, one can lead a respected existence this way, but his method had one disadvantage: he could not apply it at home against his father, indeed it was imperative that his father find out about it as little as possible. For faced with this spiritual authority that had raised him and gently held him in its clutches, Peter’s vehemence broke down into wailing attempts at rebellion, which Lindner senior called the pitiful shrieks of the desires. Exposed since childhood to the best principles, Peter had a hard time denying their truth to himself, and was able to satisfy his honor and virtue only with the cunning of an Indian brave by avoiding open verbal combat. He did, of course, employ many words in order to adapt to his opponent, but he never descended to the need to tell the truth, which in his opinion was unmanly and a waste of breath.