“I would have liked you to come sooner,” Agathe continued, “but Papa would not allow it. He made all the arrangements for his death himself. I think he would have been embarrassed to die with you looking on. I’ve been living here for two weeks now. It was dreadful.”

“Did he love you at least?” Ulrich asked.

“Everything he wanted done he told his old servant to take care of, and from then on he gave the impression of a person who has nothing to do and has lost his reason for living. But every fifteen minutes or so he would lift his head to see if I was in the room. That was during the first few days. Afterward it was only every half hour, then every hour, and on that horrible last day it only happened two or three times. And all those days he never said a word to me, even when I asked him a question.”

As she was telling him this, Ulrich thought: “She’s actually hard. Even as a child she could be tremendously stubborn, in a quiet way. And yet she looks soft.” And suddenly he remembered the day he nearly lost his life in a forest that was being torn to shreds by an avalanche. A soft cloud of powdery snow, seized by an irresistible power, had become hard as a falling mountain.

“Was it you who sent me the telegram?” he asked.

“That was old Franz, of course! All that was already in place. He wouldn’t let me care for him, either. I’m certain he never loved me, and I don’t know why he had me come here. I felt bad and locked myself in my room as often as I could. And during one of those times he died.”

“He probably did it to prove you had done something wrong,” he said bitterly. “Come!” And he drew her toward the door. “But what if he wanted you to stroke his forehead, or kneel next to his bed—if only because he had always read that this is the proper way to take leave of one’s father—and couldn’t bring himself to ask you?”

“Maybe so,” Agathe said.

They had stopped again and looked at him.

“It’s just horrible, everything about it!” Agathe said.

“Yes!” Ulrich said. “And one knows so little.”

As they were leaving the room, Agathe stopped again and said to Ulrich: “I’m imposing on you with something that of course is of no concern to you: but it was during Father’s illness that I decided not to go back to my husband under any circumstances!”

Her brother could not help smiling at her obstinacy. Agathe had a vertical furrow between her eyebrows and was speaking vehemently; she seemed to fear that he would not take her side. She reminded him of a frightened cat who out of sheer terror launches a frontal attack.

“Does he consent?” Ulrich asked.

“He doesn’t know yet,” Agathe said. “But he won’t consent.”

The brother looked questioningly at his sister. But she vigorously shook her head. “Oh no, it’s not what you think. There’s no third person involved!”