‘Peter, play me something on the piano till it’s time for supper!’

We went into the music room of the castle, which the lady had said we could do, and I sat down in front of the little piano and played a few cheerful melodies. I stayed mostly on the black keys; they are easier to hit. I played:

Sometimes I think of you,

but it don’t agree with me . . .

because the next day I feel so tired –

and:

Ah, the hedgehogs at eventide

were off chasing mice,

and I was hanging on your lips –

We sang old folk-songs and American songs, and then a riding-song which we had composed ourselves, and which was completely idiotic from beginning to end, and then supper was ready.

We had got hold of a bottle of whisky. It wasn’t easy, because we didn’t have a Motbok, the little booklet that entitles you to buy spirits in Sweden. But we had got the bottle. And it hadn’t even been that expensive. Blonde and brunette . . . Black and White . . . here’s to you . . .!

We sat at a wooden table in front of the house and looked over at the castle.

Every now and again, we took a sip of whisky.

The old church clock struck ten – ten o’clock. The air was still; not a leaf moved on the trees – all was peaceful. White nights. There was a feeling of rigidity, as if something was building up and nature was holding her breath. Light? It wasn’t light. It just wasn’t dark either. The branches loomed black; they were waiting. As if the skin had been stripped from everything: the night stood there shamelessly, without darkness, deprived of blackness. You wanted to conjure up the black cloak of night, and throw it over everything, so that nothing could be visible any more. The castle had lost its burning red, and looked a dull brown, then murky. The sky was grey. It was night, without being night.

‘It should always be as quiet as this, Lydia – why is there so much noise in life?’

‘Dear boy, you won’t find silence any more these days – I know what you mean. No, it’s been lost for all time . . .’

‘Why doesn’t it exist?’ I went on. ‘There’s always some noise. Someone knocking, or music, or a dog barking, or someone tramping about in the flat above, windows rattling, the phone ringing – God should have given us earlids. We’ve been incorrectly designed.’

‘Stop babbling,’ said the Princess. ‘Listen to the silence instead!’

It was so quiet, we could hear the soda singing in our glasses. Our drinks stood in front of us, a brownish colour; the alcohol was quietly entering my bloodstream. Whisky removes your cares. I can easily imagine someone destroying himself with it.