And he went outside again. He could not stay still in one place. He had to keep on walking, and soothe his pain and loneliness by tiring himself out. And he went on walking, without noticing the streets he was passing. But he turned his back unconsciously on the well-lit, busy streets, because there was a heavy darkness in his soul, and he could not bear the light. After walking like this for about two hours, he arrived at the street where he lived. It was half past eleven. He opened the door to his room carefully and noiselessly as usual, in order not to wake the baby, but as he did so he remembered that Martin was not at home and his caution was superfluous, and he slammed the door angrily behind him. Thea was not there. He lit the oil lamp automatically and sat down at the table, supporting his head, which was very heavy and at the same time empty of thoughts, on his hands. Silence reigned in the house; silence rose from the street and poured into the room from the open window. For a while Gurdweill remained sitting at the table, tired out with walking and numb with grief. On the wall above the couch, just under the ceiling, an enormous spider stood without moving. On the paving stones of the street outside, a tin object clattered with a clear, hollow sound, its fall impinging on his consciousness only now, as if the noise signified its beginning instead of its end. Gurdweill suddenly stood up and walked over to the carriage, which was in its usual place between the bed and the toilet table, bent down, and looked inside it intently for a while, as if to ascertain whether the child was asleep. He saw that it was empty, just as he had left it several hours earlier. Then he went over to the couch, where he had placed the little blanket when he came in, removed the newspaper wrapping, and spread it over the carriage, as he did when covering Martin. And suddenly, impelled by some irresistible force, he took hold of the handle and began rocking the carriage to and fro. The next instant he let go, terrified out of his wits, and ran to the couch. His face was grey. Instinctively he looked round the room, to make sure that no one had caught him red-handed. ‘Ah!’ he groaned aloud. ‘I’m going out of my mind! What’s to become of me?’

For a while he lay curled up tightly on the couch, still as a lump of dead matter. Then he jumped up abruptly and strode decisively to the open window. ‘What’s all the fuss about?’ he said to himself. ‘In a few days’ time he’ll get better and come home. You ass! You’re not the only person whose baby ever got sick! So what? He’ll get better again!’