‘So the young lady’s gone out, has she?’ she asked, although she must have seen her leave. ‘A fine wife you’ve married, Herr Gurdweill,’ she added, stationing herself next to the couch, ‘a very fine wife, pssss! I always told you that a decent man needs a wife. Two are better than one, aie, aie, aie! If only my dear departed husband was alive, what would I lack for now? And without him, what am I worth? A worn-out old woman alone — it’s awful, just awful!’

‘Could you possibly lend me just one more schilling, Frau Fischer?’ The words suddenly burst out of Gurdweill’s mouth, and he sat up.

‘I understand, Herr Gurdweill, I understand. There’s no need to yell. I’ll fetch it at once. A decent man like you!’

She left and returned with the schilling. Then she tidied the room, chattering incessantly in her irritating whisper, and in the end she went away.

Gurdweill remained in the room for a little longer, then he washed his face as if to cleanse it of some stain, took up his cane, and went out.

11

11

Outside, Gurdweill felt a slight sense of relief. Although the profoundly humiliating, depressing thing that had happened to him at home was still there inside him, lurking behind his every thought and struggling to emerge from repression into consciousness at the first opportunity, its sting was somewhat blunted at the sight of the magnificent, sun-dappled autumn day. It was as if he had held an object in his hand, its shape and colour fully exposed to view, and then put it away in his pocket.