“Well,” said the councillor, looking at his cigar, “financially and in general—God, an existence like that. . . .” Suddenly, he placed his well-manicured hand on his brother-in-law’s shoulder and said, his voice fairly gurgling with pleasure, “You know, on top of it all they say that what she’s living from is—” The doctor spun abruptly and walked out the door. The honorable councillor, whose hand had fallen from his brother-in-law’s shoulder, took ten minutes to recover from his astonishment. Then he went into the room where his wife was and said with displeasure, “I’ve always said your brother was an oddball.” And she, who had just nodded off a moment ago, yawned heavily. “Oh God, yes.”

Two weeks later, the doctor departed. All at once he realized he was going to have to search for his childhood elsewhere. In Munich he found in the directory: Klara Söllner, Schwabing, the street and number. He sent a message and drove out to the place. A slender woman greeted him in a room full of light and goodness.

“Georg, you still remember me?”

The doctor was too stunned to speak. Finally, he said, “Klara, is that you?” She held her calm face with its radiant brow quite still, as though giving him time to recognize her. It took a long time. Finally, the doctor seemed to have found something that proved to him that this really was his old playmate who stood before him. He sought her hand once more and squeezed it; then he slowly let go of her and looked around the room. It seemed to contain nothing extra. By the window, there was a desk with papers and books at which Klara must just have been sitting. The chair was still pushed back from it. “You were writing?” he asked, and the doctor felt what a stupid question this was. But Klara, untroubled, answered:

“Yes, I’m translating.”

“For publication?”

“Yes,” Klara said simply, “for a publishing house.” Georg noticed several Italian photographs on the wall, among them one of Giorgione’s Concert.

“You like this?” he said, approaching the picture.

“And you?”

“I’ve never seen the original. It’s in Florence, isn’t it?”

“In the Pitti. You must go there.”

“For that?”

“For that.” A carefree and simple cheerfulness emanated from her. The doctor looked preoccupied. “What’s bothering you, Georg? Won’t you sit down?”

“I’ve been sad,” he said hesitantly. “I thought—but you’re not at all miserable,” he suddenly blurted out. Klara smiled.

“You’ve heard my story?”

“Yes, that is—”

“Oh,” Klara interrupted him when she saw his features becoming troubled, “it’s not people’s fault that they talk about it otherwise. The things we experience often cannot be expressed, and whoever talks about them inevitably makes mistakes anyway.” There was a pause.

“What has made you so kind?” said the doctor.

“Everything,” she said softly and warmly. “But why do you say ‘kind’?”