the old gentleman, still trembling. ‘Old people, racing!’ He got out. ‘We’ve driven together for the last time, Hackendahl. Send in your bill! You ought to be ashamed of yourself.’
‘But it wasn’t my fault. The quietest horse wouldn’t stand it.’
A horn sounded. The car, that triumphant monster, had circled the block of buildings and cut them off. Defeated and exhausted, the grey stood with hanging head; she did not move even when the car drew up beside her.
‘You blame it on the horse!’ cried the Geheimrat. ‘But the horse is standing still. No, it’s you who wanted to race the car, Hackendahl, you alone.’
Hackendahl said nothing. With gloomy eyes he watched the Geheimrat get into the car with his smiling son. The burden God imposed on a just man was heavy indeed to bear.
§ XIV
For half an hour Frau Hackendahl had worked with chisel, hammer and pliers on the padlock to the cellar door, and had beaten the staple out of shape and bent the shackle, injuring her fingers but not opening the door.
Weary and despairing, she sat down on a stair tread. From the distance, through two doors, she imagined she could hear her imprisoned son calling. But he called in vain – she could not get to him. When she thought of the trouble she was inviting from her husband, and all for the lost labour of a spoiled padlock, she was filled with an ever-increasing despair.
And, as it was now, so had it been the whole of her life; her
intentions had not been bad, her courage not less than that of other people, but success had never been hers. The marriage was not successful, the children hadn’t turned out as she had hoped, she hadn’t broken open the door.
She looked at the lock. Certainly she could have fetched a locksmith but one didn’t expose to a stranger the family shames. She could have gone into the yard and listened at the cellar grating, but the neighbours might be watching and laughing. Life was such that you couldn’t tell your own husband what you couldn’t stand most about him. And if you did tell him, he wouldn’t listen, and if he heard, it wouldn’t change anything. Life was unbearable anyhow, and yet one endured it.
And now she was getting old and fat (she liked her food), and the faint, meaningless hope she cherished that everything might still be different was the stupidest thing of all. Exactly the same hope as in a young girl still existed in her old, used-up, bloated body. Not once even had it been fulfilled, but hope lived on more stubbornly than ever, whispering: if you get the door open and set Erich free, everything may yet change.
Nothing but this absurd padlock stood between her and a better life, just as it had always been some trifle which had unfailingly prevented her from enjoying existence. Only trifles – that was the worst of it! And it was the same for Erich. Because of a trifling sum, a few marks, he was to be branded as a criminal.
Life was so miserably limited. Absolutely nothing happened. If a local girl had a baby, it was news for years. Little people, little lives! Her body was enormously swollen, but her own soul – who she really was – that was just the same size as when she was a little girl. That hadn’t grown.
There she sat on the cellar stairs knowing she could not force the door open, and knowing that, because of it, Erich might be plunged into disaster, perhaps even hang himself. But she would call neither Otto nor a locksmith. She could not change her nature.
She tried to visualize the cellar, whether it contained hooks and ropes, and whether the ceiling was high enough … Then she remembered reading of someone who had hanged himself on a door handle, and that the tongue of a hanged man protrudes purple
and swollen from his mouth and that they are supposed to mess their trousers … Overcome by fright she jumped up, shouting and beating on the cellar door. ‘Don’t do it, Erich. Don’t do it, for your mother’s sake!’
What she did wasn’t
‘But it wasn’t my fault. The quietest horse wouldn’t stand it.’
A horn sounded. The car, that triumphant monster, had circled the block of buildings and cut them off. Defeated and exhausted, the grey stood with hanging head; she did not move even when the car drew up beside her.
‘You blame it on the horse!’ cried the Geheimrat. ‘But the horse is standing still. No, it’s you who wanted to race the car, Hackendahl, you alone.’
Hackendahl said nothing. With gloomy eyes he watched the Geheimrat get into the car with his smiling son. The burden God imposed on a just man was heavy indeed to bear.
§ XIV
For half an hour Frau Hackendahl had worked with chisel, hammer and pliers on the padlock to the cellar door, and had beaten the staple out of shape and bent the shackle, injuring her fingers but not opening the door.
Weary and despairing, she sat down on a stair tread. From the distance, through two doors, she imagined she could hear her imprisoned son calling. But he called in vain – she could not get to him. When she thought of the trouble she was inviting from her husband, and all for the lost labour of a spoiled padlock, she was filled with an ever-increasing despair.
And, as it was now, so had it been the whole of her life; her
intentions had not been bad, her courage not less than that of other people, but success had never been hers. The marriage was not successful, the children hadn’t turned out as she had hoped, she hadn’t broken open the door.
She looked at the lock. Certainly she could have fetched a locksmith but one didn’t expose to a stranger the family shames. She could have gone into the yard and listened at the cellar grating, but the neighbours might be watching and laughing. Life was such that you couldn’t tell your own husband what you couldn’t stand most about him. And if you did tell him, he wouldn’t listen, and if he heard, it wouldn’t change anything. Life was unbearable anyhow, and yet one endured it.
And now she was getting old and fat (she liked her food), and the faint, meaningless hope she cherished that everything might still be different was the stupidest thing of all. Exactly the same hope as in a young girl still existed in her old, used-up, bloated body. Not once even had it been fulfilled, but hope lived on more stubbornly than ever, whispering: if you get the door open and set Erich free, everything may yet change.
Nothing but this absurd padlock stood between her and a better life, just as it had always been some trifle which had unfailingly prevented her from enjoying existence. Only trifles – that was the worst of it! And it was the same for Erich. Because of a trifling sum, a few marks, he was to be branded as a criminal.
Life was so miserably limited. Absolutely nothing happened. If a local girl had a baby, it was news for years. Little people, little lives! Her body was enormously swollen, but her own soul – who she really was – that was just the same size as when she was a little girl. That hadn’t grown.
There she sat on the cellar stairs knowing she could not force the door open, and knowing that, because of it, Erich might be plunged into disaster, perhaps even hang himself. But she would call neither Otto nor a locksmith. She could not change her nature.
She tried to visualize the cellar, whether it contained hooks and ropes, and whether the ceiling was high enough … Then she remembered reading of someone who had hanged himself on a door handle, and that the tongue of a hanged man protrudes purple
and swollen from his mouth and that they are supposed to mess their trousers … Overcome by fright she jumped up, shouting and beating on the cellar door. ‘Don’t do it, Erich. Don’t do it, for your mother’s sake!’
What she did wasn’t
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