Read Online Rosshalde by Hermann Hesse - Free Book Online Page A

can’t cut the thing open and heal it.”
    The painter looked at him, shook his head dully, and smiled. “Heal it? Such things never heal. But go ahead and cut.”
    Burkhardt nodded. Yes, he wanted to cut, he would not let this hour pass in vain.
    â€œOne thing in your story is unclear to me,” he said thoughtfully. “You say it was on Pierre’s account that you didn’t divorce your wife. But couldn’t you have forced her to let you have Pierre? If you had gone to court, they’d probably have had to give you one of the children. Have you never thought of that?”
    â€œNo, Otto, I have never thought of that. It never occurred to me that a judge with his wisdom could repair my faults and omissions. If I myself hadn’t the power to make my wife give up the boy, there was nothing for me to do but wait to see in whose favor Pierre would decide later on.”
    â€œThen it’s all a question of Pierre. If not for him, you would surely have divorced your wife long ago; you’d have found some happiness in the world or at least you’d have worked out a clear and reasonable way of life. Instead, you’re caught in a web of compromises, sacrifices, and paltry expedients that can only stifle a man like you.”
    Veraguth looked up uneasily and gulped down a glass of wine.
    â€œYou keep talking about stifling and being destroyed! But you can see that I’m alive and working; I won’t let it get me down, I’m damned if I will.”
    Otto ignored Veraguth’s irritation. With gentle insistence he continued. “Excuse me, that’s not quite true. You’re an uncommonly strong man or you wouldn’t have stood up this long under such conditions. You yourself know very well how much this life has hurt you and aged you, trying to hide it from me is useless vanity. When you tell me one thing and my eyes another, I believe my eyes, and I can see that you’re in a very bad way. Your work keeps you going, but it’s more of an anesthetic than a pleasure. You waste half your magnificent energies in self-denial and petty daily friction. You’re not happy, at best you’re resigned. And that, my boy, isn’t worthy of you.”
    â€œResigned? That may be. A good many people are in that boat. Who’s happy?”
    â€œAnyone who has hope is happy!” cried Burkhardt. “And what have you to hope for? Not even outward success, honors, or money; of those you have more than enough. Why, you don’t even remember what life and joy are. You’re contented, because you’ve given up hoping. I understand that perfectly, but it’s a horrible state to be in, it’s a nasty abscess, and anyone who has such a thing and refuses to cut it open is a coward.”
    He paced the room in violent agitation, and as he pursued his plan with tense energies, Veraguth’s boyhood face rose up to him from the depths of memory, recalling a similar quarrel. Raising his eyes, he looked into his friend’s face; he was sitting huddled up, peering into space. Every trace of the boyhood features had vanished. He had called him a coward by design. But now this man, formerly so quick to take offense, made no move to defend himself.
    He only cried out in embittered weakness: “Go right ahead! No need to spare me. You’ve seen the cage I live in. Now you can point a finger at my disgrace and rub it in. Please continue. I won’t defend myself, I won’t even get angry.”
    Otto stood before him. He felt very sorry for him but forced himself to say harshly: “But you should get angry. You should throw me out and break off our friendship, or else you should admit that I’m right.”
    Now the painter stood up too, but limply, without vigor. “Very well, you’re right, if that’s what you want!” he said wearily. “You overestimated me, I’m not as young as I used to be, and not so easy to