followed him. He wondered what the Krupp gun would do to Europe, saw the Swiss
sliding down the mountains on their seats, saw the English bobbing in the Channel, and saw
the rest of the nations falling in line like a world-wide pestilence.
She had seen Ernst for the first time a few mornings ago, out in the empty
garden behind the
Sports-welt
, watching the blue shadows give place to the bright
rising sun, neither English, Swiss nor German, but a fighter without his trappings, dangling
his legs from an upturned chair. She knew he was a coward when the old man screamed out of
the window, “Ernst, Ernst,” in a loud bellowing unhappy voice that did not have to command
respect. But he jumped, stared at the quiet blank wall of the building, and then she knew
that it might have been she herself who called, and she laughed behind the shadow of the
open window when it bellowed again, “Ernst, Ernst,
kommst du hier.”
She could tell
by the way his head moved that his eyes must be frightened, that all his frail arms and legs
would be trembling. He was magnificent! She watched him throw the foil from him and it
rolled into a flower bed, lay beneath the drooping petals. But she knew that his face was
tough, she could see that the blood would be rising into his head, that his ugly hand would
be twitching. The garden became Valhalla, he could kill somebody with a single quick
movement, and she wanted to be with him in Valhalla. She heard the door slam and the old
man’s voice rolling angrily out. Theflowers turned very bright in the
sun; she could, at that moment, sing her heart out. When she saw Herr Snow a while later he
was perfectly calm.
The musty odor of the wet carriage mixed with the lavender of Cromwell’s
hair, the Heroes passed out of view.
“I don’t think you should have come with me,” she said into the coachman’s
back.
“You must give me a chance,” Cromwell answered, thinking of the vast
Rhineland, “after all, I’m homeless.”
On a few isolated occasions in his life, Ernie had been swept into
overwhelming crisis, and, after each moment of paralysis, had emerged more under his
father’s thumb than ever. He remembered that his mother, with her tight white curls and slow
monotonous movement, had never succumbed, but had always yielded, to the deep irritable
voice. Her kind but silent bulk had slowly trickled down his father’s throat, easing the
outbursts of his violent words, until at last, on a hot evening, they had laid her away in
the back yard, while his young brother, head already in the brace, had crawled along at
their sides, screaming and clutching at his trousers. His father loved him with the
passionate control of a small monarch gathering and preening his five-man army, and only
used him as a scapegoat to vent an angry desire for perfection. The old man would have wept
in his hands if anything had happened to Ernie, and, as ruler of the
Sportswelt
and
surrounding Europe, had given him every opportunity for love. Ernie, dwarfed at his side,
sat every evening at the back table in the hall, until, when the stately patrons rolled with
laughter and the father became more absorbed in them than in his son, he could slipaway and match swords with those as desperate as himself. “You’ll get
yourself killed,” his father would say, “they’re cutting you apart bit by bit.”
His father had forced one of the few small crises himself the only time he
saw his son in combat. They were fencing in a grove several miles from the city, the sun
raising steam about their feet, fencing with a violent hatred and determination. They were
alone, stripped to the waist, scratches and nicks bleeding on their chests, heads whirling
with the heat. The Baron, young, agile, confident, drove him in and out of the trees to
stick him a thousand times before actually wounding him. Ernie was sick, fought back, but
saw blades through the
sliding down the mountains on their seats, saw the English bobbing in the Channel, and saw
the rest of the nations falling in line like a world-wide pestilence.
She had seen Ernst for the first time a few mornings ago, out in the empty
garden behind the
Sports-welt
, watching the blue shadows give place to the bright
rising sun, neither English, Swiss nor German, but a fighter without his trappings, dangling
his legs from an upturned chair. She knew he was a coward when the old man screamed out of
the window, “Ernst, Ernst,” in a loud bellowing unhappy voice that did not have to command
respect. But he jumped, stared at the quiet blank wall of the building, and then she knew
that it might have been she herself who called, and she laughed behind the shadow of the
open window when it bellowed again, “Ernst, Ernst,
kommst du hier.”
She could tell
by the way his head moved that his eyes must be frightened, that all his frail arms and legs
would be trembling. He was magnificent! She watched him throw the foil from him and it
rolled into a flower bed, lay beneath the drooping petals. But she knew that his face was
tough, she could see that the blood would be rising into his head, that his ugly hand would
be twitching. The garden became Valhalla, he could kill somebody with a single quick
movement, and she wanted to be with him in Valhalla. She heard the door slam and the old
man’s voice rolling angrily out. Theflowers turned very bright in the
sun; she could, at that moment, sing her heart out. When she saw Herr Snow a while later he
was perfectly calm.
The musty odor of the wet carriage mixed with the lavender of Cromwell’s
hair, the Heroes passed out of view.
“I don’t think you should have come with me,” she said into the coachman’s
back.
“You must give me a chance,” Cromwell answered, thinking of the vast
Rhineland, “after all, I’m homeless.”
On a few isolated occasions in his life, Ernie had been swept into
overwhelming crisis, and, after each moment of paralysis, had emerged more under his
father’s thumb than ever. He remembered that his mother, with her tight white curls and slow
monotonous movement, had never succumbed, but had always yielded, to the deep irritable
voice. Her kind but silent bulk had slowly trickled down his father’s throat, easing the
outbursts of his violent words, until at last, on a hot evening, they had laid her away in
the back yard, while his young brother, head already in the brace, had crawled along at
their sides, screaming and clutching at his trousers. His father loved him with the
passionate control of a small monarch gathering and preening his five-man army, and only
used him as a scapegoat to vent an angry desire for perfection. The old man would have wept
in his hands if anything had happened to Ernie, and, as ruler of the
Sportswelt
and
surrounding Europe, had given him every opportunity for love. Ernie, dwarfed at his side,
sat every evening at the back table in the hall, until, when the stately patrons rolled with
laughter and the father became more absorbed in them than in his son, he could slipaway and match swords with those as desperate as himself. “You’ll get
yourself killed,” his father would say, “they’re cutting you apart bit by bit.”
His father had forced one of the few small crises himself the only time he
saw his son in combat. They were fencing in a grove several miles from the city, the sun
raising steam about their feet, fencing with a violent hatred and determination. They were
alone, stripped to the waist, scratches and nicks bleeding on their chests, heads whirling
with the heat. The Baron, young, agile, confident, drove him in and out of the trees to
stick him a thousand times before actually wounding him. Ernie was sick, fought back, but
saw blades through the
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