through the entranceway, and for this reason the white horse attracted little attention. It was not, however, one of the horses belonging to the trucking company. A
workman tightening the cords around a bale of goods in front of the gate noticed the horse, looked up from his work, and then into the yard to see whether the coachman
was following after. No one came. The horse had hardly stepped into the road when it reared up mightily, struck several sparks from the pavement, for a moment was
on the point of falling, but at once regained its balance, and then trotted neither rapidly nor slowly up the street, which was almost deserted at this twilight hour. The
workman cursed what he thought had been the carelessness of the coachmen, shouted several names into the yard; some men came out in response, but when they
immediately perceived that the horse was not one of theirs, simply stopped short together in the entranceway, somewhat astonished. A short interval elapsed before
some of them thought what to do; they ran after the horse for a distance, but, failing to catch sight of it again, soon returned.
In the meantime the horse had already reached the outermost streets of the suburbs without being halted. It accommodated itself to the life of the streets better than
horses running alone usually do. Its slow pace could frighten no one, it never strayed out of the roadway or from its own side of the street; when it was obliged to stop
for a vehicle coming out of a cross street, it stopped; had the most careful driver been leading it by the halter it could not have behaved more perfectly. Still, of course, it
was a conspicuous sight; here and there someone stopped and looked after it with a smile, a coachman in a passing beer wagon jokingly struck down at the horse with
his whip; it was frightened, of course, and reared, but did not quicken its pace.
It was just this incident, however, that a policeman saw; he went over to the horse, who at the very last moment had tried to turn off in another direction, took hold of the
reins (despite its light frame it wore the harness of a draft horse) and said, though in a friendly way: “Whoa! Now where do you think you are running off to?” He held
on to it for some time in the middle of the road, thinking that the animal’s owner would soon be along after the runaway.
It has meaning but is weak; its blood flows thin, too far from the heart. There are still some pretty scenes in my head but I will stop regardless. Yesterday the white
horse appeared to me for the first time before I fell asleep; I have an impression of its first stepping out of my head, which was turned to the wall, jumping across me
and down from the bed, and then disappearing. The last is unfortunately not refuted by the fact of my having begun the story.
If I am not very much mistaken, I am coming closer. It is as though the spiritual battle were taking place in a clearing somewhere in the woods. I make my way into
the woods, find nothing, and out of weakness immediately hasten out again; often as I leave the woods I hear, or I think I hear, the clashing weapons of that battle.
Perhaps the eyes of the warriors are seeking me through the darkness of the woods, but I know so little of them, and that little is deceptive.
A heavy downpour. Stand and face the rain, let its iron rays pierce you; drift with the water that wants to sweep you away but yet stand fast, and upright in this way
abide the sudden and endless shining of the sun.
The landlady dropped her skirts and hurried through the rooms. A cold, haughty woman. Her projecting lower jaw frightened roomers away. They ran down the steps,
and when she looked after them through the window they covered their faces as they ran. Once a gentleman came for a room, a solid, thickset young man who
constantly kept his hands in his coat pockets. It was a habit, perhaps, but it was also possible that he wanted to conceal the trembling of his hands.