“My God, why are you sitting here like this?” his young wife asked.
“I am going to give up my store,” I said. “It isn’t going too badly, and I can meet all my obligations, even if only just about. But I can’t stand the worries, I can’t control
the clerks, I can’t talk to the customers. From tomorrow on I won’t even open the store. I’ve thought it all over carefully.” I saw how the man sought to calm his wife
by taking her hand between both of his.
“Fine,” he said, “you want to give up your store; you aren’t the first to do it. We too”—he looked across at his wife—“as soon as we have enough to take care of
ourselves (may it be soon), won’t hesitate to give up our store any more than you have done. Business is as little a pleasure to us as it is to you, believe me. But why do
you sit on the ground?”
“Where shall I go?” I said. Of course, I knew why they were questioning me. It was sympathy and astonishment as well as embarrassment that they felt, but I was in
no position whatsoever to help them too.
“Don’t you want to join us?” I was recently asked by an acquaintance when he ran across me alone after midnight in a coffeehouse that was already almost deserted.
“No, I don’t,” I said.
It was already past midnight. I sat in my room writing a letter on which a lot depended for me, for with the letter I hoped to secure an excellent post abroad. I sought to
remind the acquaintance to whom I was writing—by chance, after a ten-year interval, I had been put in touch with him again by a common friend—of past times, and at
the same time make him understand that all my circumstances pressed me to leave the country and that in the absence of good and far-reaching connections of my own,
I was placing my greatest hopes in him.
It was getting on towards nine o’clock in the evening before Bruder, a city official, came home from his office. It was already quite dark. His wife was waiting for him
in front of the gate, clutching her little girl to her. “How is it going?” she asked.
“Very badly,” said Bruder. “Come into the house and I’ll tell you everything.” The moment they set foot in the house, Bruder locked the front door. “Where is the
maid?” he asked.
“In the kitchen,” his wife replied.
“Good; come!”
The table lamp was lit in the large, low living room, they all sat down, and Bruder said: “Well, this is how things stand. Our men are in full retreat. As I understand it
from unimpeachable reports that have been received at City Hall, the fighting at Rumdorf has gone entirely against us. Moreover, the greater part of the troops have
already withdrawn from the city. They are still keeping it secret so as not to add enormously to the panic in the city; I don’t consider that altogether wise, it would be
better to tell the truth frankly. However, my duty demands that I be silent. But of course there is no one to prevent me from telling you the truth. Besides, everybody
suspects the real situation, you can see that everywhere. Everybody is shutting up his house, hiding whatever can be hidden.”
It was about ten o’clock in the evening before Bruder, a city official, came home from his office; nevertheless he at once knocked on the door that separated his room
from Rumford’s, the furniture dealer, from whom he rented the room. Though he could hear only an indistinct response, he went in. Rumford was seated at the table
with a newspaper; his fat was troubling him this hot July evening, he had thrown his coat and vest on the sofa; his shirt—
Several city officials were standing by the stone ledge of a window in City Hall, looking down into the square. The last of the rearguard was waiting below for the
command to retreat. They were young, tall, red-cheeked fellows who held their quivering horses tightly reined. Two officers rode slowly back and forth in front of