For these reasons it was impossible to send any of the real news, if one wanted to keep up a correspondence at all, that one would nonchalantly reveal to the most casual acquaintance. It was more than three years since the friend’s last visit, a circumstance he ineffectually blamed on Russia’s uncertain political situation, which apparently would not permit even the shortest trip of a small business man while hundreds of thousands of Russians peacefully traveled the world over. In the course of these three years, however, much had changed in Georg’s own life. The news of his mother’s death—she died two years ago and Georg had since been living with his elderly father—had reached the friend, who sent a letter expressing his condolences so dryly that it could be concluded that the grief over such an event could not be felt from such a distance. But since that time Georg had tackled his business, as well as everything else, with more fervor. Perhaps his father had insisted on running the business his own way during the mother’s lifetime and prevented Georg from making his own mark; perhaps his father, while still working, had become less active since her death; perhaps—and indeed this was most probable—accidental good fortune had played a far more important role, but whatever the cause, the business had grown quite dramatically during these two years: The personnel had been doubled, the profits had increased fivefold, and there was undoubtedly further prosperity just around the corner.
But Georg’s friend had no inkling of this change. Earlier, perhaps the letter of condolence was the last time, he had tried to lure Georg into emigrating to Russia and expounded upon the prospects that St. Petersburg offered in precisely Georg’s line of business. The figures he quoted were minuscule compared to the scale Georg’s business had assumed. But Georg was not inclined to write of his commercial success to his friend, and were he to do so now, it would appear especially peculiar.
So Georg always confined himself to relating the trivial matters that randomly arise from a disorganized memory on a reflective Sunday. His sole desire was to leave intact the picture of the hometown the friend must have constructed over the years and had come to accept. Thus it happened that Georg had informed his friend in three fairly widely spaced letters about the engagement of an inconsequential person to an equally inconsequential girl until, quite contrary to his intentions, the friend became interested in this noteworthy event.
Yet Georg preferred writing about these sorts of things rather than admit that he himself had gotten engaged a month ago to a Fraulein Frieda Brandenfeld, a girl from a well-to-do family. He often spoke of his friend to his fiancée and the strange relationship that had developed from their correspondence. “So he won’t be coming to our wedding,” she said, “and yet I have the right to meet all your friends.” “I don’t want to trouble him,” Georg replied; “please understand me, he would probably come, at least I think so, but he would feel obligated and hurt and he might even envy me; at any rate he’d feel dejected and, with no other recourse, he’d have to go back alone. Alone—do you know what that is?” “Yes, but might he not learn of our marriage some other way?” “I can’t help that of course, but it’s unlikely considering his circumstances.” “If you have such friends, Georg, you should never have even gotten engaged.” “Well, we both have that cross to bear, but now I wouldn’t have it any other way.” And when, breathing quickly under his kisses, she still protested with: “It really does offend me,” he decided there wouldn’t be much harm in telling his friend everything. “This is how I am and so this is how he must take me,” he said to himself “I can’t fashion myself into a different person who might be better suited to be his friend.”
And in the long letter he had written that Sunday morning, he did in fact announce to his friend his engagement with the following words: “I have saved the best news for last. I have become engaged to a Fraulein Frieda Brandenfeld, a girl from a well-to-do family that only settled here long after your departure, so that you most likely don’t know them. There will be time to tell you more about my fiancée later, but for today suffice it to say that I am very happy and that, insofar as our own relationship is concerned, the only difference is that you have exchanged a quite ordinary friend for a happy one. Furthermore, in my fiancée, who sends her warm regards and who will shortly be writing to you personally, you will acquire a sincere friend, a not wholly unimportant thing for a bachelor. I know there is much to keep you from visiting us, but wouldn’t my wedding be precisely the right occasion for overcoming these obstacles? Be that as it may, do as you see fit, all other considerations aside.”