Rosshalde (4 page)

Then they went back to the painting. So this was how these pictures, hung in the places of honor in galleries all over the world and sold at high prices, were made; they were made in rooms that knew only work and self-denial, where one could find nothing festive, nothing useless, no cherished baubles or bric-a-brac, no fragrance of wine or flowers, no memory of women.

Two photographs were nailed over the narrow bed, one of little Pierre and one of Otto Burkhardt. Burkhardt remembered it well. A poor snapshot, it showed him in a tropical helmet with the veranda of his Indian bungalow behind him; just below chest level, the picture disintegrated into mystical streamers where light had fallen on the plate.

“The studio is beautiful. And what a hard worker you've become! Give me your hand, old friend, it's wonderful to see you again. But now I'm tired, let me disappear for an hour. Will you call for me later on, for a swim or a walk? Fine. No, I don't need anything. I'll be all right in an hour. Until then.”

He sauntered off slowly under the trees and Veraguth looked after him, observing how his stature and his gait and every fold of his clothing breathed self-assurance and serene enjoyment of life.

Burkhardt went into the house, but passed his own rooms, climbed the stairs, and knocked on Frau Veraguth's door.

“Am I disturbing you, or may I keep you company for a little while?”

She admitted him with a smile; he found the brief unpracticed smile on her grave face strangely helpless.

“It's magnificent here in Rosshalde. I've already been in the park and down at the lake. And how Pierre is thriving! He's so attractive, he almost makes me feel sorry I'm a bachelor.”

“He is nice-looking, isn't he? Do you think he takes after my husband?”

“Yes, a little. Well, actually, more than a little. I didn't know Johann at that age, but I remember pretty well how he looked when he was eleven or twelve. —Incidentally, he seems a bit tired. What? No, I was speaking of Johann. Has he been working very hard recently?”

Frau Veraguth looked into his face; she felt that he was sounding her out.

“I believe so,” she said coolly. “He seldom speaks of his work.”

“What is he working on now? Landscapes?”

“He often paints in the park, usually with models. Have you seen any of his pictures?”

“Yes, in Brussels.”

“Is he showing in Brussels?”

“Oh yes, quite a number of pictures. I've brought the catalogue. You see, I should like to buy one of them and I'd be glad to know what you think of it.”

He held out the catalogue and pointed to a small reproduction. She looked at the picture, leafed through the catalogue, and gave it back.

“I'm afraid I can't help you, Mr. Burkhardt, I've never seen the picture. I believe he painted it last fall in the Pyrenees and has never had it here.”

After a pause she changed the subject. “You've given Pierre a lot of presents, that was very kind of you. Thank you.”

“Oh, little things. But you must permit me to give you something from Asia too. You don't mind? I have some bits of cloth I'd like to show you, you must choose what you like.”

By turning her polite sparring into a gracious, whimsical little battle of words, he managed to overcome her reserve and put her in a good humor. He went down to his treasure trove and returned with an armload of Indian fabrics. He spread out Malay batiks and hand-woven goods and threw laces and silks over the backs of the chairs, meanwhile telling her where he had found one piece or another, how he had haggled over it and purchased it for a song. The room became a colorful little bazaar. He asked her opinion, hung strips of lace over her arms, explained how it was made, and made her spread out the finest pieces, examine them, feel them, praise them, and finally keep them.

“No,” she laughed when he had done. “I'm reducing you to beggary. I can't possibly keep all this.”

“Don't worry,” he laughed in return. “I've just planted another six thousand rubber trees, I'll soon be a regular nabob.”

When Veraguth came for him, he found the two of them chatting as merrily as could be. He was amazed to see how loquacious his wife had become, tried in vain to join in the conversation, and admired the presents rather clumsily.

“Forget it,” said his friend, “that's the ladies' department. Let's go for a swim!”

He drew his friend out into the open.

“Really, your wife has hardly aged at all since I saw her last. She was in high good humor just now. You all seem to be doing all right. But what about your elder son? What's he up to?”

The painter shrugged his shoulders and frowned. “You'll see him, he'll be here any day now. I wrote you about him.”

And suddenly he stopped still, bent toward his friend, looked him straight in the eye, and said softly, “You'll see everything, Otto. I don't feel the need of talking about it. You'll see. —We really ought to be gay while you're here. Let's go down to the lake. I want to have a swimming race with you, like when we were boys.”

“Good idea,” said Burkhardt, who did not seem to notice Johann's uneasiness. “And you'll win, old man, which wasn't always the case. I'm ashamed to say so, but I've really developed a paunch.”

It was late afternoon. The whole lake lay in the shadow, a light wind played in the treetops, and across the narrow blue island of sky which the park left open over the water flew light violet clouds, all of the same shape and kind, in a brotherly row, thin and elongated like willow leaves. The two men stood outside the little bathhouse hidden in the bushes; the lock refused to open.

“Never mind,” said Veraguth. “It's rusty. We never use the bathhouse.”

He began to undress and Burkhardt followed suit. When they were on the shore ready to swim, testing the quiet shadowy water with their toes, a sweet breath of happiness from remote boyhood days came over both of them at once; they stood for a minute or two in anticipation of the delicious chill, and the radiant green valley of childhood summers unfolded gently in their hearts. Unaccustomed to the tender emotion, they stood half embarrassed and silent, dipping their feet into the water and watching the semicircles that fled over the brownish-green mirror.

Then Burkhardt stepped quickly into the water.

“Ah, it's good,” he sighed voluptuously. “You know, we can both still bear looking at; except for my paunch, we are still two fine strapping lads.”

He rowed with the palm of his hands, shook himself, and plunged.

“You don't know how good you have it,” he said enviously. “The loveliest river runs through my plantation, and if you stretch out your leg you'll never see it again. It's full of beastly crocodiles. And now full steam ahead, for the Rosshalde cup. We'll swim to the steps over there and back again. Are you ready? One … two … three!”

Both with laughing faces, they started off at a moderate pace, but the air of the garden of youth was still upon them, and in a moment they began to race in earnest; their faces grew tense, their eyes flashed, and their arms glistened as they swung them far out of the water. They reached the steps together and together they pushed off. They started back, and now the painter pressed ahead with powerful strokes, took the lead, and reached the finish a little before his friend.

Breathing heavily, they stood up in the water, rubbed their eyes, and laughed together in silent pleasure. It seemed to both of them that they had only just now become old friends again, that the slight strangeness and estrangement which had inevitably come between them was just beginning to disappear.

When they had dressed, they sat side by side with refreshed faces and a sense of lightness on the stone steps leading down to the lake. They looked across the dark water which lost itself in the blackish-brown twilight of the overhung cove across the lake, ate fat, light-red cherries which the servant had given them in a brown paper bag, and looked on with lightened hearts as the evening deepened, until the declining sun shone horizontally through the tree trunks and golden flames were kindled on the glassy wings of the dragonflies. And they chatted without pause or reflection for a good hour about their school days, about their teachers and fellow students, and what had become of this one or that one.

“Good Lord,” said Otto Burkhardt in his fresh, serene voice, “it's been a long time! Does anyone know what has become of Meta Heilemann?”

“Ah, Meta Heilemann!” Veraguth broke in eagerly. “Wasn't she a lovely girl? My portfolios were full of her portraits that I drew on my blotters during classes. I never did get her hair quite right. Do you remember, she wore it in two thick coils over her ears.”

“Haven't you had any news of her?”

“No. The first time I came back from Paris, she was engaged to a lawyer. I met her on the street with her brother, and I remember how furious I was with myself because I couldn't help blushing and in spite of my mustache and my Paris sophistication I felt like an idiotic little schoolboy. —If only she hadn't been called Meta. I never could bear that name.”

Burkhardt wagged his round head dreamily.

“You weren't in love enough, Johann. I thought Meta was wonderful, she could have been called Eulalia for all I cared, I'd have gone through fire for a glance out of her eyes.”

“Oh, I was in love enough. One day on the way back from our five o'clock free period—I was purposely late, all alone and without a thought for anything in the world but Meta, knowing I'd be punished and not caring—there she was, coming toward me, near the round wall. She was arm in arm with a girl friend. Suddenly I couldn't help thinking how it would be if she were arm in arm with me instead of that silly goose. She was so close to me my head began to swim and I had to stop awhile and lean against the wall. When I finally got back, the gate was closed tight; I had to ring and they gave me an hour's detention.”

Burkhardt smiled and remembered how at several of their rare meetings they had reminisced about Meta. As boys they had gone to the greatest lengths to conceal their love from each other, and it was only years later that they had occasionally lifted the veil and exchanged their little experiences. Yet even today neither of them had told the whole story. Otto Burkhardt recalled how for months he had kept and worshipped one of Meta's gloves, which he had found or actually stolen, an episode still unknown to his friend. He considered unburdening himself of the story now, but in the end he smiled slyly and said nothing, taking pleasure in keeping this last little memory to himself.

Chapter Three

B
URKHARDT WAS SITTING COMFORTABLY
leaning back in a wicker chair, his large panama hat on the back of his head, reading a magazine and smoking in the sun-splattered arbor at the west side of the studio; nearby sat Veraguth on a little camp chair, with his easel in front of him. The figure of the reading man was sketched in, the large color masses were in place, now he was working on the face, and the whole picture exulted in bright, weightless, sun-saturated, yet moderate tones. The air was spiced with oil paint and cigar smoke, birds hidden in the foliage uttered their thin, muffled, noonday cries and sang in sleepy dreamy conversational tones. Pierre was on the ground, huddled over a large map, describing thoughtful journeys with his frail forefinger.

“Don't fall asleep!” shouted the painter.

Burkhardt blinked at him, smiled, and shook his head. “Where are you now, Pierre?” he asked the boy.

“Wait, I've got to read it,” Pierre answered eagerly, and spelled out a name on his map. “In Lu—Luce—in Lucerne. There's a lake or an ocean. Is it bigger than our lake, Uncle Burkhardt?”

“Much bigger. Twenty times bigger. You must go there some day.”

“Oh, yes. When I have a car, I'll go to Vienna and Lucerne and the North Sea and India, where your house is. But will you be at home?”

“Certainly, Pierre. I'm always at home when guests come. Then we'll go and see my monkey, his name is Pendek, he has no tail but he has snow-white side whiskers, and then we'll take guns and go out on the river in a boat and shoot a crocodile.”

Pierre's slender torso rocked back and forth with pleasure. Uncle Burkhardt went on talking about his plantation in the Malayan jungle, and he spoke so delightfully and so long that in the end the boy wearied, was unable to follow, and absently resumed his journey over the map, but his father listened all the more attentively to his friend, who spoke with an air of indolent well-being of working and hunting, of excursions on horseback and in boats, of lovely weightless villages built of bamboo, of monkeys, herons, eagles, and butterflies, offering such seductive glimpses of his quiet, secluded life in the tropical forest that the painter had the impression of peering through a slit into a radiant, multicolored paradise. He heard of great silent rivers in the jungle, of wildernesses full of tree-high ferns, of broad plains where the lalang grass stood as high as a man; he heard of colored evenings on the seashore facing coral islands and blue volcanoes, of wild raging cloudbursts and flaming storms, of dreamy meditative evenings spent on the broad shaded verandas of white plantation houses as hot days sank into dusk, of tumultuous Chinese city streets, and of Malays resting at nightfall beside the shallow stony pond before the mosque.

Once again, as several times before, Veraguth visited his friend's distant home in his imagination, quite unaware that his unspoken yearning responded to Burkhardt's intentions. What bewitched him with images and roused his longing was not only the glitter of tropical seas and archipelagoes, or the color play of half-naked primitive peoples. More than that, it was the remoteness and quietness of a world where his sufferings and cares, his struggles and privations would pale, where his mind would cast off its hundred little burdens and a new atmosphere, pure and free from guilt and suffering, would envelop him.