Then the two in the room began to say the Lord’s Prayer together, and Andreas stole away.

Now more than ever he felt drawn to Romana’s room, irresistibly, yet differently from before, everything stood out clear in black and white. He said to himself: one day this will be my house, my wife, then I shall lie beside her talking about our children. He was sure now that she was waiting for him, just as he was going to her, for many innocent, glowing embraces, and a secret betrothal.

With quick, sure steps he approached the door: it was ajar, and yielded noiselessly to his pressure. He felt that she was sitting awake in the dark, aglow with expectation. He was already in the middle of the room when he noticed that she did not move. Her breath came and went so soundlessly that he had to hold his own as he strained to listen, and could not tell whether she was awake or asleep. His shadow lay as if rooted to the floor; in his impatience he all but whispered her name, to wake her with kisses if no answer came—then he felt as if a cold knife had pierced him. In another bed, over which a cupboard cast black shadow, another sleeper stirred, sighed, turned over. The head came near the moonlight—white-streaked hair. It was the old maidservant, the nurse. Then he had to go; between each step and the next, time stretched endlessly. Frustrated, as in a dream, he stole along the long moonlit corridor to his room.

He felt more at ease, more at home, than ever before in his life. He looked out over the back courtyard; the full moon was hanging over the stable, it was a glassy clear night. The dog was standing in the full moonlight, holding its head strangely, away to one side, and in this posture was turning round and round on itself. The creature seemed to be suffering horribly—perhaps it was old and very near death. Andreas was seized with dull pain; a sadness beyond all measure possessed him to see the animal suffering when he was so happy, as though the sight were a premonition of the approaching death of his father.

He left the window. He could think of his Romana again, but now more truly and solemnly, since he had just thought of his parents in the same way. He was soon undressed and in bed, and in his imagination was writing to his parents. Thoughts poured in upon him, every argument that occurred to him was unanswerable, they had never had such a letter from him. They must feel that he was no longer a boy now, but a man. If he had been a daughter instead of a son—he began somewhat in this way—they would long ago have known the joy, while still hale, of embracing their grandchildren and seeing their children’s children growing up. Because of him they had had to wait too long for that joy; it was one of the purest joys of life, and in a way itself a renewal of life. His parents had never had much joy from him—the thought was as vivid as if they were dead, and he must lay himself upon them to warm them with his body. Now they had sent him on a costly journey to a foreign land. Why? To see foreign peoples, to observe foreign customs, to polish his manners. But all these things were means, means to one end. How much better it would be if this supreme end, which was nothing more nor less than his life’s happiness, could be reached by one sudden step! Now, by God’s sudden guidance, he had found the girl, the life-mate to make that happiness secure. From then on he had but one aim—by her side to content his parents by his own content.

The letter he wrote in his imagination far surpassed this poor abstract; the most moving words came unsought, a chain of beautiful phrases formed of itself. He spoke of the fine estate of the Finazzer family, and of their ancient and noble descent, without boasting, but in a way which really pleased him. If he had a pen and ink-well at hand he would have jumped out of bed and had the letter written at a sitting.