I am tempted to go into the bathroom to bathe my sore feet, but my clear head reminds me that the noise of the taps would awaken Magda, so I sneak into the kitchen. I can wash in the kitchen. Only little Else sleeps next to the kitchen. She’s good to me, she comforted me, she’s not hard and efficient like Magda. I switch on the light, I look round the kitchen. I choose a large enamel basin, and I think to look into the boiler by the stove, to see if there is any warm water. The water is actually luke-warm still. I am proud of my cleverness. I get the washing soap, the hand-towel, kitchen cloths, a brush. I sit on a chair and put my feet into the water. Oh, how good it feels, how soothing that gentle caress is! I lean back, I close my eyes—if only I had something to drink now, I would be absolutely happy.

There’s always something lacking for human happiness, we can never be perfectly content. I’ve drunk all the red wine, and there’s nothing else to drink in the house. Tomorrow I must start a wine-cellar, and there must be a few bottles of schnaps in it, too. Schnaps is a very good thing—a pity I’ve wasted so many years of my life when I might have been drinking schnaps—in all moderation of course. I lean back still further, enjoying the bath, feeling the burning pain recede … and suddenly I jump up! The water slops out of the basin and floods over the tiled floor. But I take no notice of that. I have had a revelation. Of course we have something to drink in the house! Didn’t Magda get some Madeira for certain kinds of soup, ox-tail for instance? And doesn’t she use rum for her preserves? I know that from her housekeeping accounts. And I run on my bare feet into the larder, I search, I sniff at bottles, I smell vinegar and oil—and here, here it is: “Fine old Sherry,” and here’s port wine, no less, the bottle three-parts-full, and rum, half-full—oh, how beautiful life is! Intoxication, forget-fulness, to float along on the stream of forgetfulness, into the twilight, deep into the darkness where there is neither failure nor regret … good alcohol, I salute you. La reine Elsabe, I have rested on your naked breast, I have breathed the scent of your hair and your flesh!

I have filled the basin again, I have set the three uncorked bottles before me, I have taken a long pull from the rum bottle. At first it repels me after the gentler, purer taste of the brandy. The rum tastes sharper, more burning, it is adulterated and all the more fiery on that account. I feel it spreading in my blood like dark-red clouds, it stimulates my imagination, it makes me more wide-awake, more watchful, more cunning.… I know I must tidy up the kitchen properly, wipe the flood off the floor, carefully cork the bottles and put them away again. Nobody must notice anything, not even Else. Good little Else, she’s fast asleep, she’s young still, she sleeps the sleep of youth, but I, her master, I sit here in the kitchen and watch over her sleep. If a burglar were to come now … but where did I leave the corks? I don’t see them anywhere, I haven’t got them in my pockets either—perhaps they’re still in the larder? I must go and look, I must put the bottles away properly corked. But the water is so gentle to my feet, and I am getting so tired, I would like to sleep, just for a brief moment, then I’ll tidy up, I’ll put everything in perfect order, and I’ll find the corks too.…

Who’s coming? Who is disturbing me again? Oh, it’s only Magda, efficient Magda. In the middle of the night, no, rather towards morning, there she stands in the kitchen door-way looking spick-and-span, fully dressed anyway, and stares silently at me with a pale startled face. I half straighten up, make a gesture of greeting, nod to her and say cheerfully: “Here I am again, Magda! I just made a little trip, a little excursion into the springtime. Have you heard the larks sing yet this year? Tomorrow we’ll go together.