Father often used to say there were, and I think he was right. But how strange it is that one should have to go down on one’s knees to good men before they will do anything! If they are good, surely they must know that others are dying of hunger and thirst! And they must know that for a trifle, for the price of a shoebuckle, a man can often be saved. Is it kindness to give alms to the beggar at the church door? Even with the money in his hand, he still remains a beggar. There must be hundreds and hundreds of good men in the world, and if the beggar is to earn his daily bread, many of them must pass by and put a copper in his hand. Yet they do not save him from having to beg! But he would never have become a beggar if he had been helped. Perhaps the most terrible thing on earth is that men do not hold out a helping hand to one another.

Attracted by the broad expanse of sky which seemed to stretch above it, he walked to the window. It was a small attic window, and to reach it he had to climb up two rough wooden steps. He leaned on the broad sill and gazed happily at the glorious view stretching beneath him far away to the horizon. At his feet he could see the dark foliage of the trees on the bastion; in front of the walls lay the broad green expanse of the glacis, intersected by streets and paths that looked like streaks of chalk. Beyond came the houses, roofs and church-towers of the suburbs, and yet further away, the hills rose gently to the diaphanous mist of the mountains.

With one swift, all-embracing glance Lucas took in the view. Along the broad highway which crossed the glacis in the direction of the suburbs, a long procession was advancing at a fair pace, looking like some giant caterpillar with arching back crawling along on its myriad feet. At first Lucas watched it quite unmoved, but suddenly he saw that it was the same procession he had met a little while back in the square in front of St. Michael’s Church. He grew wildly excited. Although it was a long way off, he could plainly discern the cuirassiers riding ahead. As the light played about the cavalcade and sudden gleams flashed on bright points on their helmets, they were clearly distinguishable. Yes, there were the traveling coaches, like crawling black beetles. Behind them came another troop of horsemen.

Lucas kept his eyes fixed on the procession. It formed a whole community making its exodus. Advancing in close array, it constituted a single whole that had cut itself adrift from the town and left behind it all those who must remain rooted to the place. Far away in the distance, further than eye could see, in a foreign land, lay the goal that lured it on. Night and day it would march forward until at last it reached that goal and was swallowed up in its wide embrace. Lucas gazed into the distance. His eyes felt an irresistible impulse to follow the procession. He could visualize the whole journey. His heart began to beat furiously. “Oh how lucky they are!” he sighed. “How lucky they are!”

Then, remembering the beautiful dog he had seen running by the side of the Archduke’s carriage, he banged his fist down on the window-sill. “Oh God!” he raged, “I envy even that dog!” At each word, he thumped the window-sill. “If only I could go with them—with them!” Then, seized by a sudden inspiration, he added: “If I were allowed to be myself every other day, only every other day, I wouldn’t mind a bit. . . .