Afraid, he sensed all the warmth in him dissipating, obliterating word after word from his memory as they tumbled over one another and nervously took to flight.

He had worked it out like this: he would go to the Consulate and have himself announced there at once to the military attaché, whom he knew slightly. They had once met and made casual conversation at the house of mutual friends. So he would at least know the man he faced: an aristocrat, elegant, worldly, proud of his joviality, a man who liked to appear generous-minded and did not want to be thought a mere bureaucrat. They all had that ambition, they wanted to figure as diplomats, men of importance, and he planned to work on that: he would have himself announced, speak of general things at first in a civil, sociable tone, ask after the health of the attaché’s wife. The attaché would be sure to ask him to sit down, offer him a cigarette, and finally, as silence fell, would say politely, “Well, how can I help you?” The other man must ask him first, that was very important, that was not to be forgotten. In answer he would say, very cool and casual, “I’ve had a letter asking me to go to M for a medical examination. There must be some mistake; I’ve already been expressly declared unfit for military service.” He must say that very calmly, it must be immediately obvious that he regarded the whole thing as a mere trifle.

At this point the attaché—he remembered the man’s casual manner—would take the piece of paper and explain that this was to be a new examination; surely, he would say, he must have seen in the newspapers, some time ago, that even those previously exempted must now report again.

To this, still very coolly, he would say, “Ah, I see! The fact is I don’t read the papers, I just don’t have time for it. I have work to do.” He wanted the other man to see at once how indifferent he was to the whole war, how much he felt himself a free agent.

Of course the attaché would then explain that Ferdinand must comply with this call-up order, he himself was sorry, but the military authorities … and so on and so forth. That would be his moment to speak more forcefully. “Yes, I understand that,” he must say, “but the fact is, it’s quite impossible for me to interrupt my work just now. I’ve agreed to have an exhibition of my paintings held, and I can’t let the curator down. I’ve given my word.” And then he would suggest to the attaché that he should either be given a longer deadline, or have himself reexamined here by the Consulate doctor.

So far he was sure he knew how it would go. Only after this point were there a number of possibilities. The attaché might agree at once, and then at least he would have gained time. But if the attaché said politely—with cold, evasive civility, suddenly sounding official—that such decisions were inadmissible and outside his jurisdiction, then he had to be resolute. First he must stand up, go over to the desk and say firmly, very, very firmly, his manner conveying an inner sense of inflexible determination, “I understand that, but I would like to put it on record that my economic obligations prevent me from complying with this call-up immediately. I will take it upon myself to postpone matters for three weeks, until I have satisfied my moral liabilities. Naturally I have no intention of failing in my duty to the Fatherland.” He was particularly proud of these remarks, which he had planned with care. “I would like to put it on record”, “economic obligations”—it all sounded so objective and official. If the attaché then pointed out that there might be legal consequences, that would be the time to make his tone a little sharper and reply coldly, “I know the law, I am well aware of the consequences. But once I have given my word, I regard keeping it the highest law of all, and I must accept any difficulty in order to do so.” Then he must be quick to bow, thus cutting the conversation short, and go to the door. He’d show them that he was no workman or apprentice to wait for dismissed, but a man who decided for himself when a conversation was over.

He acted out this scene in his mind three times, pacing up and down. He liked the whole structure, the entire tone of it, he was waiting impatiently for the moment to come like an actor waiting for his cue. There was just one passage that still didn’t seem quite right to him. “I have no intention of failing in my duty to the Fatherland.” There absolutely had to be some kind of sop to patriotic values in the conversation, it was necessary to show that he was not being purposely obstructive, but he wasn’t ready to go either. He would acknowledge the necessity of showing patriotism, for their ears only, of course, not for himself. However, that “duty to the Fatherland”—the phrase was too literary, it came too pat. He thought it over again. Perhaps: “I know that the Fatherland needs me.” No, that was even more ridiculous.