can see it. It makes one shudder. Go on with your poetry. Put some living
beings into it - people, charming people, especially unhappy ones.”
I wrote down my description of the house as it stands, with all its sounds,
its noises, but included only myself. There was no plot in it. That came
later.
IV
It was during wintertime, late at night, after theater hours; it was terrible
weather; a snowstorm raged so that one could hardly move along.
Aunty had gone to the theater, and I went there to take her home; it was
difficult for one to get anywhere, to say nothing of helping another. All the
hiring carriages were engaged. Aunty lived in a distant section of the town,
while my dwelling was close to the theater. Had this not been the case, we
would have had to take refuge in a sentry box for a while.
We trudged along in the deep snow while the snowflakes whirled around
us. I had to lift her, hold onto her, and push her along. Only twice did we
fall, but we fell on the soft snow.
We reached my gate, where we shook some of the snow from ourselves.
On the stairs, too, we shook some off, and yet there was still enough almost
to cover the floor of the anteroom.
We took off our overcoats and boots and what other clothes might be
removed. The landlady lent Aunty dry stockings and a nightcap; this she
would need, said the landlady, and added that it would be impossible for my
aunt to get home that night, which was true. Then she asked Aunty to make
use of her parlor, where she would prepare a bed for her on the sofa, in front
of the door that led into my room and that was always kept locked. And so
she stayed.
The fire burned in my stove, the tea urn was placed on the table, and the
little room became cozy, if not as cozy as Aunty's own room, where in the
wintertime there are heavy curtains before the door, heavy curtains before
the windows, and double carpets on the floor, with three layers of thick
