"Your hand trembles!" he exclaimed. "Does it frighten you to see me blind?"
Irma could not speak, and nodded as if the blind man could see what she did.
The sun's rays fell directly upon the face of the unfortunate one, and his sightless eyes stared into vacancy.
"You've grown thinner than you were," said the blind man. "May I pass my hand over your face?"
"Yes," replied Irma, closing her eyes.
"You're not as beautiful as you were two years ago. Your eyelids are hot and heavy. You must have been grieving. Can I help you? I'm not rich, but I can still do something."
"Thank you. I've learned to help myself." Being addressed in High German, Irma had involuntarily replied in pure German, without a trace of dialect.
The stranger started, turned his head to the right and left, and, while doing so, stretched out his neck so far that it was almost unpleasant to look at him.
Taking him by the hand, Irma led him to the bench in front of the cottage. She felt a tremor while holding this fine and delicate hand in hers, but, gathering all her strength, she repressed it. She sat down by the blind man, and asked him how he had happened to come there.
"You remember," said he, "that when I was with you last, I knew what my fate would be. I wrestled with myself for a long while and learned to know how to bear it. We know that we must all die, and yet we can be cheerful; and I knew that I must lose my sight and became cheerful, too."