Cordt sat and moved about in his chair and could not settle down:
“If I were to put anything in this room,” he said, “it would be a little tiny house ... from far away in the country. There would be only one door and two windows and it would be evening and the smoke would rise up gently from the chimney. The house would have to be as small as could be; but that would show that there was no room for doubt inside it. Husband and wife would go in and out of the door to the end of their days.”
Now she heard what he said and looked at him.
“That is what my marriage ought to be, Adelheid. If I had had any talent, I daresay it would have been different. Or if I had to work for my bread.... And I am no different from other men of to-day ... no stronger, no braver. I know nothing about God and I have no excessive belief in men.”
He had lowered his voice and spoke without looking at her. But she understood that he was listening for a word from her and her heart wept because she had nothing to say to him.
“My fixed point,” he said.
Then he was silent for a little. But, soon after, he rose and stood with his arm on the back of her chair and spoke again:
“There was also something in what I used to see at home. Father and mother were so kind ... and so strong. I see them before me now, as they used to kiss each other after dinner, however numerous the company might be. And they kissed each other good-morning and good-night until they died. And when father and his brother met in the street, they always kissed ... people used to laugh ... and it was such a pretty habit.”
While he spoke, she sought for an opportunity to interrupt him.
“My family-feeling has always been too strong,” he said. “Until now. And yet ... I once had a sweetheart....”