Christian shared his meals with Michael, and cared for him in brotherly fashion. At night he spread a couch for him with his own hands. He knew how to accustom the boy to his presence; his gift of unobtrusiveness stood him in good stead. In his presence Michael lost the convulsive rigour which not even Johanna’s affectionate considerateness had been able to break. At times he would follow Christian with his eyes. “Why do you look at me?” Christian asked. The boy was silent.
“I should like to know what you are thinking,” Christian said.
The boy was silent. Again and again he followed Christian with his eyes, and seemed torn between two feelings.
On a certain evening he spoke for the first time. “What will happen to me?” he whispered, in a scarcely audible voice.
“You should have a little confidence in me,” Christian said, winningly.
Michael stared in front of him. “I am afraid,” he said at last.
“What are you afraid of?”
“Of everything. Of everything in the world. Of people and animals and darkness and light and of myself.”
“Have you felt that way long?”