I made no spoken assurance of sympathy. I winced almost at the idea of speaking to him. I knew then that we may contemplate, or believe we contemplate, some coming catastrophe for years, believing that so the suffering, when it finally falls, will be lessened. This is a delusion. Let the blow rather come short, sharp, and without forewarning; preparation heightens the agony.
“Friedel,” said he at last, “you do not ask why must this be.”
“I do not need to ask why. I know that it must be, or you would not do it.”
“I would tell you if I could—if I might.”
“For Heaven’s sake, don’t suppose that I wish to pry—” I began. He interrupted me.
“You will make me laugh in spite of myself,” said he. “You wish to pry! Now, let me see how much more I can tell you. You perhaps think it wrong, in an abstract light, for a father to send his young son away from him. That is because you do not know what I do. If you did, you would say, as I do, that it must be so—I never saw it till now. That letter was a revelation. It is now all as clear as sunshine.”
I assented.
“Then you consent to take my word that it must be so, without more.”
“Indeed, Eugen, I wish for no more.”
He looked at me. “If I were to tell you,” said he, suddenly, and an impulsive light beamed in his eyes. A look of relief—it was nothing else—of hope, crossed his face. Then he sunk again into his former attitude—as if tired and wearied with some hard battle; exhausted, or what we more expressively call niedergeschlagen.