When I used to collect rags I could have picked up ten times as many such useless trifles in one month. Sascha's things aroused in me a feeling of disillusion, of agitation, and painful pity for him. But he gazed at every single article with great attention, lovingly stroked them with his fingers, and stuck out his thick lips importantly. His protruding eyes rested on them affectionately and solicitously; but the spectacles made his childish face look comical.
"Why have you kept these things?"
He flashed a glance at me through the frame of the spectacles, and asked:
"Would you like me to give you something?"
"No; I don't want anything."
He was obviously offended at the refusal and the poor impression his riches had made. He was silent a moment; then he suggested quietly:
"Get a towel and wipe them all; they are covered with dust."
When the things were all dusted and replaced, he turned over in the bed, with his face to the wall. The rain was pouring down. It dripped from the roof, and the wind beat against the window. Without turning toward me, Sascha said:
"You wait! When it is dry in the garden I will show you a thing—something to make you gasp."
I did not answer, as I was just dropping off to sleep.