The two were silent. In the perfect stillness of the room the soft bubbling of the burning oil, mingled with the soft bubbling of the tobacco juice. Then, from the darkness of the background, the hanging clock began to announce hoarsely the eleventh hour. “This is the hour when she would begin to make the punch,” said the man with the domed forehead. His voice was soft, with a slight vibration.
“Yes, this is the time,” repeated the other. The sound of his speech was hard, as if the rattle of command still lingered in it.
“I did not think it would be so desolate without her,” said the first speaker again.
The host nodded, his jaws moving.
“She made the New Year’s punch for us four-and-forty times,” continued his friend.
“Yes, it’s as long as that since we moved to Berlin, and you became our friend,” said the old soldier.
“Last year at this time we were all so jolly together,” said the other. “She sat in the armchair there, knitting socks for Paul’s eldest. She worked busily, saying she must finish it by twelve o’clock. And she did finish it. Then we drank our punch and spoke quite calmly of death. And two months later they carried her away. As you know, I have written a fat book on the ‘Immortality of the Idea.’ You never cared much about it—I don’t care for it myself now that your wife is dead. The entire Idea of the Universe means nothing to me now.”
“Yes, she was a good wife,” said the husband of the dead woman; “she cared for me well. When I had to go out for service at five o’clock in the morning, she was always up before me to look after my coffee. Of course she had her faults. When she got into philosophizing with you—h’m.”
“You never understood her,” murmured the other, the corners of his mouth trembling in controlled resentment. But the glance that rested long on his friend’s face was gentle and sad, as if a secret guilt pressed upon his soul.
After a renewed pause, he began: