George went out and lay down in the sun, all the shade being occupied by the others. After a while the bell sounded for work again; the foreman went into his room to rest. The men stretched and yawned and went very leisurely to work, some of them, indeed, not getting up at all, but turning over again for another nap. George and Tertschka went quietly to the quarry, and labored hard and faithfully until evening. During the days following they always worked together. George seemed to improve rapidly; he had enough to eat, and the invigorating air of this high altitude had a very lively effect upon his body, so worn out by fever. He swung the hammer quite vigorously now, and related to his companion his varied adventures during years of service in the army. They were by no means gay adventures, such as might happen in the life of a soldier of spirit; for, unfortunately, his shy and hangdog manner had caused him a great deal of trouble, so that he had seen only the dark side of a profession in which so many others find pleasure and excitement. He told her of his sufferings at the time he was a raw recruit, and when the tyranny of the corporal made life not worth living; of long nights of picket duty in snow and ice, of tiresome marches, followed by camping in rain and storm, and then—most interesting of all—of the time during the siege of Venice, when he stood with his regiment before Fort Malghera, where so many hundreds of them had died of typhoid and cholera. Tertschka listened attentively, although she understood only half of what he told her. It was all so far removed from her own life that she could not even picture any of it to herself. How could she imagine a city built in the water! Even the word “ocean” meant nothing more to her than did a vague, far-away cloud. Yet instinctively she felt that George’s life had been full of trouble, and in turn she told him all that she remembered of the sadness and misery in her own dull and monotonous existence. So they consoled each other, and were glad that they could go to work every morning together, and spend the long sunny days in the quiet quarry. Often they missed the call of the dinner-bell, or were startled by it, vexed because it compelled them to leave a solitude that had become so dear to them, and go down and mix with the rowdy men at the house.
But the time was not long during which these two were being drawn closer and closer together by their poverty, as others are by joy and pleasure and exuberance of life. Whether the foreman received information concerning them from some malevolent person or perhaps guessed at the state of affairs with the instinct of a bad heart, matters not; at any rate, one day he suddenly surprised them. “What are you doing here all by yourselves?” he cried. “Away with you to your comrades, you poor thing, where you belong!” With a gesture of command, he pointed toward the lower part of the quarry. George, dumb with fright, obeyed.
“And you, you spiteful creature,” turning to Tertschka, “it seems to me you are too warm a friend of that cripple there? Just wait, I will cure you! If I see you together again, he shall be discharged and you shall not see daylight for many a day.”
So they were separated, rudely and suddenly. After that George was made to work on the tracks, and when he and Tertschka met in the house at noon or at sundown, they did not dare even to look at each other, far less exchange words. For the foreman observed them closely, and the others, too, seemed to take a kind of malicious pleasure in watching them.
One evening—it was a Saturday—the foreman and some of his companions had gone to an inn in one of the villages not far away; the other men had settled down to a game of cards, as usual, after receiving their weekly wages. As the noise and excitement grew louder and boisterous, George took courage to approach Tertschka, who was sitting on an old wooden box in her accustomed corner, her face buried in her hands.
“Tertschka,” he said softly, taking a small, leather bag from his pocket, “here is the rest of the money that I owe you.” And he put some kreutzers[4] into her lap.
“Oh, never mind,” she answered; “you had better keep it, you may need it.”
“What for?” he asked, disappointed. “All pleasure is gone for me since I can not work with you any more.”
“Yes, I feel the same,” she answered.
After a while he began again: “I wonder why he separated us? It must be a matter of utter indifference to him whether we sit together or not, as long as we do our work well.” She was silent. At last she said: