Rosshalde by Hermann Hesse Read Free Book Online Page A

that.”
    Albert stopped still and glared at her.
    â€œOf course you can forbid me to use words, but what does that change? Do you expect me to be grateful to him? He has ruined your life and my home, he has turned our beautiful, happy, wonderful Rosshalde into a place of misery and loathing. I grew up here, Mother, and sometimes I dream night after night of the old rooms and hallways, of the garden and stable and dovecote. I have no other home that I can love and dream of and be homesick for. And now I have to live in strange places and I can’t even bring home a friend at vacation time, because I wouldn’t want him to see the life we lead! And whenever I meet someone and he hears my name, he sings hymns of praise to my famous father. Oh, Mother, I’d rather we had no father at all and no Rosshalde, I’d rather we were poor people and you had to sew or give lessons, and I’d help you make a living.”
    His mother took hold of him and pressed him into a chair; she sat down on his knees and stroked his hair into place.
    â€œThere,” she said in her deep quiet voice, the sound of which was home and hearth to him. “There. Now you’ve told me everything. Sometimes it’s a good idea to get things off your chest. It’s good to be conscious of what we have to bear. But we mustn’t churn up the things that hurt us, child. You’re as tall as I am now, you’ll soon be a man, and I’m glad. You are my child and I want you to go on being my child, but you see, I’m alone a good deal of the time and I have all sorts of worries. I need a manly friend, and that must be you.
    â€œYou must play four-handed with me and stroll in the garden with me and look after Pierre, and we shall have a fine vacation together. But you mustn’t fume and fuss and make things still harder for me, because that would make me feel that you were still half a child and that I have a long time to wait for the intelligent friend I want so much.”
    â€œYes, Mother, of course. But when things make me unhappy, must I always keep them to myself?”
    â€œIt’s the best way, Albert. It’s not easy, and one can’t expect it of children. But it’s the best way. —Shall we play something now?”
    â€œYes, let’s play. Beethoven, the Second Symphony—would you like that?”
    They had hardly begun to play when the door opened quietly and Pierre slipped in, sat down on a stool, and listened. He looked thoughtfully at his brother, the back of his neck, the collar of his silk sports shirt, his hair moving to the rhythm of the music, and his hands. Now that the eyes were hidden from him, he noticed Albert’s close resemblance to his mother.
    â€œDo you like it?” Albert asked during a pause. Pierre only nodded, but a moment later he quietly left the room. In Albert’s question he had sensed a trace of the tone which in his experience most grownups assumed in speaking to children; he could not bear its sham friendliness and ponderous arrogance. He was glad his big brother had come, he had looked forward with eagerness to his visit and had welcomed him joyfully at the station. But that tone, no, he wouldn’t put up with it.
    Meanwhile, Veraguth and Burkhardt were waiting in the studio for Albert, Burkhardt with unconcealed curiosity, the painter in nervous embarrassment. His brief loquacious gaiety had suddenly left him when he learned that Albert had arrived.
    â€œIs his arrival unexpected?” Otto asked.
    â€œNo, I don’t believe so. I knew he was coming any day.”
    Veraguth took some old photographs from a box of odds and ends. He picked out the picture of a little boy and held it side by side with a photograph of Pierre. “This is Albert at exactly the same age that Pierre is now. Do you remember him?”
    â€œOh, very well. The picture is a good likeness. He looks a good deal like your wife.”
    â€œMore than