The New York Stories of Elizbeth Hardwick by Elizabeth Hardwick Read Free Book Online Page A

grunted with pleasure at my remark and it must have offered her the final proof on this tormenting subject. I couldn’t really dislike her for what followed. She wasn’t mean or petty; she was caught in the fury of her own emotions and in her wretchedness must have believed she was defending her mother, though in actuality I felt her purpose was to commit an act of aggression against her father, to punish him for his innocence. “Perhaps the first Mrs. Hoffmann is more important in this house!” she said, forcing herself with all the grim self-righteousness in her nature to look at her father as she spoke. “You are always talking about her. You don’t seem to worry about how we’ll save the money to keep Mother in Arizona. You have never worried about her. Not even when I was born!” Her nice, adolescent voice had become very shrill and she was starting to cry.
    “What are you talking about? When you were born?” her father asked, utterly bewildered by her tone and accusation. He had turned quite pale, but, as always, was very patient with his daughter.
    “I know that you were at your own mother’s bedside when I was born. She has always come first. You don’t love us half as much!” Elsa had become very childish and was sobbing wildly. Her father did not seem to recognize her childishness any more than he noticed the unnatural maturity she sometimes showed. To him she was an equal. He loved her and she was crying!
    Just as he was preparing to speak to her and to reassure her, a strange thing happened to him. He looked away from Elsa, or rather she seemed to vanish from his sight, and that frown of anguish I had often seen on his face returned. I thought that a deep shiver passed through his body, the physical evidence of a sudden revelation that had enormous implications for him.
    “Why didn’t she come here with us?” Elsa went on desperately. “She’s nothing but a Nazi anyway. She would rather die than leave Germany. It’s a wonder you didn’t stay with her, since you’ve never been happy away from her.”
    With great effort her father drew his attention back to her. “What are you saying? What are you saying?” he kept repeating. For a moment he seemed to entertain the hope that she might deny what she had said, but this had to be abandoned. I imagined he knew already that he could never forget Elsa’s words no matter what happened; he was now too deep in his own recognition.
    Elsa’s venom spent itself quickly, as if she had, in that same second when her father was staggering under a monstrously increased burden of emotion, gone hollow and empty with the exhaustion of release. She had just barely enough breath for her whimpering and sobbing and to say, “I’m sorry.” Then she went quietly and quickly into her room and closed the door behind her.
    I was anxious to get away and was relieved that Dr. Hoffmann had ignored me. He was a man of such passion that his feelings could shut him off from the world and he sat there wrinkling his mouth, shaking his head, fighting his tears as if he were alone. I got up and tiptoed to the door, but he stopped me. “Do you suppose it’s true?” he asked. I offered no answer, but I could tell from the despair in his voice that he had answered his own question.
    “Good night, Dr. Hoffmann,” I said, as casually as I was able.
    He seemed not to hear me and as I closed the door he was whispering to himself, “Mother, release me! Release me!”
    Back in my room I felt guilty about Dr. Hoffmann and hoped to put him out of my mind, but I found that in spite of my good intentions I was trying to put his life together and to find some answer to the question of his religious faith. A rather neat case was available to me. This despondent man was struggling to the depths of his being with a real situation, one that had marked and maimed him long before he was old enough to know God, theology, or philosophy. There was no doubt that Dr. Hoffmann’s life had been