This forbearance with my annoyance shamed me thoroughly and made me lower my eyes. I would no longer be a trouble to them, out of sheer gratitude I would follow them with my gaze, not lose sight of them until they entered some place safely, and disappeared.
Outside No. 2, a large four-storeyed house, they turned again before going in. I leant against a lamppost near the fountain and listened for their footsteps on the stairs. They died away on the second floor. I advanced from the lamppost and looked up at the house. Then something odd happened. The curtains above were stirred, and a second after a window opened, a head popped out, and two singular-looking eyes dwelt on me. “Ylajali!” I muttered, half-aloud, and I felt I grew red.
Why does she not call for help, or push over one of those flowerpots and strike me on the head, or send someone down to drive me away? We stand and look into one another’s eyes without moving; it lasts a minute. Thoughts dart between the window and the street, and not a word is spoken. She turns round, I feel a wrench in me, a delicate shock through my senses; I see a shoulder that turns, a back that disappears across the floor. That reluctant turning from the window, the accentuation in that movement of the shoulders, was like a nod to me. My blood was sensible of the delicate, dainty greeting, and I felt all at once rarely glad. Then I wheeled round and went down the street.
I dared not look back, and knew not if she had returned to the window. The more I considered this question the more nervous and restless I became. Probably at this very moment she was standing watching closely all my movements. It is by no means comfortable to know that you are being watched from behind your back. I pulled myself together as well as I could and proceeded on my way; my legs began to jerk under me, my gait became unsteady just because I purposely tried to make it look well. In order to appear at ease and indifferent, I flung my arms about, spat out, and threw my head well back—all without avail, for I continually felt the pursuing eyes on my neck, and a cold shiver ran down my back. At length I escaped down a side street, from which I took the road to Pyle Street to get my pencil.
I had no difficulty in recovering it; the man brought me the waistcoat himself, and as he did so, begged me to search through all the pockets. I found also a couple of pawn-tickets which I pocketed as I thanked the obliging little man for his civility. I was more and more taken with him, and grew all of a sudden extremely anxious to make a favourable impression on this person. I took a turn towards the door and then back again to the counter as if I had forgotten something. It struck me that I owed him an explanation, that I ought to elucidate matters a little. I began to hum in order to attract his attention. Then, taking the pencil in my hand, I held it up and said:
“It would never have entered my head to come such a long way for any and every bit of pencil, but with this one it was quite a different matter; there was another reason, a special reason. Insignificant as it looked, this stump of pencil had simply made me what I was in the world, so to say, placed me in life.” I said no more. The man had come right over to the counter.
“Indeed!” said he, and he looked inquiringly at me.
“It was with this pencil,” I continued, in cold blood, “that I wrote my dissertation on ‘Philosophical Cognition,’ in three volumes.” Had he never heard mention of it?
Well, he did seem to remember having heard the name, rather the title.
“Yes,” said I, “that was by me, so it was.” So he must really not be astonished that I should be desirous of having the little bit of pencil back again. I valued it far too highly to lose it; why, it was almost as much to me as a little human creature. For the rest I was honestly grateful to him for his civility, and I would bear him in mind for it. Yes, truly, I really would. A promise was a promise; that was the sort of man I was, and he really deserved it. “Goodbye!” I walked to the door with the bearing of one who had it in his power to place a man in a high position, say, in the fire-office. The honest pawnbroker bowed twice profoundly to me as I withdrew. I turned again and repeated my goodbye.
On the stairs I met a woman with a travelling-bag in her hand, who squeezed diffidently against the wall to make room for me, and I voluntarily thrust my hand in my pocket for something to give her, and looked foolish as I found nothing and passed on with my head down. I heard her knock at the office door; there was an alarm over it, and I recognised the jingling sound it gave when anyone rapped on the door with their knuckles.
The sun stood in the south; it was about twelve. The whole town began to get on its legs as it approached the fashionable hour for promenading. Bowing and laughing folk walked up and down Carl Johann Street. I stuck my elbows closely to my sides, tried to make myself look small, and slipped unperceived past some acquaintances who had taken up their stand
