I’m going back to hell, I told Gambetti, at five tomorrow morning. Terrible, I added, without reflecting, without considering for a moment that such remarks were quite uncalled for and fundamentally contemptible, or at least improper. It was monstrous to speak of my family like this at a time when I might be expected to show a modicum of respect. But I can’t deny my nature, I have to show myself as I am, as these parents of mine made me, I thought as I crossed the square. If people see me they’ll say to themselves, He was always odd, and now, before going up to Wolfsegg to see his family, he first has to walk across the village square. Such an ill-bred, disloyal, unlovable person! Yet it struck me at once that the village people would not judge me as my family judged me; this was how my family always thought of me, in the same outrageous way as I thought of them. Unlike my family up there, who despise me, these people respect me; unlike my family up there, who more or less hate me, these people love me. The village people have always loved me, and I’ve always loved them, especially the miners. Most of the villagers are miners and worked in our lignite mines; some still do, but fewer than before. The village people were always my one consolation, I told myself as I crossed the square. I could say things to them that I could never say to my family; as a child I could cry my heart out to them and meet with understanding. Down here in the village everything is natural and humane, I thought as I walked on, while up at Wolfsegg everything is artificial and inhumane. I wondered why this should be, what was the cause. But the time it took to cross the square was too short to allow me to pursue this question, which now gave way to another. How will I find my sisters? What state will they be in? I wondered, taking in at one glance the whole sweep of the landscape stretching for well over a hundred miles from east to west, a prospect that can be enjoyed only from here, from no other point in Austria. From the precise spot where I always stopped, because it afforded the best view, I suddenly saw the whole panorama on this cloudless day and drew a deep breath. Why, I asked myself, do we permit such magnificent scenery to be disfigured and destroyed by people who seem intent only on despoiling it? I’ve arrived at the right moment, I thought, and walked on. It was as if the whole village were dead, for I could still not hear a sound. There were none of the noises that could usually be heard from the windows, reminding one of the activities of the people living behind them, and I connected this fact with our own misfortune. They all share our misfortune, I thought. I did not slacken my pace as I walked up the avenue, which would have been natural, but walked even faster, suddenly seized with a shameless curiosity that made me break into a run. I stopped in front of the big gateway by the Home Farm and peered between the enormous branches of the chestnut trees into the park and across to the Orangery, for it was there that from time immemorial the dead of Wolfsegg had always lain in state. And indeed the Orangery was open; in front of it the gardeners walked to and fro, carrying wreaths and bouquets. I decided not to go directly to the Orangery, as I was not yet ready to see my dead parents and my dead brother, but used the interim to observe more closely what was happening in front of it. This was still possible, as no one had spotted me. I was again struck by the calm demeanor of the gardeners and their characteristic way of moving as they silently carried the wreaths across from the Home Farm to the Orangery. They also brought buckets of water across from the stable. A huntsman appeared and seemed about to enter the Orangery, but then he turned back and disappeared in the direction of the Farm. I stood pressed against the wall in order to get a better view. We must observe people when they don’t know they’re being observed, I thought. The gardeners continued to cross from the Farm to the Orangery, carrying wreaths and bouquets, buckets of water and wooden planks. Large wooden tubs containing cypresses and palms had been placed in front of the Orangery, as well as one of the agaves that had been carefully cultivated by the gardeners. How painstakingly such tropical plants are cultivated and cosseted here in the north, I thought, as I pressed myself against the wall, feeling somewhat guilty, yet at the same time relishing my role as observer. I could observe the gardeners undisturbed, expecting at any moment to catch sight of one of my sisters or some other relative and feeling no urgent need to see my parents and my brother lying in state, which was what the slightest decency would doubtless have required. Perhaps I was afraid of a sudden confrontation with my dead parents and my dead brother. I was less afraid of their dead faces than I had been of their living faces, but I feared them nevertheless and chose to remain pressed up against the wall for a little while longer before entering the park. The theatricality of the proceedings in front of the Orangery was suddenly borne in upon me. It was like watching a stage on which the gardeners were performing their parts with wreaths and bouquets. But the main character’s missing, I thought; the real play can’t begin until I make my entrance as the principal actor, so to speak, who has come hotfoot from Rome to take part in this tragedy. What I see from the gateway, I thought, are only the preliminaries to the drama, which will be opened by me and nobody else. The whole scene, together with the invisible one taking place offstage in the main building, now seemed like a dressing room, in which the actors don their costumes, apply their makeup, and run through their lines, just as I was doing. For I felt like the principal actor preparing himself for his entrance, reviewing all the possibilities, not to say subtleties, recapitulating what he had to do and say, going through his lines again and mentally rehearsing his movements, while nonchalantly watching the others engaged in their own supposedly secret preparations. I was surprised at my nonchalance as I stood by the gateway reviewing my role in the drama, which suddenly seemed to be no longer new but to have been rehearsed hundreds, if not thousands, of times already. I know this drama inside out, I thought. I had no qualms about the lines I had to speak — they would come automatically. The steps I had to take and my manual movements were all so perfectly rehearsed that I had no need to give any thought to how I should perform them to the best effect. I’ve come from Rome to play the chief role in this tragedy, I thought, forgoing none of the shameless enjoyment this thought afforded me. I’ll give a good performance, I thought. It did not occur to me that I was a thoroughly contemptible character who was quite unaware of the baseness of his present behavior. This play, this tragedy, is centuries old, I thought, and everything enacted in it will be more or less automatic. The main actor will be surprised to find how well it all goes off, how well the rest of the cast have learned and practiced their lines, for I had no doubt that my sisters and all the others who were probably waiting for me were likewise running through their parts and had no wish to make fools of themselves in front of the audience of mourners by fluffing their lines or stumbling onstage. I was convinced that they had set their hearts on giving a highly professional, not an amateurish performance, for we know that the art of the funeral, above all in country districts, is the highest form of histrionics imaginable and that at funerals even the simplest people display a mastery far superior to anything found in our theaters, where amateurism usually prevails. My sisters will be walking up and down, rehearsing this funeral not just as a drama, I thought, but as a gala performance. And the wine cork manufacturer from Freiburg, also a member of the cast, is going through his part too, though it can’t be more than a bit part. They’re walking up and down, waiting for me to arrive and rehearsing this tragedy, which has suddenly been inserted into the Wolfsegg theater schedule. The funeral will be tomorrow, I thought; it’s always three days after the death. The curtain has not yet gone up. The costumes are not yet quite right, I thought, and the lines don’t yet come trippingly off the tongue. And what is more beautiful than a drama in which all the costumes are black, in which black is the dominant color? And in which all the extras from the village appear in black? We haven’t had this drama at Wolfsegg for ages, not since my paternal grandfather tripped over the root of a fir tree behind the Children’s Villa and died instantly at the age of eighty-nine. My family has always been