Countess, please, perhaps a bit more gravy.
Which was a warning to the maids not to stand around staring but to make another round with the gravy bowls, and mainly a signal for her husband that it was high time to find another topic for table talk.
Oh, yes, Baroness, yes, please, you’re very kind.
Karla, dear, wouldn’t you like a bit more of this tasty sauce. Pass this to the baroness, will you. Our cook makes this exceptionally well. We’ll let the ladies have the recipe, unless of course you are already familiar with it.
Would love to have it, who could refuse such a generous offer.
Isn’t this the natural way, Countess. I can’t bear secret recipes.
Why should a recipe be kept secret.
Baroness Thum, however, rudely motioned to the maid that she could go, should not even come close with the disgustingly thick gravy.
And, as if happy about the unexpected silence and attention that she managed to provoke with her impoliteness, she turned toward Countess Imola and said loudly that she had known old Milton Bradley, he was a great mind, a great scientist, and a fascinating man.*
Schuer quickly and very expertly expressed astonishment.
Karla, you don’t say, I really had no idea you knew him.
They played this irksome little game all the time; to test the other, to see whether he or she could see the other’s closely held cards and, if possible, find a way to deceive each other. They could gauge the status of their altercation by the irritation shown on the other’s face. The goal was to drown the rival in a sea of contradictory information. This time, however, Schuer pretended to be surprised so he could come to his wife’s aid and shunt the table talk onto a different track, the conversation that he himself had initiated and steered so incautiously in its present direction. His wife did not appreciate scientific discussions at her table. With her good bourgeois attitude, she disdained miserable scientists anyway, had nothing but contempt for all of them, no matter how famous. They could impress her, at most, with their wealth. They always began talking innocently enough, but within a few minutes they would either speechify heatedly or arrive at details she did not consider it proper to hear.
Especially at the table, least of all at the table.
But, dear Otmar, I even told you about their summer home in Wyoming built right next to a loud rushing mountain creek.
How could you be so forgetful, Otmar.
But more important than anything else, he was among the first ones, perhaps the very first, to pay attention to the characteristics of pigmentation, those finely shaded differences. Indeed, in the process of definition one can grade the differences infinitely, and this is what enables us to describe racial peculiarities. If we are initiating the countess into our little professional secrets, I think we shouldn’t keep these details from her. The primary differences show up in the color of hair or skin or even eyes, and in a measurable way, provided one has determined the appropriate means and method of measuring. He could not have known it, old Milton. He did not find it. But I do know, because I have found it. He worked with, as it were, sensory methods.
He simply described what he saw on the skin. He had moving words for it.
If you study these details, Karla, I can say that you actually catch creation at its constitutional, or immanent, work. That’s what he said to me, verbatim. Now, please, you may imagine I was very interested in this, in catching creation doing its constitutional work. I’d say nothing could interest me more. This is how old Milton gave a religious or esoteric dimension to the issue, so we wouldn’t stand helpless in the face of creation. I was fascinated by him, by his America, by his world. Because of their Negroes, Americans can’t avoid posing these questions. You can see it for yourself, Karla. All human beings are put together of the same materials, but each one differently because of his or her particular line of heredity. We have to admit that the entire completed work cries out for an esoteric interpretation. The countess should also know that Bradley was of course interested primarily in bastards.
He examined things by looking at them from the wrong side, as it were. He’d notice a crude difference between two things for which he had no explanation. Well, he would say, let’s see what happens when these other different elements are intermixed.
And now she chuckled just as her boss had done earlier — a sign that, again, only she and her boss understood around the table.
Bradley could not have — please forgive me, Otmar, for arguing with you — but he could not have provided a definitive explanation and neither can we, she continued, wiping tears away. A person can have at best a definable idea. That’s the extent of one’s science.
Finding a trail in the jungle and following it.
Today the baroness discourses about philosophical questions of science in a very sentimental frame of mind.
Oh, not at all, answered Karla pensively; her response caused such a deep silence around the table that the gentle rustling of the maple trees could be heard.
Despite Bradley’s paternal advice, I decided I had better start out on a trail I’d found myself, not found by others, she continued quietly a moment later.
Karla, that’s a very heroic statement coming from you, Schuer exclaimed; now he wanted to end the scientific discussion yet was happy they were showing the countess their spiritual teases and professional tussles.
You’re making fun of me, Otmar.
On the contrary, I admire your insight.
An eye, as you know, has a definite cross section. It can be sliced in two; one can make up to fifty sections. That’s all. I’ve gone further than others in distinguishing among the parts, en tous cas. Nothing has interested me except these sections, she continued dryly; she was enjoying her scientific superiority.
I had no other ideas, but at least I had this one.
She was happy at least to have come between the other two, however briefly.
The sections gave more differential answers than old Milton’s exemplary literary descriptions.
But I don’t necessarily deserve credit, she cried.
Credit and scientific achievement do not necessarily go hand in hand anyway, Karla, Schuer remarked, if only for the sake of balance.
That’s correct, the baroness replied contentedly.
Schuer let her have this set of the match because he knew what still lay in wait for her.
Then there was another quiet spell, with all of them silent as people are when they turn inward for brief reflection. Baroness Karla had managed to wedge herself between them, which not only made their feeling of belonging together painful, but also called their attention to what they had done, and made them realize that because of Karla they would never again be this close, so innocently and unconsciously.
And who knows what else might have happened to them in this seemingly calm moment if it were not for the cry of pain.
Sieglinde shouted out a surprisingly short cry, like a strong groan of mental anguish, and everyone looked at her in surprise. As if they were acknowledging her personal existence for the first time, as she sat there in her dark-blue puff-sleeved little dress trimmed with rickrack.
She kicked me, cried the little boy, beside himself, by way of explanation.
Because he pinched me, the little girl said, and her cheeks flooded with tears, tears of moral outrage, he’s so mean, so mean, always mean like this.
But her self-discipline was functioning very well indeed; she spared them the sounds of crying.
Which made the little boy lose his inhibitions, and he began shouting desperately, she was the mean one, how could she be so mean, she should be ashamed because it was just the other way around, she was the mean, evil one.