Erik Dorn

wore a white beard, and his eyes, grown small with age, watered continually as if he were weeping

ariness had increased. It reached like a caress into his mind. Thoughts no longer formed themselves in the silences of his hours. Instead, a gentl

pt for his hands. Resting on his thighs, his twig-like hands remained forever awake, the

his eyes and occupying his clothes. His attitude remained unchanged except for a quickened movement of his fingers. Life retur

ut he stared at their flowing outlines and at moments was rewarded by a glimpse of a face-a featureless little glint of white in the shadows: dark shadows

that dropped into his heart. His cold thin fingers continued their fluttering. "Mixed up, mixed up," said the night. "Dark," said the shadows. And the years spoke

rn, still alive a

ded and a woman's voice cal

t's chilly ou

n he heard Erik, his son,

be. He's making l

d Erik's wife. "I can't bear

f, "Poor child, poor child." Better a half-hour under the cold, amused eyes of his son, Erik. There was something between Erik and him, something like an unspoken argument. To Anna he was a pathetic little old man to be nursed, coddled, defended against chills and indigestions, "poor child, poor child." But Erik l

s in a corner of the room he could smile at Erik and his smile under the white beard seemed to give an answer to the mumble-an answer that irritated his

s infirmities were no more than m