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I looked out from the balcony into the
neighbouring yard: there was not a soul to be
seen, but children had been playing there.
There was a little garden made of dry sticks:
they were stuck down in the soft soil and had
been watered; a broken pan, which had
certainly served by way of watering-pot, lay
there still. The sticks signified roses and
geraniums.
It had been a delightful garden – alas, yes!
We great, grown-up men – we play just so: we
make ourselves a garden with what we call
love’s roses and friendship’s geraniums; we
water them with our tears and with our heart’s
blood; and yet they are, and remain, dry sticks
without root. It was a gloomy thought; I felt
it, and in order to get the dry sticks in my
thoughts to blossom, I went out. I wandered in
the fibres and in the long threads – that is to
say, in the small lanes – and in the great street;
and here was more life than I dared to expect.
I met a herd of cattle returning or going – which
I know not – for they were without a herdsman.
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