The note with which the old man invited the girl to another meeting was written a few days later, much sooner than he had imagined when he went to bed that night. He wrote to her with a smile on his face, satisfied with himself. He flattered himself that the second meeting would be even more fruitful in pleasure. Instead it was exactly like the first. When he dismissed the girl he was as cautious as before and arranged once more that she should come to him next when he sent for her. He invited her to the third meeting even more quickly, but the parting was the same. He never brought himself to arrange the next meeting at once. For the old man was always happy, both when he sent for the girl and when he dismissed her, that is, when he meant to return to the path of virtue. If, when he dismissed the girl, he had arranged the next meeting at once, this return to virtue would have been less genuine. In this way there was no idea of compromise, and his life remained orderly and virtuous with the exception of a very brief interval.
There would be little more for us to say about the interviews, if, after a time, the old man had not been seized with an insane jealousy—insane not for its violence, but for its strangeness. This is how it was. It did not appear when he wrote to the girl, because that was the moment when he was taking her away from the others; nor when he said good-bye to her, because that was the moment when he gave her over, willing and whole, to the others. In his case jealousy was inseparable from love, in space and time. Love was revived by it, and the adventure became more “real” than ever. A bliss and a pain indescribable. At a certain moment he became obsessed with the idea that the girl certainly had other lovers, all as young as he was old. He grieved over it for his own sake (oh, so much!), but also for hers, since she could thus throw away all hope of a decent life. It would be disastrous if she trusted others as she had trusted him. His own sin played its part in his jealousy. That is why, in order to make up for his own bad example, the old man habitually preached morality at the very moment when he was making love. He explained to her all the dangers of promiscuous love.
The girl protested that she had but one love, for himself. “Well,” cried the old man, ennobled at one and the same time by love and morality, “if, in your desire to return to virtue, you had to decide not to see me again, I should be delighted.” Here the girl made no answer, and for good reasons. For her the adventure was so clear that it was impossible for her to lie, as he did. She must not break off that relationship for the moment. It was also easy to keep silence when he was covering her with kisses. But when he gave vent to feelings more sincere and talked of other lovers, accusing her of having them, she found words again: How could he believe it? In the first place, she only went through the streets of the town on her tram, and besides, her mother kept an eye on her, and lastly, nobody wanted her, poor thing! And down fell a couple of tears. It was bad reasoning to use so many arguments, but in the meantime love and jealousy disappeared from the old man and she could go back to her supper.
This will show how old men regularly function. With young men each single hour is filled irregularly with the most diverse feelings, whereas with old men every feeling has its hour complete. The young girl fell in with the old man’s ways. When he wanted her, she came; she went off when he had done with her. If they differed, they ended by making love and eating afterwards in the best of humours.
Perhaps the old man ate and drank too much. He was anxious to show off his strength.
I do not wish to imply that that is why the old man fell ill. Obviously an excessive number of years is more dangerous than an excess of wine, or of food or even of love. It may be that one of these excesses aggravated another, but it is not for me to assert even as much as that.