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Updated: June 29, 2025
As for Bernardine, she had to look at Robert Allitsen several times to be sure that he was the same Robert Allitsen she had known two hours ago in Petershof. But she made no remark, and showed no surprise, but met his merriness half way. No one could be a cheerier companion than herself when she chose. At last they arrived at Loschwitz.
"Perhaps you are still at work, or perhaps you are resting." He shrugged his shoulders, and the two comrades fell into silence again. They were within two miles of Petershof, when he broke the silence: there was something wonderfully gentle in his voice. "You little thing," he said, "we are nearing home, and I have something to ask you.
If you are sad and disappointed, you will find shining comfort there. It is not all sadness in Petershof. In the silent snow forests, if you dig the snow away, you will find the tiny buds nestling in their white nursery. If the sun does not dazzle your eyes, you may always see the great mountains piercing the sky. These wonders have been a happiness to me.
He who prided himself upon knowing the names of all the guests in Petershof, made the most absurd mistakes about people and letters too; and received in acknowledgment of his stupidity a series of scoldings which would have unnerved a stronger person than the little hunchback postman.
Reffold wants me. I can't leave her alone, for she is so miserable." The Disagreeable Man shrugged his shoulders, and went of by himself. Mrs. Reffold clung very much to Bernardine those last days before she left Petershof. She had decided to go to Wiesbaden, where she had relations; and she invited Bernardine to go with her: it was more than that, she almost begged her. Bernardine refused.
It was said that on more than one occasion he had nursed the suffering and the dying in sad Petershof, and, with all the sorrowful tenderness worthy of a loving mother, had helped them to take their leave of life. But these were only rumours, and there was nothing in Robert Allitsen's ordinary bearing to justify such talk.
"There is only one man my intellectual equal in Petershof, and he is not here any more," he said gravely. "Now I come to remember, he died. That is the worst of making friendships here; people die." "Still, it is something to be left king of the intellectual world," said Bernardine. "I never thought of you in that light."
But the girl who had passed the Yorkshire relish sat silent and listless, her food untouched, and her wine untasted. She was small and thin; her face looked haggard. She was a new-comer, and had, indeed, arrived at Petershof only two hours before the table-d'hôte bell rang.
But that might be the description of any one in Petershof. There was nothing pathetic about him, no suggestion even of poetry, which gives a reverence to suffering, whether mental or physical. As there was no expression on his face, so also there was no expression in his eyes: no distant longing, no far-off fixedness; nothing, indeed, to awaken sad sympathy.
Petershof, and still others at smaller towns in England and the Netherlands each having its peculiar privileges, customs, and mercantile usages, but all possessing in common the invaluable right of settling any difficulty affecting the members of the league according to their own native code.
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