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Timy?”
    â€œSure.”
    â€œMaybe I’ll be a little late tonight, Timy.”
    â€œAwright, Danny. But show up.”
    â€œO. K., Timy.”

T HE MUSIC MASTER’S playing grew softer and softer, until only a suggestion of the melody came into the room underneath, where the poet sat with Anna. At last, they listened to the wavering strains without considering who was playing.
    Anna put her head on the poet’s breast and forgot. He smoothed her light hair, moved his lips over her face. He said:
    â€œDo you know, Anna, what tonight is?”
    â€œI’m happy.”
    â€œFor us, it’s the night of all nights. Do you understand, my darling? Until tonight, I was dying. But I’m not afraid now. I won’t be afraid.”
    â€œYou won’t die.”
    â€œNo, I won’t, my Anna. Now I know that. Do you know what we’ll do?—go someplace where the air is clean and thin, where I can stay alive and be better. We’ll work and write. Would you like people to say, ‘There’s the wife of a great man’?”
    â€œIt would be nice.”
    â€œWe’ll have children, Anna. You know, tonight I was thinking of how much just a small life can hold. And I always come to the same picture. There’s a giant of a fire in a big stone fireplace, with the flames flickering all over the room. Beams overhead, and beyond the beams deep shadows. And a deep rug before the fire. You sit there—perhaps you knit. I have the picture, light running from your hair, and shadows all over your face. You see, your head is bent a little to look at your knitting …”
    She laughed and buried her head deeper; he could feel her whole body trembling with her laughter. Her whisper came, muffled: “I couldn’t be happier then, Johnny.”
    â€œYou would—”
    â€œDo we have many children, Johnny?”
    â€œThree, four—too many?”
    â€œNever too many.” She glanced up, kissed him, and whispered: “What else do you see, Johnny?”
    â€œStill you. I sit on the other side of the fire, but I can’t take my eyes from you. You are beautiful—”
    â€œHe’s stopped playing.”
    â€œDon’t be afraid.”
    â€œNo, no, but I’d better go to him for a while. Then I’ll be back, later, I promise you. I’ll have everything ready. I promise you.”
    â€œAll right.”
    Then she was gone, and Edwards sat without moving, looking at the window where the snowflakes appeared like spots of light from the dark. Then he took his diary, wrote:
    â€œTonight seems as long as all the time I’ve lived, perhaps because I’ve abandoned a philosophy, found a new one. Anna told me I’ll live, and I believe her. I wonder why it took me so long to discover what the priest knew all the time.
    â€œI’ve been chasing shadows for too long, and now it’s almost too late—but not entirely. Anna loves me. I know that, and I know that I love her. All that is real, and out of it I shall make a real life.
    â€œI don’t know where we’ll go—but somewhere where life depends upon work, work with one’s body. Where I can make things over.
    â€œNow I’m tired, but I can’t stay here any more. I’ll go out, walk for a while in the snow, and when I come back, Anna will be there, waiting.”
    But when he put the diary away, he knew that he wouldn’t write in it many times more. Already, he was able to smile at what he had written.

A NNA,” he said. “Is that you, Anna? Do I hear you?”
    â€œYes—but put on a light, Claus!”
    From the door, she heard the music master turn in the piano-seat, and now he could see her where she was, standing, a dark, slim figure against the light, her skirt flowing out from her narrow waist, her small straight shoulders. He smiled, gently, easily, while one hand reached back to caress the keys of the piano. A