So I always got fairly quickly over such attacks of depression.
There was a light knock on the door. I went across and opened.
Hasse was standing outside.
I put a finger to my lips and went out into the passage.
"Excuse me," he stammered.
"Come into my room," said I and opened the door.
Hasse stopped on the threshold.
His face seemed to have become smaller.
It was white as chalk.
"I only wanted to tell you, we don't need to go out any more," said he almost without moving his lips.
"It's all right, come in," I replied. "Fraulein Holl-mann's asleep, I have time."
He had a letter in his hand and looked like a man who had been shot but still imagined it had been only a blow.
"You read it, if you don't mind," said he and handed me the letter.
"Have you had coffee yet?" I asked.
He shook his head.
"Read the letter—"
I went out and gave Frida the order.
Then I read the letter.
It was from Frau Hasse and consisted of a few lines.
She informed him that she meant to get something out of life still, so she was not coming back any more.
There was somebody who understood her better than Hasse.
It was no use his trying to do anything about it; she wouldn't come back under any circumstances.
It was best for him too probably.
He wouldn't have to worry any more now if his salary was enough or not.
She had taken part of her things—she would collect the rest when it was convenient.
It was a clear, matter-of-fact letter.
I folded it and gave it back to Hasse.
He looked at me as if everything depended on me.
"What should I do?" he asked.
"First of all drink this cup, and then have something to eat," said I. "There's no point running around and knocking yourself up.
Then we'll think about it.
You must try and get quite calm, then you'll make the best decision."
Obediently he emptied the cup.
His hand shook and he could eat nothing.
"What shall I do?" he asked again.
"Nothing at all," said I. "Wait."
He made a movement.
"What do you want to do, then?" I asked.
"I don't know.
I can't grasp it."
I said nothing.
It was difficult to say anything to him.
One could only reassure him; the rest he must find for himself.
He did not love the woman any more, that was obvious—but he was used to her, and for a bookkeeper habit can be more than love.
After a while he started to talk, confused stuff that only showed how he was shaken.
Then he began blaming himself.
He did not say one word against his wife. He only tried to make it quite clear that the fault was his.
"Hasse," said I, "what you're saying is just nonsense.
In these things there is neither guilt nor innocence.
Your wife has left you, not you her.