Apollonius stood before his father and could not speak for pain.  He had long known that his father was blind and had often pictured him to himself in sorrowful thought.  At such times he had seen him looking as usual, only with a shield over his eyes.  He had thought of him sitting or leaning on old Valentine, but never as he now saw him, the tall figure helpless as a child, the trembling and uncertain hands feeling their way.  Now he knew for the first time what it meant to be blind.

Valentine laid the shears down and laughed or cried on his knees; it could not be said what he did.  The old gentleman first inclined his head to one side as if listening, then he pulled himself together.  Apollonius saw that his father felt his blindness to be something of which he must be ashamed.  He saw how the old man exerted himself to avoid every movement that might recall the fact that he was blind.  The old gentleman felt that the new-comer was somewhere near him.  But where?  On which side?  Apollonius understood that his father felt this uncertainty with shame, and forced himself to cry with a voice that almost failed him.  “Father!  Dear father!” He dropped on his knees beside the old man and wanted to throw both arms around him.  His father made a motion which seemed to beg for forbearance, though it was only intended to keep the young man away from him.  Apollonius threw the arms his father had refused around his own breast to hold the pain there which, if it had risen and crossed his lips, would have betrayed to his father how deeply he felt the latter’s misery.  The same consideration made old Valentine turn his involuntary motion to help the old gentleman to stand upright, into a movement to pick up the shears which lay between him and his master.  He too wanted to hide from the son what could not be hidden, so faithfully and deeply had he learned to live in the father’s feelings.

The old gentleman had risen and held out his hand to his son much as if the latter had been absent as many days as he had been years.  “You must be tired and hungry!  I am somewhat troubled with my eyes—­but it is of no consequence.  As regards the business, talk to Fritz.  I have given it up.  I want to have peace.  But that is not the real reason; young people must become independent some time.  It makes them more eager to work.”

He came a step nearer his son.  He seemed to be carrying on a struggle within himself.  He wanted to say something which no one should hear except his son.  But he was silent.  Why did he suppress what he wanted to say?  Did it concern the business, or the honor of the house?  And did he know or suspect that the one who was now responsible for both in his place was standing leaning against the gate of the little garden and could hear what he said to the new-comer, or, if he spoke secretly to him, could at least see that he did so?  Was this why he had had Apollonius called home from abroad?  And did the expression of a “why” now still seem to him incompatible with his position?