Moreover it is late, it is time for bed/ And he fondled
the man's thick, dusty hair; 'Come back, it is time
for bed/ he persuaded.
But at this Anfos gazed at him almost sternly, and
when he spoke his voice sounded accusing: The
words!3 he said loudly, The words! the words!
Master, where are the words? Why will you not
speak them?5
Christophe shivered and pushed him roughly away:
"What words? I tell you they do not exist!3 And
panic-stricken he fled in his turn, leaving Anfos
alone in the darkening workshop.
But dreadful as were those discordant evenings,
there were times when the days seemed almost more
dreadful, when Christophe, now no longer at school,
must try to invent fictitious tasks in a fruitless effort
to soothe his father. For Jouse would have the boy
at his side although one pair of hands had become
one too many, and observing his son's pretence of
work he would often speak with great bitterness, as
though venting his anger and pain upon him: cHo,
ho, you are very busy, my son, we prosper, my Christo-
phe is very busy. He appears to be whittling a little
stick, or perhaps he is making a little whistle! Ho,
Anfos, why are you wasting your time? Come and
help, this task is too heavy for Christophe.'
One morning he looked up from his bench with a
grin: 'My son, here is something well worth your
attention. Observe how I smooth the sides of this hole,
observe the graceful curve of this hole, and its smooth-
ness — not a notch in the deal, not a splinter. Fine
work for a cabinet-maker, ah, yes, this is fine work
indeed—-such great skill is needed! Do I hear you
say that your father makes beds? Do you say that
your father makes oak chairs and tables and cupboards
and chests? Is that what you say? because if so you
lie, you lie, my son; your father makes .deal seats for