I sat near him in his study, my eyes heavy, but any idea of sleep was out of the question, for the doctor was buzzing about like a frantic bee. Shock, anger, joy, indignation, fury, and a feverish desire to understand crowded together to occupy all of his possibilities of expression, so that the poor man felt the need to slap his head, utter sighs and groans, take dancing steps about the room, pronounce imprecations and evolve yet another new theory, all at the same time. We had been there for hours, and the manservant who had brought us tea and then prepared a light dinner had long since gone to bed, but Dr Bernstein’s state would not admit of his stopping for a moment. It was a Sunday, and he had had no patients, and our work and discussion had been going on for hours, interrupted only by meals over which he asked me ever more questions, and reminisced with increasing openness about the past. Alerted by my telegram – in which, in order to be certain of his immediate reaction, I had included the words ‘Lydia Krieger found’ – the doctor had come to fetch me at the Basel railway station, and the sight of the emotion painted upon his bearded face as he recognised me erased any impulse I might normally have had to respect the social conventions by preceding the moment of revelation with lengthy formal greetings.
