“And how did you live then?” asked Ursula.
He looked at her—then, suddenly, at Gudrun.
“Do you understand?” he asked.
“Enough,” she replied.
Their eyes met for a moment. Then he looked away. He would say no more.
“And how did you become a sculptor?” asked Ursula.
“How did I become a sculptor—” he paused. “ Dunque—” he resumed, in a changed manner, and beginning to speak French—“I became old enough—I used to steal from the market-place. Later I went to work—imprinted the stamp on clay bottles, before they were baked. It was an earthenware-bottle factory. There I began making models. One day, I had had enough. I lay in the sun and did not go to work. Then I walked to Munich—then I walked to Italy—begging, begging everything.”
“The Italians were very good to me—they were good and honou
