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Pavilion. Once more he had exchanged his elegant English socks and the shoes by Magli or Rossetti or Janko for the coarse white woolen stockings and thick felt slippers that were standard issue in the Ludwig Pavilion. And he had already undergone a course of electroconvulsive therapy, which, after being discharged from Steinhof, he would describe to me in all its atrocious and inhuman detail, though not without a touch of irony and sarcasm. He was always admitted to Steinhof when the safety of those around him could no longer be ensured, when he suddenly startedthreatening to kill people and announcing his intention of shooting or strangling his own brothers. He would be released when he had been utterly destroyed by the megalomaniac doctors, when hardly anything stirred in him any longer and he could barely raise his head, let alone his voice. He would then retire to the Traunsee, where the family still owns a number of properties dotted about between the woods, by wonderful inlets, at the heads of glorious valleys, or on the tops of mountains—villas and farms, outbuildings and shooting lodges, where the Wittgensteins still take time off from the somewhat disagreeable routine dictated by their wealth. The Ludwig Pavilion was now Paul’s
residence
. And I suddenly hesitated, wondering whether it was really wise to establish a link between the Ludwig Pavilion and the Hermann Pavilion, whether it might not do both of us more harm than good. For who knows, I thought, what state he’s really in? Perhaps he’s in a state that can only be harmful to me, in which case it’s better not to visit him for the time being. I won’t establish a link between the Hermann Pavilion and the Ludwig Pavilion. And if I did make an appearance in the Ludwig Pavilion, I thought, especially a surprise appearance, it might have a devastating effect on my friend too. I was suddenly scared of seeing him, and I thought of letting our friend Irina decide whether or not it was advisable to make contact between the Hermann Pavilion and the Ludwig Pavilion. But I immediately abandoned the idea, not wishing to involve Irina in any difficulties that might arise from whatever she decided. But at present I don’t have the strength to walk across to the Ludwig Pavilion, I thought. So I abandoned the idea, since itstruck me as
too absurd
. After all, there’s no knowing whether Paul might not turn up
here
one day without warning. It’s quite possible, I thought, since our garrulous friend Irina’s told him I’m here in the Hermann Pavilion. And I was actually scared that this might happen. What if he suddenly turned up here in the Hermann Pavilion, I thought, in this strictly run ward
dedicated to death
, wearing his madman’s garb, his madman’s slippers, and his madman’s shirt, jacket, and pants? I was afraid. I did not know how I should meet him, how I should receive him and deal with him. It’d be easier for him to visit me, I thought, than for me to visit him. If he’s at all mobile, he’ll be the first to make a move. Whatever the circumstances, such a visit is bound to end in calamity, I thought. I tried to repress the idea and think of something else, but of course I did not succeed. The possibility of Paul’s coming to visit me became a nightmare. I felt that at any moment the door might open and Paul might come in, doing his madman act. I had visions of the attendants finding him here, putting him into a straitjacket, and driving him back to Steinhof with their rubber truncheons. I became obsessed with these dreadful visions. He’s reckless enough, I told myself, to make the mistake of crawling under the fence and running into the Hermann Pavilion, then flinging himself on my bed and embracing me. When he was in a so-called critical condition he would rush up to people and hug them so tightly that they thought they would suffocate, crying his heart out as he did so. I was