Muse: An Autumn Romance
by Christopher Huang (1998)
Genres: Religious
Romance
Historical

Early September, 1886. Autumn. The Victorian Era. The Rev. Dawson, 59, is off to the Continent and an unexpected Romance...

action: %
response: MUSE: An Autumn Romance

The late summer of 1886 found me on the continent for the purpose of regaining my health and spirits. These had been in decline for the past few months, and it was Dr Thorne's suggestion that the best cure for me might be a change of scenery. A short stay in Ramsgate, perhaps. Or better yet, a visit to the Alps in France or Switzerland, where the fresh mountain air would do me no end of good.

I had declined at first to do any such thing. I was, after all, a staid, solid clergyman of 59 years, mature enough to weather any foolish fluctuations of temper. Besides which, these frivolities cost money.

The doctor's recommendation eventually reached the ears of my dear sister Emma, however, and she immediately took up the task of convincing me of the necessity of such a trip. But it was not until I obtained news about relatively inexpensive alpine destinations that I relented, and found myself packed off to the continent for a month.

The month's sojourn improved my health tremendously. However, without the distraction of my usual work, I found the mountains did little to raise my spirits. And so I made my journey homeward in a state of mute distraction, even as the first brilliance of Autumn began to make itself known among the trees.

All in all, it had been a smooth and uneventful trip, but for a slight pause at the channel. This was at a small French coastal village from which I chose to make my crossing, it being less expensive than the usual ferry at Calais. Here I stopped for a meal at the local inn, and then waited as my trunk was transferred from the train to pier where the boatman was waiting.

It was only a minor pause....

MUSE: An Autumn Romance

(Please type "help" for background and documentation.)

The pier stretched out into the cold waters of the English Channel from the village east of here. Overhead, I could hear the gulls swoop and cry. The brisk seaside air blew in my face, carrying with it the scent of salt. Far away, across the waves, the white cliffs of Dover could barely be seen in the grey clouded light.

My trusty old steamer trunk lay here.

A fishing boat was moored beside the pier and its boatman was waiting.
action: About yourself
response: Rev Stephen Dawson, vicar of St Swithin's in the diocese of Barchester. I was 59, an Anglican clergyman and a confirmed bachelor. I wore my clerical collar out of both duty and habit, and my hair and whiskers were grey with respectability. My clothes were old and my cuffs were frayed, but as I so often told my sister Emma, sometimes the old things are by far the best.
action: You look at what you're carrying with you
response: I had on my person the following items:
my pocket New Testament
action: You examine Testament
response: Stop.

From the corner of my eye, I saw her. Like an angel descended from heaven, she stood on the cobbles at the other end of the pier. Her head was partially turned away from me; I caught a flash of a delicate throat and lustrous chestnut-brown hair....
action: You examine the Testament
response: Time stood still, arrested by her presence. I had no desire to move, lest I lose sight of her. For an aching second, her parasol shielded her face from my sight.
action: You examine the woman
response: The old German gentleman, whom I recognised from the train, walked slowly up. She had been waiting for him. They walked together off towards the inn, and I lost sight of them.

I was suddenly brought back to earth by the boatman's voice. "Monsieur, we must go now."
action: You enter the boat
response: Well, I could hardly leave without my trunk, could I?
action: You examine the trunk
response: I'd had this old steamer trunk since my college days. It had always served me well.
action: You take the trunk
response: Oh, but the trunk was heavy! I managed to lift it just high enough for the purpose of moving it around, but I was getting far too old for this sort of thing.
action: You check your inventory
response: I had on my person the following items:
my trunk (which was closed)
my pocket New Testament

The boatman began to show signs of impatience.
action: You enter boat
response: I was 59, not 29, and the trunk was unwieldy. I couldn't possibly get in the boat while carrying the trunk myself.

"Monsieur, I cannot wait. Tomorrow." And with that, the boatman turned, and set out across the channel.
action: You enter the boat
response: I was 59, not 29, and the trunk was unwieldy. I couldn't possibly get in the boat while carrying the trunk myself.
action: You take the trunk
response: "Pardon, Monsieur?" The boatman seemed to have been thrown into a state of utter linguistic confusion.
action: You give the trunk to the boatman
response: I passed the trunk to the boatman, who loaded it carefully on the boat.

The boatman began to show signs of impatience.
action: You enter boat
response: Sighing, I got into the boat and took a seat. As we set out across the waves, I realized how much I dreaded looking back, lest I catch sight of her once more ... knowing that if I did, my heart would probably burst....

"Stephen, do cheer up."

Emma's voice was laced with concern. I didn't know what to tell her, what to say.... I was 59. A mature, respectable clergyman of conservative tastes. Could I say that I'd fallen in love, in the space of a second, with the merest glimpse of a lady less than half my age?

Could I? I don't know.

I can't concentrate on my work. When I close my eyes, all I can see is that shimmering angel at the other end of the pier....

And I wonder....
action: Look around
response: The pier stretched out into the cold waters of the English Channel from the village east of here. Overhead, I could hear the gulls swoop and cry. The brisk seaside air blew in my face, carrying with it the scent of salt. Far away, across the waves, the white cliffs of Dover could barely be seen in the grey clouded light.

My trusty old steamer trunk lay here.

A fishing boat was moored beside the pier and its boatman was waiting.
action: You go away
response: "Pardon, Monsieur?" The boatman seemed to have been thrown into a state of utter linguistic confusion.
action: You are bad at the customer service and i no longer wish to employ your services
response: BOATMAN, YOU ARE BAD AT CUSTOMER SERVICE AND I NO LONGER WISH TO EMPLOY YOUR SERVICES

"Pardon, Monsieur?" The boatman seemed to have been thrown into a state of utter linguistic confusion.
action: Hit boatman
response: Violence was not the answer to this one.

The boatman began to show signs of impatience.
action: Kiss boatman
response: A hundred years from now, when the world goes through the sexual revolution and women get ordained in the Anglican church, then maybe.

"Monsieur, I cannot wait. Tomorrow." And with that, the boatman turned, and set out across the channel.
action: Go east
response: This wide cobblestone square marked the heart of the little village. A large well stood in its centre, obviously the focal point of local day-to-day life. To the east stood the church of St Pierre, a small grey stone building with its doors invitingly open. A salt breeze blew from the pier to the west, and the cobbles continued southwards to an open terrace and the village inn. The north side was lined with commercial buildings, including a telegraph office.

A young gentleman stood in front of an easel, trying to paint a landscape.
action: You look at the painting
response: The painting looked like an excellent piece of work, to my untrained eye. I wondered why the young artist seemed so unenthusiastic about it.
action: You look at the man
response: The young artist was a tall, fine-looking fellow, if a bit threadbare and underfed. His clothes were stained with oil paint. He was currently attempting a painting, but the worried look in his eyes suggested little hope of success. A sketchbook peeked out from one capacious pocket.
action: Hug man
response: Not in this day and age!
action: You ask the man about the painting
response: It would have hardly been proper or polite to begin without introductions. For all I knew, he might not understand a word of English, and I was hardly conversant in French.
action: Hello
response: "Pleased to meet you. I'm John Austin. I've got a room above the newsagent's for the season, but the way things are going I might have to stay here for the Autumn and Winter as well. Economy, you know."
action: You ask the man about the painting
response: "It ... it's not really working. I have this dream of ... of perfection, and, I don't know, my heart's just not in it."
action: You ask the man about the sketchbook
response: "Oh, it's nothing. Just something I use to sketch things and ideas in, whenever the inclination hits me."
action: Sketch woman
response: John shook his head. "I'd rather not, really."
action: You go south
response: The cobbles from the north widened out here into a terrace outside the inn to the south. A low stone wall to the west overlooked the beach some twenty feet below. Hugging the wall, a steep and narrow flight of stone steps led down to the sand. Opposite, another high wall defined the eastern side of the terrace, broken only by a small wrought-iron gate.
action: Go south
response: The lobby of the inn was small and dim, but seemed respectable enough. A desk sat in a corner where guests might check in or out, and stairs led up to the rooms. Through a doorway to the east, the modest dining hall and public house could be seen.

Rene, the innkeeper, stood by the door.

The old German gentleman leaned on his cane nearby.

The young lady was saying something to the German. Listening, I heard her addressing him as "Papa". So he was her father after all ... the sense of relief that I felt was overwhelming. Could I possibly be in love? It was ridiculous: I was far too old for that sort of thing.

There had to be a logical reason for the way I felt. I should probably extend my stay by a day or two ... establish a friendship with the beautiful young lady and her father ... propose....

No, wait, that wasn't right. I wasn't sure what to think. But I was sure of one thing: my heart would break if she should so much as shed a single tear....
action: You ask Rene about the rooms
response: "Certainly, Monsieur ... here, let us put you in number 3, overlooking the channel. It is good, no?"
action: Yes
response: That was a rhetorical question.
action: Go upwards
response: A narrow and dimly lit hallway ran the length of the building from the stairway at the south to a door (labelled with the number 2) at the north. The walls were untreated stone and, being windowless, suggested more an underground passage than an upstairs hallway. Other doors were east and west: they were labelled 1 and 3 respectively.
action: Go west
response: A small, square room, with grey stone walls and exposed rafters. Very simple, very spartan. A long, narrow bed lined one wall. An old wooden dresser stood beside it, directly under a tall casement window looking out onto the beach and the pier. The air was warm and stuffy and still in the closed room.

The musty lack of ventilation in this small, enclosed room was getting fairly uncomfortable.
action: You drop the trunk
response: I set it down.
action: You open the trunk
response: I opened the trunk, revealing my clothes.
action: You examine the clothes
response: My clothes had been neatly packed, and it would have been a shame to mess them up right now.

The musty lack of ventilation in this small, enclosed room was getting fairly uncomfortable.
action: You open the window
response: I opened the window and looked out. What's this? From my window, I could see the German gentleman hefting one of the ropes from the pier, and stealthily creeping back! Curiously, I watched him until he entered the inn. A few moments later, I heard his door across the hallway open and shut.
action: You go to the east
response: My attention was caught by the sound of wood sliding across wood, behind the door to Room 1. A moment later, the ominous clump and creak of someone climbing onto a chair.
action: You knock on the door
response: Which did I mean, the first door, the third door or the second door?
action: Go east
response: A small, square room, with grey stone walls and exposed rafters. Very simple, very spartan. A long, narrow bed lined one wall. An old wooden dresser stood beside it, directly under a tall casement window looking out onto the French countryside. The air was warm and stuffy and still in the closed room.

The old German gentleman was hanging from one of the overhead rafters. Death was but a few moments away!
action: Lift man
response: I grabbed a hold of the German gentleman by the legs and struggled to support him. His breathing was easier now, but only barely. And there was no way I could preserve his life in this manner for long!
action: Scream
response: I shouted once for help. Had anyone heard me? I wasn't sure.
action: Scream
response: I shouted again. This time, I was sure I heard running footsteps. But would they be here in time?
action: Scream
response: Again I called out. They were coming, I was sure of it.

All at once, the innkeeper burst into the room, followed by various other people whom I did not recognise. There was an uproar of shouting voices, and then the old German sagged down into my arms as someone cut down the rope. More hands, running feet....

Through the noisy hubbub, I thought I saw the young fraulein standing for a brief moment in the doorway, before turning and quickly leaving the scene.

The rest of the day was lost in the general confusion. The German gentleman was fussed over, the priest was called in to have a few words with the poor gentleman, a watch was placed outside his door to ensure he didn't attempt anything foolish later.... It was with a dizzy relief that I fell into bed later that night.

As the next morning dawned, I could only look back at those events as being vaguely unreal in their potentially tragic consequences....

Room 3 (on the bed)

My trusty old steamer trunk lay here.
action: Go east
response: I'd have to get off the bed first.
action: You get up
response: I got off the bed.

My trusty old steamer trunk lay here.
action: Go east
response: A small, square room, with grey stone walls and exposed rafters. Very simple, very spartan. A long, narrow bed lined one wall. An old wooden dresser stood beside it, directly under a tall casement window looking out onto the French countryside. The air was warm and stuffy and still in the closed room.

The old German gentleman reclined in his chair, lost in thought.
action: You talk to the man
response: We chatted a while, but soon digressed.
action: You ask the man about the suicide
response: It would have hardly been proper or polite to begin without introductions. For all I knew, he might not understand a word of English, and I had no knowledge at all of the German language.
action: Hello
response: He spoke perfect English but for a slight accent. He was Viktor Von Goethe, a widower; the young lady was his daughter Konstanza. They were here on a sort of pilgrimage. This was where he'd met his late wife, Konstanza's mother, twenty-five years ago.
action: You ask the man about the suicide
response: "I met Klara, my wife, here twenty-five years ago. I was on my way to England, and her family was on the way back ... we fell in love.... So you see I am sentimental about this little French town. In my mind, my life began here, when I met Klara. It seemed fitting that it should end here as well...."
action: Wait
response: Time passed.
action: You ask the man about the daughter
response: Herr Goethe looked away. "We have never communicated much, my daughter and I. And even less since my late wife's passing. She is, of course, an independent young lady...."
action: You open the window
response: I opened the window and looked out. From here, I found myself looking directly down into the lonely churchyard. It was a charming, if fairly morbid, view. Looking more closely, I thought I caught a glimpse of Konstanza Von Goethe wandering among the twisted churchyard trees below.
action: Go west
response: A narrow and dimly lit hallway ran the length of the building from the stairway at the south to a door (labelled with the number 2) at the north. The walls were untreated stone and, being windowless, suggested more an underground passage than an upstairs hallway. Other doors were east and west: they were labelled 1 and 3 respectively.
action: Go south
response: The lobby of the inn was small and dim, but seemed respectable enough. A desk sat in a corner where guests might check in or out, and stairs led up to the rooms. Through a doorway to the east, the modest dining hall and public house could be seen.

Rene, the innkeeper, stood by the door.

Rene waved and wished me a good morning. "It was a good thing that you were there yesterday, Monsieur Dawson. Poor Monsieur Goethe ... it is unfortunate that his room overlooks the graveyard. It will only make him think of dying again. But how to change rooms, when all the rooms are full? It is indeed difficult. And Mademoiselle Goethe ... she has gone out, for a walk, she says. But I can see she is troubled. The Goethe family is not a happy one."
action: You ask Rene about the rooms
response: "Your room is satisfactory, n'est pas?"
action: No
response: The innkeeper looked crestfallen as his moustache drooped even lower. "By some miracle, all the rooms are taken this week. But if you really wish to change rooms, you have only to say it."
action: Change rooms
response: "Of course," said Rene, sympathising, "and it would be far better for Monsieur Goethe to be put in a different room, no? I shall speak to him, and have you both transferred at once."

And with that, the good fellow bustled off, returning a few minutes later with a broad smile to tell me that it was done.
action: Go north
response: The cobbles from the north widened out here into a terrace outside the inn to the south. A low stone wall to the west overlooked the beach some twenty feet below. Hugging the wall, a steep and narrow flight of stone steps led down to the sand. Opposite, another high wall defined the eastern side of the terrace, broken only by a small wrought-iron gate.
action: You go east
response: In the true gothic-romantic spirit, twisted yew trees provided cool shade to the many simple graves that filled this quiet churchyard. To the north rose the grey stone church, its solitary outline silhouetted in the grey skies of Autumn. Its door was half-obscured by the yews, as was the small wrought-iron gate leading out to the west. Incongruously, the inn formed part of the west wall, and some of its windows looked out onto this sombre scene.

Fraulein Konstanza Von Goethe lingered nearby, quietly surveying the scene.
action: Hello
response: Her voice was like music, with a faint German accent ... "You are a friend of Papa's? I am very pleased to meet you, Herr Dawson."
action: You ask Konstanza about the father
response: "I know nothing about what Papa thinks or wants," she said, a bit stiffly, "we are ... not very close, Papa and I. But thank you all the same."

Could it be that there was some form of disharmony between Konstanza and her father? I wondered if there were anything in it, or if her relations with other family members were similarly strained.
action: You ask Konstanza about the mother
response: "Mama and I were very close, partly I suppose because Papa was away so often. She and Papa were very much in love, and they came here together last year to mark their anniversary. I did not accompany them then, as they needed the private time together."

In spite of everything, I received the impression that there was something which Konstanza was not telling me. Had I been too demanding in my questioning? It was an embarrassing idea, and yet I wondered if someone else might not be able to tell me more.
action: You ask Konstanza about the suicide
response: "I don't know why Papa would do such a thing," said Konstanza, shaking her head sadly, "he'd always been so ... so reserved, so much in control."
action: You look at the graves
response: Old, crumbling gravestones crowded in on each other. Most were barely readable, and many were so overgrown that they were well-nigh invisible.
action: You look at her
response: Konstanza Von Goethe possessed an unearthly, almost angelic, beauty that made my heart ache. But what was I thinking ... she was young enough to be my daughter....
action: Go north
response: L'eglise St-Pierre
Light shone in through clear glass windows that the community had been too poor to have stained, illuminating the altar under the large wooden crucifix. It was quiet, hushed, filled with an air of reverence. To the west, the doors opened out onto the cobbled square, and a smaller door stood tucked away to the south.

I could see the parish priest hovering near at hand.
action: You look at the priest
response: The old parish priest was a short, stumpy, greying frenchman in the usual black habit and clerical collar. His eyes twinkled with benevolence and warmth.
action: Hello
response: We introduced ourselves. He was Father Antoine LeBrun, he spoke English, and he'd been the priest of this parish for the past twenty years.
action: You ask the priest about the suicide
response: "Suicide is the ultimate sin of despair. It is sad to think of how many normally good, faithful people would give up their places in Heaven for this."
action: You ask priest about konstanza
response: Father LeBrun frowned, perplexed. "Pardon, I'm afraid I do not quite understand."
action: You ask priest about Viktor
response: "I will tell you what it is: ever since his wife passed on, the poor man has given up hope. He seems very lonely...."
action: You ask the priest about Klara
response: "Madame Goethe was here with her husband last year. She was a fine, Christian woman, Monsieur Dawson, and it was sad that she passed away only a few days after her arrival. She was buried here in our churchyard, and I wrote back to inform Mademoiselle Goethe about it."
action: You read the graves
response: "Klara Von Goethe, 1837-1885"

This must be Konstanza Von Goethe's mother, Viktor Von Goethe's late wife. The nature of their journey here was beginning to look very much more like a pilgrimage.... In fact, it now looked as though Viktor Von Goethe had deliberately come here for the specific purpose of dying.
action: Go west
response: The English Channel washed up against this narrow strip of sand, now accessible at low tide. Come high tide, the water level would rise a few feet up the stone wall to the east, covering the sand. Steep and narrow steps were cut into that wall, leading up to the terrace space above.
action: You look at Channel
response: The waters of the English Channel separate England and France. It being the end of summer, the waves were beginning to take on a colder, more menacing nature.
action: Go west
response: The dim memory of an old youthful whim pricked me ... but no, at 59, there were better ways of crossing the Channel.
action: Go south
response: The lobby of the inn was small and dim, but seemed respectable enough. A desk sat in a corner where guests might check in or out, and stairs led up to the rooms. Through a doorway to the east, the modest dining hall and public house could be seen.

Rene, the innkeeper, stood by the door.
action: You look at Rene
response: Rene was a tall man, somewhat on the corpulent side. He wore a drooping moustache, and though apparently harried by the stress of running an inn, seemed friendly and wonderfully obliging.
action: Go east
response: A small, square room, with grey stone walls and exposed rafters. Very simple, very spartan. A long, narrow bed lined one wall. An old wooden dresser stood beside it, directly under a tall casement window looking out onto the French countryside. A soft breeze wafted through the open window.

My trusty old steamer trunk lay here.
action: You open the dresser
response: I opened the dresser, revealing a journal.
action: You take the journal
response: I picked it up.
action: You read the journal
response: The letters were all in German, and seemed to be part of a correspondence between Viktor and a woman named Klara. It meant nothing to me. As for the journal itself, there was from a week to a year between individual entries: Herr Goethe did not seem to be a keen diarist. Most of these entries were in German, too, but a few were in Latin, and of these I could make some sense. The last few entries, for example. Curious, I scanned through them....

He spoke of his grief over Klara's death ... the distance that seemed to have sprung up between himself and his daughter since then... "She is my only child, and my business has always kept me away from her. It was always Klara who linked us, and now Klara is gone. I realise now that my Konstanza is a young woman, and that comes as a complete surprise to me. I fear that it is too late to know her, or to tell her how dear she is to me. It is too late for apologies. She is her own woman now, independent of me, and she will perhaps be better off without my presence...."
action: You check your inventory
response: I had on my person the following items:
a journal
my pocket New Testament
action: You go east
response: Reminiscent of old-fashioned mediaeval inns, the dining hall of this particular inn also doubled as the local pub. Fairly adequate lighting came through the windows which ranged along two sides of the room, though I would have preferred a bit more sun. Bare wooden tables were placed here and there, and a bar counter ran along one wall of the room.

John Austin sat at a table in a corner, idly sketching random objects into his sketchbook.

The serving maid, Yvette, bustled about, keeping things in order.
action: Hello
response: "Oui, bonjour."
action: You ask Yvette about Rene
response: "Monsieur Artois is a good man, but always so worried about the inn ... it would be nice if we had more people visiting this part of France."
action: You ask the maid about Viktor
response: Yvette made a few standard comments, but seemed too busy to tell me anything new.
action: Hello
response: "Yes, and a good day to you too, sir."
action: You ask John about John
response: "What's there to tell? I studied painting in Rome, and now I'm just struggling to get some sort of work done before my money runs out."
action: You look at the counter
response: The counter was old and sturdy, but well-polished.
action: You show the journal to Konstanza
response: "Those are Papa's private papers," said Konstanza, glancing over the journal, "he writes in Latin sometimes, to maintain his privacy."

"I think you had better know what this one says," I said.

"Mein Herr!" she cried, interrupting me, "surely you cannot have been reading Papa's private journal? Mein Herr, you hardly even know us! Please, I would prefer it if you would not meddle in our private affairs, of which you know nothing!"

Turning, she strolled deliberately away from me. She was angry with me, and this distressed me much. But she was right: I had indeed been too forward in showing her the journal, especially at this early stage of our acquaintance.
action: You check your inventory
response: I had on my person the following items:
a journal
my pocket New Testament
action: Go north
response: L'eglise St-Pierre
Light shone in through clear glass windows that the community had been too poor to have stained, illuminating the altar under the large wooden crucifix. It was quiet, hushed, filled with an air of reverence. To the west, the doors opened out onto the cobbled square, and a smaller door stood tucked away to the south.

I could see Father LeBrun hovering near at hand.
action: You show the journal to LeBrun
response: Father LeBrun glanced at one or two of the Latin passages towards the end, then returned the journal to me. "That is interesting, Monsieur. I wonder if Mademoiselle would feel as she does if she knew of her father's true feelings concerning her."
action: You go west
response: A small, square room, with grey stone walls and exposed rafters. Very simple, very spartan. A long, narrow bed lined one wall. An old wooden dresser stood beside it, directly under a tall casement window looking out onto the beach and the pier. A soft breeze wafted through the open window, carrying with it a hint of the sea.

Herr Viktor Von Goethe reclined in his chair, lost in thought.
action: You show the journal to Viktor
response: "Thank you, Mein Herr. I suppose I must have left it behind when we changed rooms."
action: You look at what you're carrying with you
response: I had on my person the following items:
my pocket New Testament
action: You read Testament
response: I practically knew its contents by heart.
action: You ask Viktor about Yvette
response: I mused aimlessly for a while on various unrelated topics.
action: You ask Viktor about the journal
response: Herr Goethe frowned and looked at me suspiciously. "Let us talk about something else, Herr Dawson."
action: You ask Viktor about LeBrun
response: "I've had a few words with him, the last time I was here. He's a kind, compassionate man."
action: Go east
response: A small, square room, with grey stone walls and exposed rafters. Very simple, very spartan. A long, narrow bed lined one wall. An old wooden dresser stood beside it, directly under a tall casement window looking out onto the French countryside. A soft breeze wafted through the open window.

My trusty old steamer trunk lay here.

The dresser drawer was standing open.
action: Go west
response: This wide cobblestone square marked the heart of the little village. A large well stood in its centre, obviously the focal point of local day-to-day life. To the east stood the church of St Pierre, a small grey stone building with its doors invitingly open. A salt breeze blew from the pier to the west, and the cobbles continued southwards to an open terrace and the village inn. The north side was lined with commercial buildings, including a telegraph office.
action: You look at well
response: The village well was a stone octagon in the exact centre of the square. It was large, and deep, and uncovered, its sides wide enough and low enough to serve as a seat. Peering within, I could see nothing but darkness.
action: Go north
response: This was the village's connection with the outside world. The walls were plastered and whitewashed to brighten the room, but this instead created an air of impersonal detachment.

One side of the room was taken up by a long desk, on which sat a telegraph machine. The other side was stocked with newspapers. In the back, beyond the telegraph, a shadowy doorway opened onto a flight of stairs leading up.

The postmaster sat near the telegraph, reading a newspaper and generally ignoring everything else.
action: Hello
response: Maurice Roget was a well-educated man, speaking fluent English and German with barely a hint of an accent. "It is good to be able to communicate in as many ways as possible, Monsieur Dawson, especially in my line of work. I am, in fact, now studying the Italian language."
action: You ask Maurice about Viktor
response: "Now that I think about it, I do believe he was here last year, with his wife. That was a tragic story.... the poor woman died, I think from Consumption. She was buried in the churchyard here, in fact. Father LeBrun had me send word about her passing back to the daughter in Germany."
action: You ask Maurice about Klara
response: I mused aimlessly for a while on various unrelated topics.
action: You ask Maurice about John
response: "Monsieur Austin has been lodging with me over the summer. Poor fellow, he can barely afford it. But he is proud, and will not accept charity from me or from anyone."
action: You ask Maurice about LeBrun
response: "He is a good fellow, as far as priests go. He has been trying for the past several years to convert me, though not with very much success, I'm afraid."
action: You look around
response: This was the village's connection with the outside world. The walls were plastered and whitewashed to brighten the room, but this instead created an air of impersonal detachment.

One side of the room was taken up by a long desk, on which sat a telegraph machine. The other side was stocked with newspapers. In the back, beyond the telegraph, a shadowy doorway opened onto a flight of stairs leading up.

Maurice Roget sat near the telegraph, reading a newspaper and generally ignoring everything else.
action: You examine the telegraph
response: The telegraph machine was, to my eyes at least, a rather strange contraption with wires all over the place. I had no idea how it worked, but I did know that it was a means for me to communicate with the people back home in Barchester.
action: You read the newspaper
response: (the English newspapers)
I was pleased to note that a selection of English newspapers was available. The selection was not particularly extensive, however, and I doubted if there was anything of importance to be gleaned from them at the moment. Maurice Roget was reading one of them, as a matter of fact, and seemed quite absorbed in it.
action: You take the newspaper
response: (the English newspapers)
That would have been unnecessary. Emma would no doubt have a copy of that paper waiting for me back at the vicarage, and a few days' delay was not going to make much of a difference on what I did or did not know about the world.
action: Go south
response: This wide cobblestone square marked the heart of the little village. A large well stood in its centre, obviously the focal point of local day-to-day life. To the east stood the church of St Pierre, a small grey stone building with its doors invitingly open. A salt breeze blew from the pier to the west, and the cobbles continued southwards to an open terrace and the village inn. The north side was lined with commercial buildings, including a telegraph office.
action: You ask John about Maurice
response: "He's a jolly fellow, and so full of life. He's always asking me to join him for a few drinks at the inn. I hate having to turn him down time after time, but that sort of luxury is really somewhat beyond my means at the moment."
action: You ask John about the job
response: "I never did have much of a head for business. It's one of the reasons I took to art instead. I could do some odd jobs and assort menial work, though, if I had to. But not on a long-term scale, I hope."
action: You ask John about the money
response: "I had a small inheritance that allowed me to pursue my artistic interests. I tried to make it last as long as possible, of course, but funds are getting low. I'm almost all out now, and I don't know if anyone would even look at my work. I guess it's what you'd call a bad investment."
action: Paint
response: What did I want John Austin to paint?
action: You paint Klara
response: John shook his head. "I'd rather not, really."
action: Paint konstanza
response: John glanced out of the window and paused for a long moment. "Yes ... she is quite the beauty, isn't she?" he murmured as he began a pencil sketch of Konstanza Von Goethe as seen through the window.
action: You buy the sketch
response: Nothing was on sale.
action: You look at the sketch
response: A thoroughly unremarkable sketchbook, of cheap paper and cheaper cardboard binding. It was filled with pencil and charcoal sketches of scenery, animals, and people.

The last sketch was a lovely pencil drawing of Konstanza Von Goethe wandering in the peaceful churchyard, framed by the twisted yew trees.
action: You take sketch
response: That seemed to belong to John Austin.
action: You give the sketch to you
response: John shrugged as he handed me his sketchbook. "You want to look at my old sketches? Certainly, if that is what you want. You probably won't find much of interest, I'm afraid."
action: You take the sketch
response: I already had that.
action: You go west
response: I stopped, thinking it would probably be best if I returned John Austin's sketchbook to him before leaving.
action: You search the sketchbook
response: The name "John Austin" was signed at the bottom of each sketch, along with the date.
action: You ask John about the sketchbook
response: John blushed somewhat embarrassedly. "It's not much, is it?"
action: You pay John
response: Whom did I want to pay John Austin to?
action: You give the sketchbook to John
response: John smiled wryly as he took back his sketchbook. "Not much, is it?"
action: You tell Viktor about the sketch
response: Herr Goethe listened politely, but had little to add.
action: You tell Viktor about John
response: "If this Herr Austin wants to paint my daughter, he is quite welcome. If, of course, she consents."
action: You tell Konstanza about the sketch
response: "Herr Dawson, please, I do not feel like speaking with you ... or anyone ... right now."
action: You apologize
response: Whom did I want to apologize to?
action: You apologize to Konstanza
response: Konstanza glanced at me and relented. "Very well then. Let us forget that it ever happened."
action: You tell Konstanza about John
response: "The two of you must enjoy being able to talk about English politics with each other. I always think it is nice to meet a fellow countryman when one is abroad."
action: Go west
response: The cobbles from the north widened out here into a terrace outside the inn to the south. A low stone wall to the west overlooked the beach some twenty feet below. Hugging the wall, a steep and narrow flight of stone steps led down to the sand. Opposite, another high wall defined the eastern side of the terrace, broken only by a small wrought-iron gate.
action: You ask Konstanza about John
response: "I've seen him around. I have not spoken to him as yet, but he seems to be a gentleman. Even if he is covered in paint.
action: You show the sketch to  Konstanza
response: John looked doubtful, and shook his head. "To tell the truth, I'd really rather not."
action: You give the book to you
response: John shrugged as he handed me his sketchbook. "You want to look at my old sketches? Certainly, if that is what you want. You probably won't find much of interest, I'm afraid."
action: You look around
response: Reminiscent of old-fashioned mediaeval inns, the dining hall of this particular inn also doubled as the local pub. Fairly adequate lighting came through the windows which ranged along two sides of the room, though I would have preferred a bit more sun. Bare wooden tables were placed here and there, and a bar counter ran along one wall of the room.

John Austin was watching the world go by from his table in a corner.

The serving maid, Yvette, bustled about, keeping things in order.
action: You go west
response: I stopped, thinking it would probably be best if I returned John Austin's sketchbook to him before leaving.
action: You throw the sketchbook at John
response: I unfortunately found I lacked the nerve when it came to the crucial moment.
action: You hold the sketchbook up to the window and beat on the the glass until KONSTANZA comes to look
response: HOLD SKETCHBOOK UP TO WINDOW AND BEAT ON THE GLASS UNTIL KONSTANZA COMES TO LOOK

It only occured to me that I should try to hold the sketchbook.
action: You show the sketchbook to KONSTANZA
response: (first taking the sketchbook)
Interesting though that might be, she was currently quite out of reach.
action: You follow you
response: I fell into step beside Konstanza, and we strolled along side by side for a while. It was a both comforting and comfortable experience while it lasted, and it seemed -- or so I hoped -- she felt the same way.