"Be still, Uncle, nothing is going to happen. It is all a huge joke," said Dorothea with feigned good humour and kind intentions. She walked to the door slowly, looking back every now and then with a smile on her face.

XVII

It was early in the morning when Dorothea rang Daniel's bell. Philippina opened the door, but she did not wish to let Dorothea in. She forced an entrance, however, and, standing in the door, she inspected Philippina with the eye of arrogance, always a clear-sighted organ.

"Look out, Philippin', there's something rotten here," murmured Philippina to herself.

Daniel was at work. He got up and looked at Dorothea, who carefully closed the door.

"Here I am, Daniel," she said, and breathed a sigh of relief, like a swimmer who has just reached the land.

"What is it all about?" asked Daniel, seemingly ill inclined to become excited.

"I have done what you wanted me to do, Daniel: I have broken away from them. I cannot tolerate Father a minute longer. Where should I go if not to you?"

Daniel went up to her, and laid his hands on her shoulders. "Girl, girl!" he said as if to warn her. He felt uneasy.

They looked into each other's eyes for what seemed like an eternity. Daniel was apparently trying to peer into the innermost recesses of her soul. Dorothea's eyes sparkled with daring; she did not lower her lids. Suddenly, as if moved from within, Daniel bent over and kissed her on the forehead.

"You know who I am," he said, and walked back and forth in the room. "You know how I have lived and how I am living at present. I am a guilty man, and a lonely man. My nature craves tenderness, but is unable to give tenderness in return. My lot is a hard one, and whoever decides to share it with me must be able to bear her part of this hardness. I am frequently my own enemy and the enemy of those who mean well by me. I am not a humourist, and make a poor impression in society. I can be gruff, offensive, spiteful, irreconcilable, and revengeful. I am ugly, poor, and no longer young. Are you not afraid of your twenty-three years, Dorothea?"

Dorothea shook her head vigorously.

"Test yourself, Dorothea, examine yourself," he continued urgently, "don't be too inexact, too careless with me, nor with yourself. Study the situation from all sides, so that we may make no false calculations. Fate, you know, is fate. Love can get control of me more than I can get control of myself, and when this takes place I will do everything in my power. But I must have confidence, unlimited confidence. If I were to lose confidence, I should be like a mortal proscribed to Hell, an outcast, an evil spirit. Examine yourself, Dorothea. You must know what you are doing; it is your affair, and it is a sacred one."

"I cannot do otherwise, Daniel!" cried Dorothea, and threw herself on his bosom.

"Then God be merciful to us," said Daniel.

XVIII

Daniel took Dorothea over to Sylvia von Erfft's at Siegmundshof. He had written to her, given her all the details, explained the entire situation, and begged her to take Dorothea in and entertain her until the day of the wedding. Sylvia had shown herself most obliging in the matter; she met his requests with unaffected cordiality.

Dorothea had spent two nights at home, during which she had succeeded in evading all explanations with her father. She did this by having him agree to give her three days to think it over. On the morning of the third day, after her father had gone to the conservatory, she packed up her belongings and left the house.

Andreas Doederlein found the following letter from her: "Dear Father: Abandon all your hopes with regard to my marrying Herr Weisskopf. I am of age and can marry whomsoever I wish. I have already made my choice. The man who is going to lead me to the altar is called Daniel Nothafft. He loves me perhaps even more than I deserve, and I will make him a good wife. This is my unalterable decision, and you yourself will certainly come to see that it is nobler to obey the impulses of one's own heart than to allow one's self to be led on and blinded by material considerations. Your loving daughter, Dorothea."

Andreas Doederlein had a sinking spell. The letter slipped from his fingers and fell to the floor. Trembling in his whole body, he walked up to the covered table, took a glass and hurled it against the wall. The glass broke into a thousand pieces. "I will choke you, you impious toad!" he panted, shook his clenched fist, went to Dorothea's room, and, seized with boundless wrath, upset the chairs and the little dressing table.

The maid, terrified, ran into the living room. She saw Dorothea's letter lying on the floor, picked it up, and read it. When she heard her mad master returning, she ran down stairs to the ground floor, rang Herr Carovius's bell, and showed him the letter. His face turned yellow as he read it. The maid uttered a shrill, piercing cry, snatched the letter from Herr Carovius's hands, and ran out into the court, for she heard Andreas Doederlein stumbling down the steps. He wanted to call the police and have them lock up the abductor of his daughter. Catching sight of Herr Carovius in the hall, he stopped and fixed his eyes on him. In them there was a sea of anger; and yet it was obvious that Andreas Doederlein was eager to ask a question or two. It seemed indeed that just one conciliatory statement, even a single gesture on the part of the man whom he had scrupulously avoided for years, would make bye-gones be bye-gones and convert two implacable foes into friends, colleagues indeed in the business of revenge and punishment.

But Herr Carovius was done with the world. His face was distorted; grimaces of unrelieved meanness furrowed his brow; his contempt knew no bounds. He turned about and slammed the door leading into his apartment with a bang that showed his intention of shutting himself up in his own stronghold.

Andreas Doederlein got as far as the entrance to the Town Hall. There he was suddenly seized with grave doubts. He stared at the pavement for a while, sad and sinister, and then started back home. His steps were not half so impetuous as they had been on the way over; they gave evidence of weakened will and fading energy.

Hardly had he reached home when Daniel was announced. "You have the boldness, Sir," he cried out to Daniel on his entering. "You have the boldness to appear in my sight? By the gods above, you are going far!"

"I will accept any challenge you make," said Daniel, with the chilly dignity that was characteristic of him in such circumstances and that never failed to have a sobering effect on his potential antagonist. "I have nothing to fear. I should like to live in peace with the father of my wife, and for this reason I have come to you."

"Do you know what you are doing to me? You have stolen my daughter, man!" cried Doederlein with pathos. "But just wait. I will checkmate your plans. I will make you feel the full measure of my power."

Daniel smiled contemptuously. "I am certain of that," he replied. "I will feel your power as long as I live; I have always felt it. But I have never submitted to it, and up to the present I have always been able to break it. Think it over! Recall my past history! And devote a few of your meditative moments to your child. Adieu!" With that Daniel left.

Andreas Doederlein was ill at ease. The man's smile followed him wherever he went. What could the desperado be planning? A bad conscience paralyses evil determinations. For more than a week, Doederlein waged perpetual war with his pride. And then? Daniel did not allow himself to be seen; he received no news of any kind from Dorothea; and, climax of it all, Herr Weisskopf notified him that his note for one thousand marks, with interest, was due. Doederlein saw that there was nothing to be done about it all except to recognise the denouement as a fact and not as a stage scene. And one day he hobbled up the steps of the house on AEgydius Place.

"I am glad to see you," said Daniel as he reached out his hand to his visitor.

Andreas Doederlein spoke of a father's bleeding heart, of the crushing of proud hopes, of the impiety of youth, and the lonesomeness of old age. And then, rather disconnectedly, beating a tattoo with the fingers of his big hand on the top of the table, he spoke of the constraint in which he found himself with reference to the opulent owner of the mill. He told Daniel he had gone on a man's note, had been suddenly obliged to redeem the note, and not having so much ready money at his disposal, had accepted a loan from the rich aspirant for Dorothea's hand.

Daniel was forced to admit that his troubles were humiliating and that the money would have to be raised. Doederlein said it amounted to fifteen hundred marks. He was surprised himself when he mentioned the sum which assured him a clear gain of fifty per cent. It had been a clever idea, serving as it did to put the generosity of his future son-in-law to test. At the bottom of his heart he felt that his action was dishonourable, and was consequently touched when Daniel, giving this inroad on his savings but a moment's thought, promised to send him the money the following day.

"You make me feel ashamed of myself, Daniel, really you do. Let us bury the hatchet! We are after all colleagues in Apollo. Or aren't we? Call me Father, and I will call you Son! Address me with Du, and I will follow your example."

Daniel gave him his hand without saying a word.

Doederlein asked about Dorothea; and when Daniel told him where she was, he seemed quite contented. "Tell her my house and my arms are open to her; tell her of the change in the constellation," he said softly. "We have both done each other injustice and have both repented."

Daniel replied quite conventionally that he thought it better to leave Dorothea with Sylvia von Auffenberg.

"As you wish, my son," said Andreas Doederlein, "I bow to the claims of your young happiness. Now we should have a bottle of Malvoisie or Moselle, so that I can drink to the health of my dear, unruly daughter. Or don't you care to?"

Daniel went to send Philippina to the Golden Posthorn. But Philippina had gone out with Agnes. He saw one of the maids from one of the other apartments standing on the steps, and got her to run the errand. It was a long while before she returned, and when the wine was finally poured out, Doederlein had not time to drink: he was scheduled to give a lecture in the conservatory at seven. He drank about half of his glass, and then took hasty leave of Daniel, shaking his hand with unwonted fervour.

Daniel sat for a while thinking it all over. There was a knock at the door, and old Jordan came in. "May I?" he asked.

Daniel nodded. Jordan took a seat on the chair Doederlein had been sitting on. He looked into Daniel's face quizzically. "Is it true, Daniel, that you are going to get married again? That you are going to marry the Doederlein girl?"

"Yes, Father, it is true," replied Daniel. He got a fresh glass, filled it, and pushed it over to the old man. "Drink, Father!" he said.

The old man sipped the wine with an air of adoration. "It must be nine or ten years since I have had any wine," he said more or less to himself.

"You have not had a happy life," replied Daniel.

"I will not complain, Daniel. I bear it because I have to. And who knows? Perhaps there is still a measure of joy in store for me. Perhaps; who knows?"

The two men sat in silence and drank. It was so still that you could hear the fluttering of the light in the lamp.

"Where can Philippina be?" asked Daniel.

"Yes, Philippina. I had forgot to tell you," began old Jordan sorrowfully. "She came to me this afternoon, and told me she was going over to Frau Hadebusch's with Agnes and was going to stay there until after the wedding. But she spoke in such a confused way that I couldn't make out just what she planned to do. It sounded in fact as though she were thinking of leaving the house for good and all. I wonder whether the girl isn't a little off in her head? Day before yesterday I heard an awful racket in the kitchen; and when I went down, I saw at least six plates lying on the floor all smashed to pieces. And as if this was not enough, she threatened to throw the dishwater on me. She was swearing like a trooper. Now tell me: how is this? Can she go over to Frau Hadebusch's, and take Agnes with her without getting any one's consent?"

Daniel made no reply. The thought of Philippina filled him with anguish; he feared some misfortune. He felt that he would have to let her have her way.

XIX

In the night Daniel became very much excited. He left the house, and, despite the darkness and the snow storm, wandered out to the country quite unmindful of the cold and snow and the wind.

He listened to the whisperings of his soul; he took council with himself. He looked up at the great black vaulted arch of heaven as though he were beseeching the powers above to send him the light he felt he needed. The morning of the approaching day seemed bleaker, blacker to him than the night that was passing. He was lost in anxiety: he went over to his graves.

He did not stop to think until well on his way that the gate to the cemetery would be closed; but he kept on going. He looked around for a place in the wall where he might climb over. Finally he found one, climbed up, scratched his hands painfully, leaped down into some snow-covered hedges, and then wandered around with his burden of grief over the stormy, desolate field of the dead. As he stood before Gertrude's grave he was overwhelmed with the feeling of the hour: there were voices in the storm; he felt that the horror and the memory of it all would hurl him to the ground. But when he stood by the grave of Eleanore, he felt his peace return. The clouds suddenly opened on the distant horizon, and a moonbeam danced about him.

It was almost morning when he reached home.

A week later he went over to Siegmundshof and got Dorothea.

Sylvia and Dorothea came down through a snow-covered alley to meet him. They were walking arm in arm, and Sylvia was laughing at Dorothea's easy-flowing conversation. They seemed to be getting along perfectly together: there could be no mistaking the picture he saw before him. Sylvia told Daniel when she was alone with him that she had taken a great liking to Dorothea. She remarked that her cheerfulness was irresistible and contagious, and that when she was with children she became a child herself.

Yet, despite all this, Sylvia studied Daniel. And when Dorothea was present she studied her too: she cast fleeting, searching, unassured glances at them—at Daniel and at Dorothea.

Daniel and Dorothea were married on a sunny day in December.



DOROTHEA

I

For the past fortnight, Philippina and Agnes had been living at Frau Hadebusch's. A message came from Daniel telling Philippina that she and Agnes should return, or, if she preferred to stay with Frau Hadebusch, she should send Agnes home at once.

"There you have it," said Frau Hadebusch, "the master speaks."

"Ah, him—he's been speakin' to me for a long while. Much good it does him," said Philippina. "The child stays with me, and I'm not going back. That settles it! What, Agnes? Yes?"

Agnes was sitting on the bench by the stove with Henry the idiot, reading the greasy pages of a cheap novel. When Philippina spoke to her, she looked up in a distracted way and smiled. The twelve-year-old child had a perfectly expressionless face; and as she never got out of the house for any length of time, her skin was almost yellow.

"It ain't no use to try to buck him," continued Frau Hadebusch, who looked as old as the mountains and resembled generally a crippled witch, "he c'n demand the kid, and if he does he'll git her. If you ain't careful, I'll get mixed up in the mess before long."

"Well, how do you feel about it, Agnes? Do you want to go back to your daddy?" said Philippina, turning to the girl, and looking at Frau Hadebusch in a knowing way.

Agnes's face clouded up. She hated her father. This was the point to which Philippina had brought matters by her incessant whisperings and ugly remarks behind Daniel's back. Agnes was convinced that she was a burden to her father, and his marriage had merely confirmed what she already felt she knew. Deep in her silent soul she carried the picture of her prematurely deceased mother, as if it were that of a woman who had been murdered, sacrificed. Philippina had told her how her mother had committed suicide; it was a fearful tale in her language. It had been the topic of conversation between her and her charge on many a cold, dark winter evening. Agnes always said that when she was big and could talk, she would take vengeance on her father.

When she could talk! That was her most ardent wish. For she was silent-born. Her soul pined in a prison that was much harsher and harder than that in which her mother's soul had been housed and harassed. Gertrude had some bright moments; Agnes never. She was incapable of enthusiasm; she could not look up. For her heart, her soul was not merely asleep, torpid, lethargic; it was hopelessly dried up, withered. Life was not in it.

"I am not going to those Doederleins," she said, crying.

But in the evening Daniel came over. He took Philippina to one side, and had a serious talk with her. He explained the reasons for his getting married a third time as well as he could without going too deeply into the subject. "I needed a wife; I needed a woman to keep house for me; I needed a companion. Philippina, I am very grateful to you for what you have done, but there must also be a woman in my home who can cheer me up, turn my thoughts to higher things. I have a heavy calling; that you cannot appreciate. So don't get stubborn, Philippina. Pack up your things, and come back home. How can we get along without you?"

For the first time in his life he spoke to her as though she were a woman and a human being. Philippina stared at him. Then she burst out into a loud, boisterous laugh, and began to show her whole supply of scorn. "Jesus, Daniel, how you c'n flatter a person! Who'd a thought it! You've always been such a sour dough. Very well. Say: 'Dear Philippina!' Say it real slow: 'D-e-a-r Philippina,' and then I'll come."

Daniel looked into the face of the girl, who never did seem young and who had aged fearfully in the last few months. "Nonsense!" he cried, and turned away.

Philippina stamped the floor with her foot. Henry, the idiot, came out into the hall, holding a lamp above his head.

"Does the sanctimonious clerk still live here?" asked Daniel, looking up at the crooked old stairway, while a flood of memories came rushing over him.

"Thank God, no!" snarled Philippina. "He'd be the last straw. I feel sick at the stomach when I see a man."

Daniel again looked into her detestable, ugly, distorted, and wicked face. He was accustomed to question everything, eyes and bodies, about their existence in terms of tones, or their transformation into tones. Here he suddenly felt the toneless; he had the feeling one might have on looking at a deep-sea fish: it is lifeless, toneless. He thought of his Eva; he longed for his Eva. Just then Agnes came out of the door to look for Philippina.

He laid his hand on Agnes's hair, and said good-naturedly, looking at Philippina: "Well, then—d-e-a-r Philippina, come back home!"

Agnes jerked herself away from him; he looked at the child amazed; he was angry, too. Philippina folded her hands, bowed her head, and murmured with much humility: "Very well, Daniel, we'll be back to-morrow."

II

Philippina arrived at the front door at ten o'clock in the morning. In one hand she carried her bundle; by the other she led Agnes, then studying her milieu with uneasy eyes.

Dorothea opened the door. She was neatly and tastefully dressed: she wore a blue gingham dress and a white apron with a lace border. Around her neck was a gold chain, and suspended from the chain a medallion.

"Oh, the children!" she cried cheerfully, "Philippina and Agnes. What do you think of that! God bless you, children. You are home at last." She wanted to hug Agnes, but the child pulled away from her as timidly as she had pulled away from her father yesterday. In either case, she pulled away!

Philippina screwed her mouth into a knot on hearing a woman ten years her junior call her a child; she looked at Dorothea from head to foot.

Dorothea scarcely noticed her. "Just imagine, Philippin', the cook didn't come to-day, so I thought I would try my own hand," said Dorothea with glib gravity, "but I don't know, the soup meat is still as hard as a rock. Won't you come and see what's the matter?" She took Philippina into the kitchen.

"Ah, you've got to have a lid on the pot, and what's more, that ain't a regular fire," remarked Philippina superciliously.

Dorothea had already turned to something else. She had found a glass of preserved fruit, had opened it, taken a long-handled spoon, dived into it, put the spoon to her mouth, and was licking away for dear life. "Tastes good," she said, "tastes like lemon. Try it, Philippin'." She held the spoon to Philippina's lips so that she could try it. Philippina thrust the spoon rudely to one side.

"No, no, you have got to try it. I insist. Taste it!" continued Dorothea, and poked the spoon tightly against Philippina's lips. "I insist, I insist," she repeated, half beseechingly, half in the tone of a command, so that Philippina, who somehow or other could not find her veteran power of resistance, and in order to have peace, let the spoon be shoved into her mouth.

Just then old Jordan came out into the hall, and with him the chimney-sweeper who wished to clean the chimney.

"Herr Inspector, Herr Inspector," cried Dorothea, laughing; and when the old man followed her call, she gave him a spoonful, too. The chimney-sweep likewise; he had to have his. And last but not least came Agnes.

They all laughed; a faint smile even ventured across Agnes's pale face, while Daniel, frightened from his room by the hubbub, came out and stood in the kitchen door and laughed with the rest.

"Do you see, Daniel, do you see? They all eat out of my hand," said Dorothea contentedly. "They all eat out of my hand. That's the way I like to have things. To your health, folks!"

III

One afternoon Dorothea, with an open letter in her hand, came rushing into Daniel's room, where he was working.

"Listen, Daniel, Frau Feistelmann invites me over to a party at her house to-morrow. May I go?"

"You are disturbing me, my dear. Can't you see you are upsetting me?" asked Daniel reproachfully.

"Oh, I see," breathed Dorothea, and looked helplessly at the stack of scores that lay on the top of the table. "I am to take my violin along and play a piece or two for the people."

Daniel gazed into space without being able to comprehend her remarks. He was composing.

Dorothea lost her patience. She stepped up to the place on the wall where the mask of Zingarella had been hanging since his return home. "Daniel, I have been wanting for some time to ask you what that thing is. Why do you keep it there? What's it for? It annoys me with its everlasting grin."

Daniel woke up. "That is what you call a grin?" he asked, shaking his head; "Is it possible? That smile from the world beyond appeals to you as a grin?"

"Yes," replied Dorothea defiantly, "the thing is grinning. And I don't like it; I can't stand that silly face; I don't like it simply because you do like it so much. In fact, you seem to like it better than you do me."

"No childishness, Dorothea!" said Daniel quietly. "You must get your mind on higher things; and you must respect my spirits."

Dorothea became silent. She did not understand him. She looked at him with a touch of distrust. She thought the mask was a picture of one of his old sweethearts. She made a mouth.

"You said something about playing at the party, Dorothea," continued Daniel. "Do you realise that I never heard you play? I will frankly confess to you that heretofore I have been afraid to hear you. I could tolerate only the excellent; or the promise of excellence. You may show both; and yet, what is the cause of my fear? You have not practised in a long while; not once since we have been living together. And yet you wish to play in public? That is strange, Dorothea. Be so good as to get your violin and play a piece for me, won't you?"

Dorothea went into the next room, got her violin case, came out, took the violin, and began to rub the bow with rosin. As she was tuning the A string, she lifted her eyebrows and said: "Do you really want me to play?"

She bit her lips and played an etude by Fiorillo. Having finished it but not having drawn a word of comment from Daniel, she again took up the violin and played a rather lamentable selection by Wieniawski.

Daniel maintained his silence for a long while. "Pretty good, Dorothea," he said at last. "You have, other things being equal, a very pleasant pastime there."

"What do you mean?" asked Dorothea with noticeable rapidity, a heavy blush colouring her cheeks.

"Is it anything more than that, Dorothea?"

"What do you mean?" she repeated, embarrassed and indignant. "I should think that my violin is more than a pastime."

Daniel got up, walked over to her, took the bow gently from her hands, seized it by both ends, and broke it in two.

Dorothea screamed, and looked at him in hopeless consternation.

With great earnestness Daniel replied: "If the music I hear is not of unique superiority, it sounds in my ears like something that has been hashed over a thousand times. My wife must consider herself quite above a reasonably melodious dilettantism."

Tears rushed to Dorothea's eyes. Again she was unable to grasp the meaning of it all. She even imagined that Daniel was making a conscious effort to be cruel to her.

For her violin playing had been a means of pleasing—pleasing herself, the world. It had been a means of rising in the world, of compelling admiration in others and blinding others. This was the only consideration that made her submit to the stern discipline her father imposed upon her. She possessed ambition, but she sold herself to praise without regard for the praiser. And whatever an agreement of unknown origin demanded in the way of feeling, she fancied she could satisfy it by keeping her mind on her own wishes, pleasures, and delights while playing.

Daniel put his arms around her and kissed her. She broke away from him in petulance, and went over to the window. "You might have told me that I do not play well enough for you," she exclaimed angrily and sobbed; "there was no need for you to break my bow. I never play. It never occurred to me to bother you by playing." She wept like a spoiled child.

It cost Daniel a good deal of persuasion to pacify her. Finally he saw that there was no use to talk to her; he sighed and said nothing more. After a while he took her pocket handkerchief, and dried the tears from her eyes, laughing as he did so. "What was really in my mind was that party at Frau Feistelmann's. I did not want you to go. For I do not put much faith in that kind of entertainment. They do not enrich you, though they do incite all kinds of desires. But because I have treated you harshly, you may go. Possibly it will make you forget your troubles, you little fool."

"Oh, I thank you for your offer; but I don't want to go," replied Dorothea snappishly, and left the room.

IV

Yet Dorothea said the next day at the dinner table that she was going to accept the invitation. It would be much easier just to go and have it over with, she remarked, than to stay away and explain her absence. She said this in a way that would lead you to believe that it had cost her much effort to come to her decision.

"Certainly, go!" said Daniel. "I have already advised you to do it myself."

She had had a dark blue velvet dress made, and she wanted to wear it for the first time on this occasion.

Toward five o'clock Daniel went to his bedroom. He saw Dorothea standing before the mirror in her new dress. It was a tall, narrow mirror on a console. Dorothea had received it from her father as a wedding present.

"What is the matter with her?" thought Daniel, on noticing her complete lack of excitement. She was as if lost in the reflection of herself in the mirror. There was something rigid, drawn, transported about her eyes. She did not see that Daniel was standing in the room. When she raised her arm and turned her head, it was to enjoy these gestures in the mirror.

"Dorothea!" said Daniel gently.

She started, looked at him thoughtfully, and smiled a heady smile.

Daniel was anxious, apprehensive.

V

"I am related to Daniel, and we must address each other by the familiar Du," said Philippina to Dorothea. Daniel's wife agreed.

Every morning when Dorothea came into the kitchen Philippina would say: "Well, what did you dream?"

"I dreamt I was at the station and it was wartime, and some gipsies came along and carried me off," said Dorothea on one occasion.

"Station means an unexpected visit; war means discord with various personalities; and gipsies mean that you are going to have to do with some flippant people." All this Philippina rattled off in the High German of her secret code.

Philippina was also an adept in geomancy. Dorothea would often sit by her side, and ask her whether this fellow or that fellow were in love with her, whether this girl loved that fellow and the other girl another, and so on through the whole table of local infatuations. Philippina would make a number of dots on a sheet of paper, fill in the numbers, hold the list up to the light, and divulge the answer of the oracle.

In a very short while the two were one heart, one soul. Dorothea could always count on Philippina's laughter of approval when she fell into one of her moods of excessive friskiness. And if Agnes failed to show the proper amount of interest, Philippina would poke her in the ribs and exclaim: "You little rascallion, has the cat got your tongue?"

Agnes would then sneak off in mournful silence to her school books, and sit for hours over the simplest kind of a problem in the whole arithmetic. Dorothea would occasionally bring her a piece of taffy. She would wrap it up, put it in her pocket, and give it the next day to a schoolmate from whose note book she had copied her sums in subtraction.

Herr Seelenfromm stopped Philippina on the street, and said to her: "Well, how are you getting along? How is the young wife making out?"

"Oi, oi, we're living on the fat of the land, I say," Philippina replied, stretching her mouth from ear to ear. "Chicken every day, cake too, wine always on hand, and one guest merely opens the door on another."

"Nothafft must have made a pile of money," remarked Herr Seelenfromm in amazement.

"Yes, he must. Nobody works at our house. The wife's pocket-book at least is always crammed."

The sky was blue, the sun was bright, spring had come.

VI

Andreas Doederlein always took Sunday dinner with his children. He loved a juicy leg of pork, a salad garnished with greens and eggs, and a tart drowned in sugar. Old Jordan, who was privileged to sit at the table, let the individual morsels dissolve on his tongue. He had never had such delicacies placed before him in his life. At times he would cast a glance of utter astonishment at Daniel.

He very rarely took part in the conversation. As soon as the dishes had been removed, he would get up and quietly go to his room.

"A very remarkable old man," said Andreas Doederlein one Sunday, as he sat tipped back on his chair, picking his teeth.

"Ah, we have our troubles with him," said Dorothea abusively, "he is an incorrigible pot-watcher. He comes to the kitchen ten times a day, sticks his nose up in the air, asks what we are going to have for dinner, and then goes out and stands in the hall, with the result that our guests come and stumble over him."

Andreas Doederlein emitted a growl of lament.

"How are your finances, my son?" he asked, turning to Daniel with an air of marked affability. "Would you not like to bolster up your income by taking a position in the conservatory? You would have time for it; your work as organist at St. AEgydius does not take up all your time. Herold is going to be retired, you know. He is seventy-five and no longer able to meet the requirements. All that we will have to do will be for me to give you my backing. Three thousand marks a year, allocation to your widow after ten years of service, extra fees—I should think you would regard that as a most enticing offer. Or don't you?"

Dorothea ran up to her father in a spirit of unrestrained jubilation, threw her arms around his bulky body, and kissed him on his flabby cheek.

"No thanks to me, my child," said the Olympian; "to stand by you two is of course my duty."

"What sort of a swollen stranger is that, anyhow?" thought Daniel to himself. "What does he want of me? Why does he come into my house and sit down at my table? Why is he so familiar with me? Why does he blow his breath on me?" Daniel was silent.

"I understand, my dear son, that you would abandon your leisure hours only with the greatest reluctance," continued Doederlein with concealed sarcasm, "but after all, who can live precisely as he would like to live? Who can follow his own inclinations entirely? The everyday feature of human existence is powerful. Icarus must fall to the earth. With your wife anticipating a happy event, you cannot, of course, hesitate in the face of such an offer."

Daniel cast an angry look at Dorothea.

"I will think it over," said Daniel, got up, and left the room.

"It is unpleasant for him," complained Dorothea; "he values his leisure above everything else in the world. But I will do all in my power to bring him around, Father. And you keep at him. He will resist and object. I know him."

Thus it was brought to light that Daniel was no longer a mysterious and unfathomable individual in her estimation. She had found him out; she had divined him, in her way to be sure. He was much simpler than she had imagined, and at times she was really a bit angry at him for not arousing her curiosity more than he did. What she had fancied as highly interesting, thrilling, intoxicating, had proved to be quite simple and ordinary. The charm was gone, never to return. Her sole diversion lay in her attempts to get complete control over him through the skilful manipulation of her senses and her priceless youth.

Daniel felt that she was disappointed; he had been afraid of this all along. His anxiety increased with time, for it was evident that everything he said or did disappointed her. His anxiety caused him to be indulgent, where he had formerly been unbending. The difference in their ages made him patient and tractable. He feared he could not show her the love that she in her freshness and natural, unconsumed robustness desired. On this account he denied himself many things which he formerly could not have got along without, and put up with, many things that would have been intolerable to him as a younger man.

It needed only a single hour at night to make him promise to accept the position old Herold was leaving. He, as parsimonious with words as in the expression of feelings, succumbed to her cat-like cuddling. He capitulated in the face of her unpitying ridicule, and surrendered all to the prurient agility of a young body. Dark powers there are that set up dependencies between man and woman. When they rule, things do not work out in accordance with set calculation or inborn character. It takes but a single hour of the night to bend the most sacred truth of life into a lie.

VII

In the course of time Daniel had to provide for an increase in his annual salary. Dorothea had made a great many innovations that cost money. She had bought a dressing table, a number of cabinets, and a bath tub. The lamps, dishes, bed covers, and curtains she found old-fashioned, and simply went out and bought new ones.

Nothing gave her greater pleasure than to go shopping. Then the bills came in, and Daniel shook his head. He begged her to be more saving, but she would fall on his neck, and beseech and beseech until he acceded to every single one of her wishes.

She rarely came home with empty hands. It may have been only little things that she bought, a manikin of porcelain with a tile hat and an umbrella, or a pagoda with a wag-head, or even merely a mouse-trap—but they all cost money.

Philippina would be called in; Philippina was to admire the purchases. And she would say with apparent delight: "Now ain't that sweet!" Or, "Now that's fine; we needed a mouse-trap so bad! There was a mouse on the clothes rack just yesterday, cross my heart, Daniel."

As to hats, dresses, stockings, shoes, laces, and blouses—when it came to these Dorothea was a stranger to such concepts as measure or modesty. She wanted to compete with the wives of the rich people whose parties she attended, and next to whom she sat in the pastry shop or at the theatre.

She was given free tickets to the theatre and the concerts. But once when she had told Daniel that the director had sent her a ticket, he learned from Philippina that she had bought the ticket and paid for it with her own money. He did not call her to account, but he could not get the thought out of his mind that she had believed she had deceived him.

He did not accompany her on her pleasure jaunts; he wanted to work and not double even the smallest expenditure by going with her. Dorothea had become accustomed to this. She looked upon his apathy toward the theatre and his dislike of social distractions as a caprice, a crotchet on his part. She never considered what he had gone through in the way of theatricals and concerts; she had completely forgotten what he had confessed to her in a decisive hour.

When she came home late in the evening with burning cheeks and glowing eyes, Daniel did not have the courage to give her the advice he felt she so sorely needed. "Why snatch her from her heaven?" he thought. "She will become demure and quiet in time; her wild lust for pleasure will fade and disappear."

He was afraid of her pouting mien, her tears, her perplexed looks, her defiant running about. But he lacked the words to express himself. He knew how ineffectual warning and reproach might be and were. Empty talking back and forth he could not stand, while if he made a really human remark it found no response. She did not appreciate what he said; she misunderstood, misinterpreted everything. She laughed, shrugged her shoulders, pouted, called him an old grouch, or cooed like a dove. She did not look at him with real eyes; there was no flow of soul in what she did.

Gloom filled his heart.

The waste in the household affairs became worse and worse from week to week. Daniel would have felt like a corner grocer if he had never let her know how much he had saved, or had given her less than she asked for. And so his money was soon all gone. Dorothea troubled herself very little about the economic side of their married life. She told Philippina what to do, and fell into a rage if her orders were not promptly obeyed.

"It's too dull for her here. My God, such a young woman!" said Philippina to Daniel with simulated regret. "She wants to have a good time; she wants to enjoy her life. And you can't blame her."

Philippina was the mistress of the house. She went to the market, paid the bills, superintended the cook and the washwoman, and rejoiced with exceeding great and fiendish joy when she saw how rapidly everything was going downhill, downhill irresistibly and as sure as your life.

VIII

As the time approached for Dorothea's confinement she very rarely left the house. She would lie in bed until about eleven o'clock, when she would get up, dress, comb her hair, go through her wardrobe, and write letters.

She carried on a most elaborate correspondence; those who received her letters praised her amusing style.

After luncheon she would go back to bed; and late in the afternoon her visitors came in, not merely women but all sorts of young men. It often happened that Daniel did not even know the names of the people. He would withdraw to the room Eleanore had formerly occupied, and from which he could hear laughter and loud talk resounding through the hall.

By evening Dorothea was tired. She would sit in the rocking chair and read the newspaper, or the Wiener Mode, generally not in the best of humour.

Daniel confidently believed that all this would change for the better as soon as the child had been born; he believed that the feeling of a mother and the duties of a mother would have a broadening and subduing effect on her.

Late in the autumn Dorothea gave birth to a boy, who was baptised Gottfried. She could not do enough by way of showing her affection for the child; her transports were expressed in the most childish terms; her display of tenderness was almost excessive.

For six days she nursed the child herself. Then the novelty wore off, friends told her it would ruin her shape to keep it up, and she quit. "It makes you stout," she said to Philippina, "and cow's milk is just as good, if not better."

Philippina opened her mouth and eyes as wide as she could when she saw Dorothea standing before the mirror, stripped to the hips, studying the symmetry of her body with a seriousness that no one had ever noticed in her before.

Dorothea became coldly indifferent toward her child; it seemed that she had entirely forgotten that she was a mother. The baby slept in the room with Philippina and Agnes, both of whom cared for it. Its mother was otherwise engaged.

As if to make up for lost time and to indemnify herself for the suffering and general inconvenience to which she had been put in the last few months, Dorothea rushed with mad greediness into new pleasures and strange diversions. Soon however she found herself embarrassed from a lack of funds. Daniel told her, kindly but firmly, that the salaries he was drawing as organist and teacher were just barely enough to keep the house going, and that he was curtailing his own personal needs as much as possible so that there would be no cause to discontinue or diminish the home comforts they had latterly been enjoying. "We are not peasants," he said, "and that we are not living from the mercy of chance is a flaw in me rather than in my favour."

"You old pinch-penny!" said Dorothea. Ugly wrinkles appeared on her brow. "If you had not made me disgusted with my art, I might have been able to make a little money too," she added.

He looked down at the floor in complete silence. She however began thinking about ways and means of getting her hands on money. "Uncle Carovius might help me," she thought. She took to visiting her father more frequently, and every time she came she would stand out in the hall for a while hoping to see Herr Carovius. One day he appeared. She wanted to speak to him, smile at him, win him over. But one look from that face, filled with petrified and ineradicable rage, showed her that any attempt to approach the old man and get him in a friendly frame of mind would be fruitless.

On the way home she chanced to meet the actor Edmund Hahn. She had not seen him since she had been married. The actor seemed tremendously pleased to see her. They walked along together, engaged in a zealous conversation, talking at first loudly and then gently.

IX

The day Dorothea got married, Herr Carovius had gone to his lawyer to have the will he had drawn up the night before attested to. He had bequeathed his entire fortune, including his home and the furniture, to an institution to be erected after his death for the benefit of orphans of noble birth. Baron Eberhard von Auffenberg had been named as first director of the institution and sole executor of his will.

Herr Carovius refused to have anything more to do with music. He had a leather cover made for his long, narrow grand piano, and enshrouded in this, the instrument resembled a stuffed animal. He looked back on his passion for music as one of the aberrations of his youth, though he realised that he was chastising his spirit till it hurt when he took this attitude.

The method he employed to keep from having nothing to do was characteristic of the man: he went through all the books of his library looking for typographical errors. He spent hours every day at this work; he read the scientific treatises and the volumes of pure literature with his attention fixed on individual letters. When, after infinite search, he discovered a word that had been misspelled, or a grammatical slip, he felt like a fisherman who, after waiting long and patiently, finally sees a fish dangling on the hook.

Otherwise he was thoroughly unhappy. The beautiful evenness of his hair on the back of his neck had been transformed into a shaggy wilderness. He could be seen going along the street in a suit of clothes that was peppered with spots, while his Calabrian hat resembled a war tent that has gone through a number of major offensives.

He had again taken to frequenting the Paradise Cafe two or three times a week, not exactly to surrender himself to mournful memories, but because the coffee there cost twenty pfennigs, whereas the more modern cafes were charging twenty-five. His dinner consisted of a pot of coffee and a few rolls.

It came about that old Jordan likewise began to frequent the Paradise. For a long while the two men would go there, sit down at their chosen tables, and study each other at a distance. Finally the day came when they sat down together; then it became a custom for them to take their places at the same table, one back in the corner by the stove, where a quiet comradeship developed between them. It was rare that their conversation went beyond external platitudes.

Herr Carovius acted as though he were merely enduring old Jordan. But he never really became absorbed in his newspaper until the old man had come and sat down at the table with him, greeting him with marked respect as he did so. Jordan, however, did not conceal his delight when, on entering the cafe and casting his eyes around the room, they at last fell on Herr Carovius. While he sipped his coffee, he never took them off the wicked face of his vis-a-vis.

X

Philippina became Dorothea's confidential friend.

At first it was nothing more than Dorothea's desire to gossip that drew her to Philippina. Later she fell into the habit of telling her everything she knew. She felt no need of keeping any secret from Philippina, the inexplicable. The calm attentiveness with which Philippina listened to her flattered her, and left her without a vestige of suspicion. She felt that Philippina was too stupid and uncultivated to view her activities in perspective or pass judgment on them.

She liked to conjure up seductive pictures before the old maid's imagination; for she loved to hear Philippina abuse the male of the species. If some bold plan were maturing in her mind, she would tell Philippina about it just as if it had already been executed. In this way she tested the possibility of really carrying out her designs, and procured for herself a foretaste of what was to follow.

It was chiefly Philippina's utter ugliness that made her trust her. Such a homely creature was in her eyes not a woman, hardly a human being of either sex; and with her she felt she could talk just as much as she pleased, and say anything that came into her head. And since Philippina never spoke of Daniel in any but a derogatory and spiteful tone, Dorothea felt perfectly safe on that ground.

She would come into the kitchen, and sit down on a bench and talk: about a silk dress she had seen for sale; about the fine compliments Court Councillor Finkeldey had paid her; about the love affairs of these and the divorce proceedings of those; about Frau Feistelmann's pearls, remarking that she would give ten years of her life if she also had such pearls. In fact, the word she used most frequently was "also." She trembled and shook from head to foot with desires and wishes, low-minded unrest and lusts that flourish in the dark.

Often she would tell stories of her life in Munich. She told how she once spent a night with an artist in his studio, just for fun; and how on another occasion she had gone with an officer to the barracks at night simply on a wager. She told of all the fine-looking men who ran after her, and how she dropped them whenever she felt like it. She said she would let them kiss her sometimes, but that was all; or she would walk arm in arm with them through the forest, but that was all. She commented on the fact that in Munich you had to keep an eye out for the police and observe their hours, otherwise there might be trouble. For example, a swarthy Italian kept following her once—he was a regular Conte—and she couldn't make the man go on about his business, and you know he rushed into her room and held a revolver before her face, and she screamed, of course she did, until the whole house was awake, and there was an awful excitement.

When Daniel endeavoured to put a stop to her wastefulness, she went to Philippina and complained. Philippina encouraged her. "Don't you let him get away with anything," said she, "let him feel that a woman with your beauty didn't have to marry a skinflint."

When she began to go with Edmund Hahn, she told Philippina all about it. "You ought to see him, Philippina," she whispered in a mysterious way. "He is a regular Don Juan; he can turn the head of any woman." She said he had been madly in love with her for two years, and now he was going to gamble for her; but in a very aristocratic and exclusive club, to which none but the nicest people belonged. "If I win, Philippina, I am going to make you a lovely present," she said.

From then on her conversation became rather tangled and incoherent. She was out a great deal, and when she returned she was always in a rather uncertain condition. She had Philippina put up her hair, and every word she spoke during the operation was a lie. One time she confessed that she had not been in the theatre, as Daniel had supposed, but at the house of a certain Frau Baeumler, a good friend of Edmund Hahn. They had been gambling: she had won sixty marks. She looked at the door as if in fear, took out her purse, and showed Philippina three gold pieces.

Philippina had to swear that she would not give Dorothea away. A few days later Dorothea got into another party and got out of it successfully, and Philippina had to renew her oath. The old maid could take an oath with an ease and glibness such as she might have displayed in saying good morning. In the bottom of her heart she never failed to grant herself absolution for the perjury she was committing. For the time being she wished to collect, take notes, follow the game wherever it went. Moreover, it tickled and satisfied her senses to think about relations and situations which she knew full well she could never herself experience.

Dorothea became more and more ensnared. Her eyes looked like will-o'-the-wisps, her laugh was jerky and convulsive. She never had time, either for her husband or her child. She would receive letters occasionally that she would read with greedy haste and then tear into shreds. Philippina came into her room once quite suddenly; Dorothea, terrified, hid a photograph she had been holding in her hand. When Philippina became indignant at the secrecy of her action, she said with an air of inoffensive superiority: "You would not understand it, Philippina. That is something I cannot discuss with any one."

But Philippina's vexation worried her: she showed her the photograph. It was the picture of a young man with a cold, crusty face. Dorothea said it was an American whom she had met at Frau Baeumler's. He was said to be very rich and alone.

Every evening Philippina wanted to know something about the American. "Tell me about the American," she would say.

One evening, quite late, Dorothea came into Philippina's room with nothing on but her night-gown. Agnes and little Gottfried were asleep. "The American has a box at the theatre to-morrow evening. If you call for me you can see him," she whispered.

"I am bursting with curiosity," replied Philippina.

For a while Dorothea sat in perfect silence, and then exclaimed: "If I only had money, Philippin', if I only had money!"

"I thought the American had piles of it," replied Philippina.

"Of course he has money, lots of it," said Dorothea, and her eyes flashed, "but—"

"But? What do you mean?"

"Do you think men do things without being compensated?"

"Oh, that's it," said Philippina reflectively, "that's it." She crouched on a hassock at Dorothea's feet. "How pretty you are, how sweet," she said in her bass voice: "God, what pretty little feet you have! And what smooth white skin! Marble's got nothing on you." And with the carnal concupiscence of a faun in woman's form she took Dorothea's leg in her hand and stroked the skin as far as the knee.

Dorothea shuddered. As she looked down at the cowering Philippina, she noticed that there was a button missing on her blouse. Through the opening, just between her breasts, she saw something brown. "What is that on your body there?" asked Dorothea.

Philippina blushed. "Nothing for you," she replied in a rough tone, and held her hand over the opening in her blouse.

"Tell me, Philippina, tell me," begged Dorothea, who could not stand the thought of any one keeping a secret from her: "Possibly it is your dowry. Possibly you have made a savings bank out of your bosom?" She laughed lustily.

Philippina got up: "Yes, it is my money," she confessed with reluctance, and looked at Dorothea hostilely.

"It must be a whole lot. Look out, or some one will steal it from you. You will have to sleep on your stomach."

Daniel came down from his study, and heard Dorothea laughing. Grief was gnawing at his heart; he passed hastily by the door.

XI

One evening, as Philippina came into the hall from the street, she saw a man coming up to her in the dark; he called her by name. She thought she recognised his voice, and on looking at him more closely saw that it was her father.

She had not spoken to him for ten years. She had seen him from time to time at a distance, but she had always made it a point to be going in another direction as soon as she saw him; she avoided him, absolutely.

"What's the news?" she asked in a friendly tone.

Jason Philip cleared his throat, and tried to get out of the light in the hall and back into the shadow: he wished to conceal his shabby clothes from his daughter.

"Now, listen," he began with affected naturalness, "you might inquire about your parents once in a while. The few steps over to our house wouldn't make you break your legs. Honour thy father and thy mother, you know. Your mother deserves any kindness you can show her. As for me, well, I have dressed you down at times, but only when you needed it. You were a mischievous monkey, and you know it."

He laughed; but there was the fire of fear in his eyes. Philippina was the embodiment of silence.

"As I was saying," Jason Philip continued hastily, as if to prevent any inimical memories of his daughter from coming to his mind, "you might pay a little attention to your parents once in a while: Can't you lend me ten marks? I have got to meet a bill to-morrow morning, and I haven't got a pfennig. The boys, you know, I mean your brothers, are conducting themselves splendidly. They give me something the first of each month, and they do it regularly. But I don't like to go to them about this piddling business to-morrow. I thought that as you were right here in the neighbourhood, I could come over and see you about it."

Jason Philip was lying. His sons gave him no help whatsoever. Willibald was living in Breslau, where he had a poorly paid position as a bookkeeper and was just barely making ends meet. Markus was good for nothing, and head over heels in debt.

Philippina thought the matter over for a moment, and then told her father to wait. She went upstairs. Jason Philip waited at the door, whistling softly. Many years had passed by since he first attacked the civil powers, urged on by a rebellion of noble thoughts in his soul. Many years had passed by since he had made his peace with these same civil powers. Nevertheless, he continued to whistle the "Marseillaise."

Philippina came waddling down the steps, dragged herself over to the door, and gave her father a five-mark piece. "There," she bellowed, "I haven't any more myself."

But Jason Philip was satisfied with half the amount he had asked for. He was now equipped for an onslaught on the nearest cafe with its corned beef, sausages, and new beer.

From this time on he came around to the house on AEgydius Place quite frequently. He would stand in the hall, look around for Philippina, and if he found her, beg her for money. The amounts Philippina gave him became smaller and smaller. Finally she took to giving him ten pfennigs when he came.

XII

It frequently happened that Daniel would not answer when any one asked him a question. His ear lost the words, his eye the pictures, signs, faces, gestures. He was in his own way; he was a torment to himself.

Something drew him there and then here. He would leave the house, and then be taken with a longing to return. He noticed that people were laughing at him; laughing at him behind his back. He read mockery in the eyes of his pupils; the maids in the house tittered when he passed by.

What did they know? What were they concealing? Perhaps his soul could have told what they knew and what they concealed; but he was unwilling to drag it all out into the realm of known, nameable things.

As if an invisible slanderer were at his side, unwilling to leave him, leave him in peace, his despair increased. "What have you done, Daniel!" a voice within him cried, "what have you done!" The shades of the sisters, arm in arm, arose before him.

The feeling of having made a mistake, a mistake that could never be rectified, burned like fire within him. His work, so nearly completed, had suddenly died away.

For the sake of his symphony, he forced himself into a quiet frame of mind at night, made room for faint-hearted hopes, and lulled his presentient soul into peace.

The thing that troubled him worst of all was the way Philippina looked at him.

Since the birth of the child he had been living in Eleanore's room. Old Jordan was consideration itself: he went around in his stocking feet so as not to disturb him.

One night Daniel took the candle, and went downstairs to Dorothea's room. She woke up, screamed, looked at him bewildered, recognised him, became indignant, and then laughed mockingly and sensually.

He sat down on the side of her bed, and took her right hand between his two. But he had a disagreeable sensation on feeling her hand in his, and looked at her fingers. They were not finely formed: they were thicker at the ends than in the middle; they could not remain quiet; they twitched constantly.

"This can't keep up, Dorothea," he said in a kindly tone, "you are ruining your own life and mine too. Why do you have all these people around you? Is the pleasure you derive from associating with them so great that it benumbs your conscience? I have no idea what you are doing. Tell me about it. The household affairs are in a wretched condition; everything is in disorder. And that cigar smoke out in the living room! I opened a window. And your child! It has no mother. Look at its little face, and see how pale and sickly it looks!"

"Well, I can't help it; Philippina puts poppy in the milk so that it will sleep longer," Dorothea answered, after the fashion of guilty women: of the various reproaches Daniel had cast at her, she seized upon the one of which she felt the least guilty. But after this, Daniel had no more to say.

"I am so tired and sleepy," said Dorothea, and again blinked at him out of one corner of her eye with that mocking, sensual look. As he showed no inclination to leave, she yawned, and continued in an angry tone: "Why do you wake a person up in the middle of the night, if all you want is to scold them? Get out of here, you loathsome thing!"

She turned her back on him, and rested her head on her hand. Opposite her bed was a mirror in a gold frame. She saw herself in it; she was pleased with herself lying there in that offended mood, and she smiled.

Daniel, who had been so cruel to noble women now become shades, saw how she smiled at herself, infatuated with herself: he took pity on such child-like vanity.

"There is a Chinese fairy tale about a Princess," he said, and bent down over Dorothea, "who received from her mother as a wedding present a set of jewel boxes. There was a costly present in each box, but the last, smallest, innermost one was locked, and the Princess had to promise that she would never open it. She kept her promise for a while, but curiosity at last got the better of her, she forgot her vow, and opened the last little box by force. There was a mirror in it; and when she looked into it and saw how beautiful she was, she began to abuse her husband. She tortured him so that he killed her one day."

Dorothea looked at him terrified. Then she laughed and said: "What a stupid story! Such a tale of horror!" She laid her cheek on the pillow, and again looked in the mirror.

The following morning Daniel received an anonymous letter. It read as follows: "You will be guarding your own honour if you keep a sharp lookout on your wife. A Well-wisher."

A cold fever came over him. For a few days he dragged his body from room to room as if poisoned. He avoided every one in the house. One night he again felt a desire to go down to Dorothea. When he reached the door to her room, he found it bolted. He knocked, but received no answer. He knocked again, this time more vigorously. He heard her turn her head on the pillow. "Let me sleep!" cried Dorothea angrily.

"Open the door, Dorothea," he begged.

"No, I will not; I want to sleep." These were the words that reached his ear from behind the bolted door.

He pressed three or four times on the latch, implored her three or four times to let him come in, but received no answer. He did not wish to make any more noise, looked straight ahead as if into a dark hole, and then turned and went back to his room in the attic.

XIII

Friedrich Benda was again in Europe. All the newspapers contained accounts of the discoveries made on the expedition. Last autumn Arab dealers in ivory had found him in the land of Niam-Niam, taken an interest in him, and finally brought him, then seemingly in the throes of imminent death, back to the Nile. In England he was celebrated as a hero and a bold pioneer; the Royal Geographical Society had made him an honorary member; and the incidents of his journey were the talk of the day.

Toward the close of April he came to Nuremberg to visit his mother. The blind old woman had been carefully and cautiously prepared for his coming. She nevertheless came very near dying with joy; her life was in grave danger for a while.

Benda had not wished to stay more than a week: his business and his work called him back to London; he had lectures to deliver, and he had to see a book through the press, a book in which he had given a description of the years spent in Africa.

At the urgent request of his mother he had decided to stay longer. Moreover, during the first days of his visit to Nuremberg, he suffered from a severe attack of a fever he had brought with him from the tropics, and this forced him to remain in bed. The news of his presence in the city finally became generally known, and he was annoyed by the curiosity of many people who had formerly never concerned themselves about him in the slightest.

He was eager to see Daniel; every hour of delay in meeting his old friend was an hour of reproach. But his mother insisted that he stay with her; he had to sit near her and tell of his experiences in Africa.

When he heard of the outer events in Daniel's life he was filled with terror. The fact that made the profoundest impression on him was Daniel's marriage to Dorothea Doederlein. People told him a great many things about their life and how they were getting along, and with each passing day he felt that it would be more difficult to go to Daniel. One evening he got his courage together and decided to go. He got as far as AEgydius Place, when he was seized with such a feeling of sadness and discomfort at the thought of all the changes that time and fate had made that he turned back. He felt as if he might be deceived by a picture which would perhaps still show the features of Daniel as he looked in former years, but that he would be so changed inwardly that words would be unable to bring the two together.

He longed to talk with some one who loved Daniel and who had followed his career with pure motives. He had to think for a long while: where was there such a person? He thought of old Herold and went to him. He directed the conversation without digression to a point that was of prime importance to him. And in order to put the old man in as confidential a frame of mind as possible, he reminded him of a night when the three of them, Daniel, Herold, and Benda, had sat in the Mohren Cellar drinking wine and discussing things in general, important and unimportant, that have a direct bearing on life.

The old man nodded; he recalled the evening. He spoke of Daniel's genius with a modesty and a deference that made Benda's heart swell. He raised his finger, and said with a fine fire in his eye: "I'll stand good for him. I prophesy on the word of the Bible: A star will rise from Jacob."

Then he spoke of Eleanore; he was passionately fond of her. He told how she had brought him the quartette, and how she had glowed with inspiration and the desire to help. He also had a good deal to say about Gertrude, especially with regard to her mental breakdown and her death.

Benda left the old man at once quiet and disquieted. He walked along the street for a long while, rapt in thought. When he looked up he saw that he was standing before Daniel's house. He went in.

XIV

Daniel knew that Benda had returned: Philippina had read it in the newspaper and told him about it. Dorothea, who had learned of his return from her father, had also spoken to him about it. He had also heard other people speak of it.

The first time he heard it he was startled. He felt he would have to flee to his friend of former days. Then he was seized with the same fear that had come over Benda: Is our relation to each other the same? The thought of meeting Benda filled him with a sense of shame, to which was added a touch of bitterness as day after day passed by and Benda never called or wrote. "It is all over," he thought, "he has forgotten me." He would have liked to forget too; and he could have done it, for his mind was wandering, restless, strayed.

One evening as he crossed the square he noticed that the windows of his house were all brilliantly lighted. He went to the kitchen, where he found Agnes at the table seeding plums.

"Who is here again?" he asked. One could hear laughter, loud and boisterous, in the living room.

Agnes, scarcely looking up, reeled off the names: Councillor Finkeldey, Herr von Ginsterberg, Herr Samuelsky, Herr Hahn, a strange man whose name she did not know, Frau Feistelmann and her sister.

Daniel remained silent for a while. Then he went up to Agnes, put his hand under her chin, lifted her head, and murmured: "And you? And you?"

Agnes frowned, and was afraid to look into his face. Suddenly she said: "To-day is the anniversary of mother's death." With that she looked at him fixedly.

"So?" said Daniel, sat down on the edge of the table, and laid his head in his hand. Some one was playing the piano in the living room. Since Daniel had taken the grand piano up to his room, Dorothea had rented a small one. The rhythmical movement of dancing couples could be heard quite distinctly.

"I'd like to leave this place," said Agnes, as she threw a worm-eaten plum in the garbage can. "In Beckschlager Street there is a seamstress who wants to teach me to sew."

"Why don't you go?" asked Daniel. "It would be a very sensible thing to do. But what will Philippina say about it?"

"Oh, she doesn't object, provided I spend my evenings and Sundays with her."

The front door bell rang, and Agnes went out: there was some one to see Daniel. He hesitated, started toward the door, shook and stepped back, seized with trembling hand the kitchen lamp in order to make certain that he was not mistaken, for it was dark, but there could be no mistake. It was Benda.

They looked at each other in violent agitation. Benda was the first to reach out his hand; then Daniel reached out his. Something seemed to snap within him. He became dizzy, his tall, stiff body swung back and forth. Then he fell into the arms of his friend, whom he had lived without for seventeen years.

Benda was not prepared for such a scene; he was unable to speak. Then Daniel tore himself loose from the embrace of his old comrade, pushed the dishevelled hair back from his forehead, and said hastily: "Come upstairs with me; no one will disturb us up there."

Daniel lighted the lamp in his room, and then looked around to see whether old Jordan was at home. Jordan's room was dark. He closed the door and took a seat opposite Benda. He was breathing heavily.

What meaning can be attached to the preliminary questions and answers that invariably accompany such a meeting after such a long separation? "How are you? How long are you going to stay in town? You still have the same old habits of life? Tell me about yourself." What do such questions mean? They mean virtually nothing. The protagonists thereby simply remove the rubbish from the channels which have been choked up in the course of years, and try to build new bridges carrying them over abysses that must be crossed if the conversation is to be connected and coherent.

Benda had grown somewhat stout. His face was brownish yellow, about the colour of leather. The deep wrinkles around his forehead and mouth told of the hardships he had gone through. His eye was completely changed: it had the strong, vivacious, and yet quiet appearance of the eye of a hunter or a peasant.

"You may well imagine that I have already told the story of my adventures in Africa a hundred times and in the same way," said Benda. "It has all been written down, and will shortly appear in book form, where you can read it. It was an unbroken chain of toil and trouble. Frequently I was as close to death as I am to this wall. I devoured enough quinine to fill a freight car, and yet it was always the same old story, fever to-day, to-morrow, for six months in the year. I have, I fear, ruined my health; I am afraid my old heart will not last much longer. The eternal vigilance I was obliged to exercise, the incessant fight for so simple a thing as a path, or for more urgent things such as food and drink, has told on me. I suffered terribly from the sun; also from the rain. I had very few of the comforts of life; I was often forced to sleep on the ground. And there was no one to talk to, no sense of security."

"And yet," he continued, "I had my reward. When I look back on it all, there is not an hour that I would care to have wiped from my memory. I accomplished a great deal. I made some important discoveries, brought back enough work to keep me busy for years to come, thirty-six boxes of plant preparations, and this despite the fact that the entire fruit of my first seven years of effort was burned in a tent near Nembos. But apart from what I have actually done, there is something so real and solemn about such a life. You live with the sky above you and savages round about you. These savages are like children. This state of affairs is, to be sure, being rapidly changed: Europe is breathing its pest into the paradise. The wiles and weaknesses of these savages are in a way touching; you feel sorry for them as you feel sorry for a dumb, harassed beast. I had taken a boy along with me from the boundless, primeval forests north of the Congo. He was a little bit of a fellow, almost a dwarf. I liked him; I even loved him. And obedient! I merely had to make a sign, and he was ready. Well, we came back to the Italian lakes, where I wished to remain for a while for the sake of the climate before returning to England. What happened? At the sight of the snow-covered mountain peaks he was seized with deathly fear; he became homesick; and in a few days he died of pneumonia."

"Why is it that there was such a long period that we never heard from you?" asked Daniel, with a timidity and shyness that made Benda's heart ache.

"That is a long story," said Benda. "It took me two years to get through that fearful forest and out to a lake called Albert-Nyanza. From there I wanted to get over to Egypt, but the country was in a state of revolution and was occupied by the soldiers of the Mahdi. I was forced to take the route to the Northwest, ran into a pathless wilderness, and for five years was a captive of a tribe of the Wadai. The Niam-Niam, who were at war with the Wadai, liberated me. I could move about with relative freedom among them, but I could not go beyond their boundaries, for they held me in high esteem as a medicine man and were afraid I would bewitch them if I ever got out of their personal control. I had lost my guides, and I had no money to hire new ones. The things I needed, because of the delicacy of my constitution, as compared with theirs, I secured through the chieftain from a band of Arabian merchants. This was all very well so far as it went, but the chieftain was careful to keep me concealed from the Arabs. I finally succeeded in coming into personal touch with a Sheik to whom I could make myself understood. It was high time, for I could not have stood it another year."

Daniel was silent. It was all so strange; he could hardly adapt himself to Benda's voice and manner. Memory failed him. The world of Benda was all too foreign, unknown to him. What he himself felt had no weight with his friend; it did not even have meaning. With the old sense of dim defiance, he coaxed the ghost of disappointment into his soul; and his soul was weighed down by the nocturnal darkness like the glass of his window.

"Now I am enjoying my home," said Benda thoughtfully, "I am enjoying a milder light, a more ordered civilisation. I have come to look upon Germany as a definite figure, to love it as a composite picture. Nature, really great, grand nature such as formerly seemed beyond the reach of my longings, such as constituted my idea, my presentiment of perfection, I have experienced in person; I have lived it. It enticed me, taught me, and almost destroyed me. All human organisation, on the contrary, has developed more and more into an idea. In hours that were as full of the feeling of things as the heart is full of blood, I have seen the scales of the balance move up and down with the weight of two worlds. The loneliness, the night, the heavens at night, the forest, the desert have shown me their true faces. The terribleness that at times proceeds from them has no equal in any other condition of existence. I understood for the first time the law that binds families, peoples, states together. I have repudiated all thought of rebellion, and sworn to co-operate, to do nothing but co-operate.

"I want to make a confession to you," he continued. "I never had the faintest conception of the rhythm of life until I went to Africa. I had known how long it takes to grow a tree; I was familiar with the metamorphoses through which a plant must pass before it attains to perfection and becomes what it is; but it had never occurred to me to apply these laws and facts to our own lives; this had never entered my mind. I had demanded too much; I had been in too much of a hurry. Egoistic impatience had placed false weights and measures in my hands. What I have learned during these seventeen years of trial and hardship is patience. Everything moves so slowly. Humanity is still a child, and yet we demand justice of it, expect right and righteous action from it. Justice? Oh, there is still a long, long road to be travelled before we reach Justice! The way is as long and arduous as that from the primeval forest to the cultivated garden. We must exercise patience—for the benefit of the many generations of men that are to come after us."

Daniel got up and began to walk back and forth. After a silence that was exceedingly painful to Benda, he said: "Let's go out. Let's go to a cafe, or take a long walk on the streets, or go wherever you would like to go. Or if I am a burden to you, I will accompany you for a short stretch and then remain alone. The point is, I cannot stay here any longer; I cannot stand it here."

"A burden to me?" replied Benda reproachfully. That was the tone, the look of years gone by. Daniel felt at once that he was personally under no obligation to talk. He saw at once that Benda knew a great deal and suspected the rest. He felt his heart grow lighter.

They went downstairs.

XV

Daniel asked Benda to wait on the stairs, locked the door, and took his hat from the hook. In the living room there was a great deal of noise punctuated with laughter. Philippina came out of her room, and snarled: "The way they're carrying on in there! You'd think they wuz all drunk!"

"What is going on?" asked Daniel timidly, merely to have something to say.

"They are playing blindfold," replied Philippina contemptuously, "every one of them is an old bird, and they're playing blindfold!"

There was a sound as if a plate had been broken; a piercing scream followed, and then silence. But the silence was of momentary duration: that vulgar, slimy laughter soon broke out again.

Above the din of screaming voices, Daniel heard Dorothea's. He hastened to the door and opened it.

His enraged eye fell on the table covered with pots, empty cups, and pastry. The chairs had been pushed to one side; the new gas chandelier with its five frosted globes was functioning at full force; there were seven or eight persons grouped around Dorothea, laughing and looking at something that had fallen on the floor.

Dorothea had pushed the white sash she had been wearing while playing blindfold back on her forehead. She was the first to see Daniel; she exclaimed: "There is my husband. Now don't get angry, Daniel; it's nothing but that idiotic plaster mask."

Councillor Finkeldey, a white-bearded man, nodded at Daniel, or at least at the spot where he was standing, with marked enthusiasm. It was his way of paying homage to Dorothea: everything she said he accompanied with an inspired nod of approval.

Daniel saw that the mask of Zingarella had been broken to pieces.

Without greeting a single person present, without even looking at a single one of them, he stepped into the circle, knelt down, and tried to put the broken pieces of the mask together. But there were too many small shreds. The nose, the chin, parts of the glorious forehead, a piece with the mouth arched in sorrow, another piece of the cheek—there were too many; they could not be put together.

He hurled the fragments to one side, and straightened up. "Philippina! The broom!" His command was given in a loud tone. And when Philippina came in with the broom, he added: "Sweep the dirt up on a pile, and then throw it in the garbage can."

Philippina swept up, while Daniel, as silent and unsocial on going as he had been on coming, left the room.

Frau Feistelmann made an indignant face, Edward Hahn breathed through his nose, Herr Samuelsky, a fat man with a red beard, made a contemptuous remark, Dorothea, vexed and annoyed, stood and looked on while the tears took their unrestrained course.

Benda had been waiting down at the front door. "She has broken my mask," said Daniel with a distorted smile, as he came down to his old friend, "the mask you gave me. You remember! Strange that it should have been broken to-day of all days, the very day you come to see me after so long a separation."

"Possibly it can be glued together again," said Benda, trying to console Daniel.

"I am not in favour of glueing things together," replied Daniel. His eyes flashed green behind his glasses.

XVI

When the guests left, Philippina came in and cleaned up the room. Dorothea sat on the sofa. Her hands were lying in her lap; she was unusually serious.

"Why don't your American ever come to see us?" asked Philippina, without apparent motive.

Dorothea was terrified. "Lock the door, Philippina," she whispered, "I have something to tell you."

Philippina locked the door, and went over to the sofa. "The American has to see me," continued Dorothea, as her eyes roamed about the room in timid waywardness. "He says he wants to talk to me about something that will be of very great importance to me the rest of my life. He is living in a hotel, but I can't go to a hotel. It will not do to have him come here, nor do I wish to be seen on the street with him. He has suggested a place where we might meet, but I am afraid: I do not know the people. Can't you help me out, Philippina? Don't you know some one to whom we can go and in whose house we can meet?"

Philippina's eyes shone with their veteran glitter. She thought for a second or two, and then replied: "Oh, yes, I'll tell you what you can do. Go down to Frau Hadebusch's! She's a good friend of mine, and you c'n depend on her. It don't make no difference what takes place in her house; it won't bother even the cat. You know Frau Hadebusch! Of course you do. What am I talking about! She is a widow, and lives all alone in a little house. She won't rent; she says she don't want the trouble. You know she's no young woman any more. She is all alone, mind you. No one there but her son, and he's cracked. Honest, the boy ain't right."

"Well, you go and talk it over with Frau Hadebusch, Philippina," said Dorothea timidly.

"Very well, I'll go see her to-morrow morning," replied Philippina, smiled subserviently, and laid her horny hand on Dorothea's tender shoulder.

"But listen, Philippina, be very, very careful. Do you hear?" Dorothea's eyes became big and threatening. "Swear that you will be as silent as the tombs."

"As true as I'm standing here!" said Philippina. Just then she bent over to pick up a hair pin from the floor.

The next morning Philippina ran over to Frau Hadebusch's. The whole way she kept humming to herself; she was happy; she was contented.



THE DEVIL LEAVES THE HOUSE IN FLAMES

I

Despite the rain, Daniel and Benda strolled around the city moat until midnight.

The very thing that lay heaviest on Daniel's heart, as was obvious from the expression on his face, he never mentioned. He told of his work, his travels in connection with the old manuscripts, his position as organist and in the conservatory, but all in such a general, detached, and distraught way, so tired and bewildered, that Benda was filled with an embarrassed anguish that made courteous attention difficult if not impossible.

In order to get him to talk more freely, Benda remarked that he had not heard of the death of Gertrude and Eleanore until his return. He said he was terribly pained to hear of it, and, try as he might, he could not help but brood over it. But he had no thought of persuading Daniel to give him the mournful details. He merely wished to convince himself that Daniel had become master of the anguish he had gone through,—master of it at least inwardly.

Instead of making a direct and logical reply, Daniel said with a twitching of his lips: "Yes, I know, you have been here for quite a while already. Inwardly I was surprised at your silence. But it is not easy to start up a renewed friendship with such a problematic creature as I am."

"You know you are wrong when you say that," responded Benda calmly, "and therefore I refuse to explain my long waiting. You never were problematic to me, nor are you now. I find you at this moment just as true and whole as you always were, despite the fact that you avoid me, crouch before me, barricade yourself against me."

Daniel's breast heaved as if in the throes of a convulsion. He said falteringly: "First let that old confidence return and grow. I must first become accustomed to the thought that there is a man near me who feels with me, sympathises with me, understands me. To be sure, you want me to talk. But I cannot talk, at least not of those things about which you would like to hear. I am afraid: I shudder at the thought; I have forgotten how; words mock me, make me feel ashamed. Even when I have good dreams, I personally am as happily and blessedly silent in them as the beast of the field. I shudder at the thought of reaching down into my soul and pulling out old, rusty things and showing them to you—mouldy fruit, slag, junk—showing them to you, you who knew me when all within me was crystal."

He fixed his eyes on the clouds and then continued: "But there is probably another means, Friedrich. Look, friend, look! It was always your affair to look, to behold. Look, but see to it that you do not make me writhe before you like a worm in the dust! And when you have looked—wisdom needs only one spoken word for ten that are unspoken. This one word you will surely draw from me."

Benda, deeply moved, remained silent: "Is it the fault of a woman?" he asked gently, as they crossed the drawbridge and entered the desolate old door leading to the castle.

"The fault of a woman? No! Not really the fault of a woman. It is rather the fault of a man—my fault. Many a fate reaches the decisive point in happiness, many not until coloured with guilt. And guilt is bitter. The fault of a woman!" he repeated, in a voice that threw off a gruesome echo in the vaulted arch of the gateway to the castle. "There is to be sure a woman there; and when one has anything to do with her, he finds himself with nothing left but his eyes for weeping."

They left the gateway. Benda laid one hand on Daniel's shoulder, and pointed in silence at the sky with the other. There were no stars to be seen; nothing but clouds. Benda however had the stars in mind. Daniel understood his gesture. His eyelids closed; around his mouth there was an expression of vehement grief.

II

Benda was convinced, not merely that one great misfortune had already taken place, but that a still greater was in the making.

Whenever he thought of Dorothea, the picture that came to his mind was one that filled him with fear. And yet, he thought, she must have some remarkable traits, otherwise Daniel would never have chosen her as his life companion. He wanted to meet her.