The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Road to the Open, by Arthur Schnitzler. (2024)

The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Road to the Open, by Arthur SchnitzlerThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and withalmost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away orre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License includedwith this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/licenseTitle: The Road to the OpenAuthor: Arthur SchnitzlerTranslator: Horace SamuelRelease Date: June 6, 2014 [EBook #45895]Language: EnglishCharacter set encoding: ISO-8859-1*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE ROAD TO THE OPEN ***Produced by Ema Majhut and Marc D'Hooghe athttp://www.freeliterature.org (Images generously madeavailable by the Internet Archive.)

BY

ARTHUR SCHNITZLER

AUTHORISED TRANSLATION

BY HORACE SAMUEL

LONDON: HOWARD LATIMER LIMITED

GREAT QUEEN STREET, KINGSWAY

1913

I

George von Wergenthin sat at table quite alone to-day. His elderbrother Felician had chosen to dine out with friends for the first timeafter a longish interval. But George felt no particular inclinationto renew his acquaintance with Ralph Skelton, Count Schönstein or anyof the other young people, whose gossip usually afforded him so muchpleasure; for the time being he did not feel in the mood for any kindof society.

The servant cleared away and disappeared. George lit a cigaretteand then in accordance with his habit walked up and down the bigthree-windowed rather low room, while he wondered how it was that thisvery room which had for many weeks seemed to him so gloomy was nowgradually beginning to regain its former air of cheerfulness. He couldnot help letting his glance linger on the empty chair at the top end ofthe table, over which the September sun was streaming through the openwindow in the centre. He felt as though he had seen his father, whohad died two months ago, sit there only an hour back, as he visualisedwith great clearness the very slightest mannerisms of the dead man,even down to his trick of pushing his coffee-cup away, adjusting hispince-nez or turning over the leaves of a pamphlet.

George thought of one of his last conversations with his father whichhad occurred in the late spring before they had moved to the villaon the Veldeser Lake. George had just then come back from Sicily,where he had spent April with Grace on a melancholy and somewhatboring farewell tour before his mistress's final return to America.He had done no real work for six months or more, and had not evencopied out the plaintive adagio which he had heard in the plashingof the waves on a windy morning in Palermo as he walked along thebeach. George had played over the theme to his father and improvisedon it with an exaggerated wealth of harmonies which almost swampedthe original melody, and when he had launched into a wildly modulatedvariation, his father had smilingly asked him from the other end ofthe piano—"Whither away, whither away?" George had felt abashed andallowed the swell of the notes to subside, and his father had begun adiscussion about his son's future with all his usual affection, butwith rather more than his usual seriousness. This conversation ranthrough his mind to-day as though it had been pregnant with presage. Hestood at the window and looked out. The park outside was fairly empty.An old woman wearing an old-fashioned cloak with glass beads sat ona seat. A nursemaid walked past holding one child by the hand whileanother, a little boy, in a hussar uniform, with a buckled-on sabreand a pistol in his belt, ran past, looked haughtily round and saluteda veteran who came down the path smoking. Further down the groundswere a few people sitting round the kiosk, drinking coffee and readingthe papers. The foliage was still fairly thick, and the park lookeddepressed and dusty and altogether far more summer-like than usual forlate September.

George rested his arms on the window-sill, leant forwards and looked atthe sky. He had not left Vienna since his father's death, though he hadhad many opportunities of so doing. He could have gone with Felician tothe Schönstein estate; Frau Ehrenberg had written him a charming letterinviting him to come to Auhof; he could easily have found a companionfor that long-planned cycle-tour through Carinthia and the Tyrol, whichhe had not the energy to undertake alone. But he preferred to stayin Vienna and occupy his time with perusing and putting in order theold family papers. He found archives which went as far back as hisgreat-grandfather Anastasius von Wergenthin, who haled from the Rhinedistrict and had by his marriage with a Fräulein Recco become possessedof an old castle near Bozen which had been uninhabitable for a longperiod. There were also documents dealing with the history of George'sgrandfather, a major of artillery who had fallen before Chlum in theyear 1866.

The major's son, the father of Felician and himself, had devotedhimself to scientific studies, principally botany, and had taken atInnsbruck the degree of Doctor of Philosophy. At the age of twenty-fourhe had made the acquaintance of a young girl of an old family ofAustrian officials, who had brought her up to be a singer, morewith a view to rendering her independent of the limited, not to sayimpoverished, resources of the household, than because she had any realvocation. Baron von Wergenthin saw and heard her for the first time ata concert-performance of the Missa Solemnis and in the following Mayshe became his wife. Three years later the health of the Baroness beganto fail, and she was ordered South by the doctors. She did not recoveras soon as was anticipated, with the result that the house in Viennawas given up, and the Baron and his family lived for several years akind of hotel-life, as they travelled from one place to another. Hisbusiness and studies frequently summoned the Baron to Vienna, but thesons never left their mother. The family lived in Sicily, Rome, Tunis,Corfu, Athens, Malta, Merano, the Riviera, and finally in Florence;never in very great style, but fairly well nevertheless, and withoutcurtailing their expenditure sufficiently to prevent a substantial partof the Baron's fortune being gradually eaten up. George was eighteenwhen his mother died. Nine years had passed since then, but the memoryof that spring evening was still as vivid as ever, when his father andbrother had happened to be out, and he had stood alone and helpless byhis mother's death-bed, while the talk and laughter of the passers-byhad flowed in with the spring air through the hastily opened windowswith all the jar of its unwelcome noise.

The survivors took their mother's body back to Vienna. The Barondevoted himself to his studies with new and desperate zeal. He hadformerly enjoyed the reputation of an aristocratic dilettante, but henow began to be taken quite seriously even in academic circles, andwhen he was elected honorary president of the Botanical Society heowed that distinction to something more than the accident of a noblename. Felician and George entered themselves as law students. But aftersome time their father himself encouraged the boys to abandon theiruniversity studies, and go in for a more general education and onemore in accordance with their musical tendencies. George felt thankfuland relieved at this new departure. But even in this sphere which hehad chosen himself, he was by no means industrious, and he would oftenoccupy himself for weeks on end with all manner of things that hadnothing at all to do with his musical career.

It was this same trait of dilettantism which made him now go throughthe old family documents as seriously as though he were investigatingsome important secrets of the past. He spent many hours busyinghimself with letters which his parents had exchanged in years gone by,wistful letters and superficial letters, melancholy letters and placidletters, which brought back again to life not merely the departed onesthemselves but other men and women half sunk in oblivion. His Germantutor now appeared to him again with his sad pale forehead just as heused to declaim his Horace to him on their long walks, there floated upin his mind the wild brown boyish face of Prince Alexander of Macedonin whose company George had had his first riding lessons in Rome; andthen the Pyramids of Cestius limned as though in a dream with blacklines on a pale blue horizon reared their peaks, just as George hadseen them once in the twilight as he came home from his first ride inthe Campagna. And as he abandoned himself still more to his reveriethere appeared sea-shores, gardens and streets, though he had noknowledge of the landscape or the town that had furnished them to hismemory; images of human beings swept past him; some of these, whom hehad met casually on some trivial occasion, were very clear, othersagain, with whom he might at some time or other have passed many days,were shadowy and distant.

When George had finished inspecting the old letters and was puttinghis own papers in order, he found in an old green case some musicaljottings of his boyhood, whose very existence had so completelyvanished from his memory, that if they had been put before him as therecords of some one else he would not have known the difference. Someaffected him with a kind of pleasant pain, for they seemed to him tocontain promises which he was perhaps never to fulfil. And yet he hadbeen feeling lately that something had been hatching within him. He sawhis development as a mysterious but definite line which showed the wayfrom those first promising notes in the green case to quite new ideas,and this much he knew—the two songs out of the "Westöstliche Divan"which he had set to music this summer on a sultry afternoon, whileFelician lay in his hammock and his father worked in his armchair onthe cool terrace, could not have been composed by your ordinary person.

George moved back a step from the window as though surprised by anabsolutely unexpected thought. He had never before realised with suchclearness that there had been an absolute break in his life sincehis father's death down to to-day. During the whole time he had notgiven a single thought to Anna Rosner to whom he had sent the songsin manuscript. And he felt pleasurably thrilled at the thought thathe could hear her melodious melancholy voice again and accompany hersinging on that somewhat heavy piano, as soon as he wished. And heremembered the old house in the Paulanergasse, with its low door andbadly lighted stairs which he had not been up more than three or fourtimes, in the mood in which a man thinks of something which he hasknown very long and held very dear.

A slight soughing traversed the leaves in the park outside. Thin cloudsappeared over the spire of the Stephan Tower, which stood directlyopposite the window, on the other side of the park, and over a largishpart of the town. George was faced with a long afternoon without anyengagements. It seemed to him as though all his former friendshipsduring the two months of mourning had dissolved or broken up. Hethought of the past spring and winter with all their complicationsand mad whirl of gaiety, and all kinds of images came back into hismemory—the ride with Frau Marianne in the closed fiacre throughthe snow-covered forest. The masked ball at Ehrenberg's with Else'ssubtly-naive remarks about "Hedda Gabler" with whom she insisted shefelt a certain affinity, and with Sissy's hasty kiss from under theblack lace of her mask. A mountain expedition in the snow from Edlachup to the Rax with Count Schönstein and Oskar Ehrenberg, who, thoughvery far from being a born mountaineer, had jumped at the opportunityof tacking himself on to two blue-blooded gentlemen. The evening atRonacher's with Grace and young Labinski, who had shot himself fourdays afterwards either on account of Grace, debts, satiety, or as asheer piece of affectation. The strange hot and cold conversation withGrace in the cemetery in the melting February snow two days afterLabinski's funeral. The evening in the hot lofty fencing-room whereFelician's sword had crossed the dangerous blade of the Italianmaster. The walk at night after the Paderewski concert when his fatherhad spoken to him more intimately than ever before of that long-pastevening on which his dead mother had sung in the Missa Solemnis in thevery hall which they had just come out of. And finally Anna Rosner'stall quiet figure appeared to him, leaning on the piano, with the scorein her hand, and her smiling blue eyes turned towards the keys, and heeven heard her voice reverberating in his soul.

While he stood like this at the window and looked down at the parkwhich was gradually becoming animated, he felt a certain consolationin the fact that he had no close ties with any human being, and thatthere were so many people to whom he could attach himself once moreand whose set he could enter again as soon as the fancy took him. Hefelt at the same time wonderfully rested and more in the vein forwork and happiness than he had ever been. He was full of great boldresolutions and joyfully conscious of his youth and independence. Heno doubt felt a certain shame at the thought that at any rate at thepresent moment his grief for his dead father was much alleviated; buthe found a relief for this indifference of his in the thought of hisdear father's painless end. He had been walking up and down the gardenchatting with his two sons, had suddenly looked round him as though heheard voices in the distance, had then looked up towards the sky andhad suddenly dropped down dead on the sward, without a cry of pain oreven a twitching of the lips.

George went back into the room, got ready to go out and left the house.He intended to walk about for a couple of hours wherever chance mighttake him, and in the evening to work again at his quintette, for whichhe now felt in the right mood. He crossed the street and went into thepark. The sultriness had passed. The old woman in the cloak still saton the seat and stared in front of her. Children were playing on thesandy playground round the trees. All the chairs round the kiosk weretaken. A clean-shaven gentleman sat in the summer-house whom Georgeknew by sight and who had impressed him by his likeness to the elderGrillparzer. By the pond George met a governess with two well-dressedchildren and received a flashing glance. When he got out of the Parkinto the Ringstrasse he met Willy Eissler who was wearing a long autumnovercoat with dark stripes and began to speak to him.

"Good afternoon, Baron, so you've come back to Vienna again."

"I've been back a long time," answered George. "I didn't leave Viennaagain after my father's death."

"Yes, yes, quite so.... Allow me, once again...." And Willy shook handswith George.

"And what have you been doing this summer?" asked George.

"All kinds of things. Played tennis, and painted, rotted about, hadsome amusing times and a lot of boring ones...." Willy spoke extremelyquickly, with a deliberate though slight hoarseness, briskly and yetnonchalantly with a combination of the Hungarian, French, Viennese andJewish accents. "Anyway, I came early to-day, just as you see me now,from Przemysl," he continued.

"Drill?"

"Yes, the last one. I'm sorry to say so. Though I'm nearly an old man,I've always found it a joke to trot about with my yellow epaulettes,clanking my spurs, dragging my sabre along, spreading an atmosphere ofimpending peril, and being taken by incompetent Lavaters for a noblecount." They walked along by the side of the railing of the Stadtpark.

"Going to Ehrenbergs' by any chance?" asked Willy.

"No, I never thought of it."

"Because this is the way. I say, have you heard, Fräulein Else issupposed to be engaged?"

"Really?" queried George slowly. "And whom to?"

"Guess, Baron."

"Come, Hofrat Wilt?"

"Great heavens!" cried Willy, "I'm sure it's never entered his head!Becoming S. Ehrenberg's son-in-law might result in prejudicing hisgovernment career—nowadays."

George went on guessing. "Rittmeister Ladisc?"

"Oh no, Fräulein Else is far too clever to be taken in by him."

George then remembered that Willy had fought a duel with Ladisc a fewyears back. Willy felt George's look, twirled somewhat nervously hisblonde moustache which drooped in the Polish fashion and began to speakquickly and offhandedly.

"The fact that Rittmeister Ladisc and myself once had a differencecannot prevent me from loyally recognising the fact that he is, andalways has been, a drunken swine. I have an invincible repulsion, whicheven blood cannot wash out, against those people who gorge themselvessick at Jewish houses and then start slanging the Jews as soon as theyget on the door-steps. They ought to be able to wait till they gotto the café. But don't exert yourself any more by guessing. HeinrichBermann is the lucky man."

"Impossible," said George.

"Why?" asked Eissler. "It had to be some one sooner or later. Bermannis no Adonis, I agree, but he's a coming man, and Else's officialideal of a mixture of gentleman-rider and athlete will never turn up.Meanwhile she has reached twenty-four, and she must have had enough bynow of Salomon's tactless remarks and Salomon's jokes."

"Salomon?—oh, yes—Ehrenberg."

"You only know him by the initial S? S of course stands for Salomon... and as for only S standing on the door, that is simply a concessionhe made to his family. If he could follow his own fancy he would preferto turn up at the parties Madame Ehrenberg gives in a caftan andside-curls."

"Do you think so? He's not so very strict?"

"Strict?... Really now! It's nothing at all to do with strictness. Itis only cussedness, particularly against his son Oskar with his feudalideals."

"Really," said George with a smile, "wasn't Oskar baptised long ago?Why, he's a reserve officer in the dragoons."

"That's why ... well, I've not been baptised and nevertheless ... yes... there are always exceptions ... with good will...." He laughed andwent on. "As for Oskar, he would personally prefer to be a Catholic.But he thought for the time being he would have to pay too dearly forthe pleasure of being able to go to confession. There's sure to be aprovision in the will to take care that Oskar doesn't 'vert over."

They had arrived in front of the Café Imperial. Willy remainedstanding. "I've got an appointment here with Demeter Stanzides."

"Please remember me to him."

"Thanks very much. Won't you come in and have an ice?"

"Thanks, I'll prowl about a little more."

"You like solitude?"

"It's hard to give an answer to so general a question," replied George.

"Of course," said Willy, suddenly grew serious and lifted his hat."Good afternoon, Baron."

George held out his hand. He felt that Willy was a man who wascontinually defending a position though there was no pressing necessityfor him to do so.

"Au revoir," he said with real sincerity. He felt now as he had oftendone before, that it was almost extraordinary that Willy should be aJew. Why, old Eissler, Willy's father, who composed charming Viennesewaltzes and songs, was a connoisseur and collector, and sometimes aseller of antiquities, and objets d'art, and had passed in his dayfor the most celebrated boxer in Vienna, was, what with his long greybeard and his monocle, far more like a Hungarian magnate than a Jewishpatriarch. Besides, Willy's own temperament, his deliberate cultivationof it and his iron will had made him into the deceptive counterpartof a feudal gentleman bred and born. What, however, distinguished himfrom other young people of similar race and ambition was the factthat he was accustomed to admit his origin, to demand explanation orsatisfaction for every ambiguous smile, and to make merry himself overall the prejudices and vanities of which he was so often the victim.

George strode along, and Willy's last question echoed in his ears. Didhe love solitude?... He remembered how he had walked about in Palermofor whole mornings while Grace, following her usual habit, lay in bedtill noon.... Where was she now...? Since she had said goodbye to himin Naples he had in accordance with their arrangement heard nothingfrom her. He thought of the deep blue night which had swept over thewaters when he had travelled alone to Genoa after that farewell, and ofthe soft strange fairy-like song of two children who, nestling closelyup against each other and wrapped, the pair of them, in one rug, hadsat on the deck by the side of their sleeping mother.

With a growing sense of well-being he walked on among the people whopassed by him with all the casual nonchalance of a Sunday. Many a gladglance from a woman's eye met his own, and seemed as though it wouldhave liked to console him for strolling about alone and with all theexternal appearances of mourning on this beautiful holiday afternoon.And another picture floated up in his mind.—He saw himself on a hillysward, after a hot June day, late in the evening. Darkness all around.Deep below him a clatter of men, laughter and noise, and glitteringfairy-lamps. Quite near, girls' voices came out of the darkness.... Helit the small pipe which he usually only smoked in the country; theflare of the vesta showed him two pretty young peasant wenches, stillalmost children. He chatted to them. They were frightened because itwas so dark; they nestled up to him. Suddenly a whizz, rockets in theair, a loud "Ah!" from down below. Bengal lights flaring violet and redover the invisible lake beneath. The girls rushed down the hill andvanished. Then it became dark again and he lay alone and looked up intothe darkness which swam down on him in all its sultriness. The nightbefore the day on which his father died had been one such as this. Andhe thought of him for the first time to-day.

He had left the Ringstrasse and taken the direction of the Wieden.Would the Rosners be at home on such a beautiful day? At all eventsthe distance was so short that it was worth trying, and at any rate hefancied going there rather than to Ehrenbergs'. He was not the leastin love with Else, and it was almost a matter of indifference to himwhether or no she were really engaged to Heinrich Bermann. He hadalready known her for a long time. She had been eleven, he had beenfourteen when they had played tennis with each other on the Riviera.In those days she looked like a gipsy girl. Black-blue tresses tossedround her cheeks and forehead, and she was as boisterous as a boy. Herbrother had already begun to play the lord, and even to-day Georgecould not help smiling at the recollection of the fifteen-year old boyappearing on the promenade one day in a light grey coat with whiteblack-braided gloves and a monocle in his eye. Frau Ehrenberg was thenthirty-four, and had a dignified appearance though her figure was toolarge; she was still beautiful, had dim eyes, and was usually verytired.

George never forgot the day on which her husband, the millionairecartridge-manufacturer, had descended on his family and had by thevery fact of his appearance made a speedy end of the Ehrenbergianaristocracy. George still remembered in his mind's eye how he hadsprung up during the breakfast on the hotel terrace; a small sparegentleman with a trimmed beard and moustache and Japanese eyes, inbadly-creased white flannels, a dark straw hat with a red-and-whitestriped ribbon on his round head and with dusty black shoes. He alwaysspoke very slowly and in an as it were sarcastic manner even about themost unimportant matters, and whenever he opened his mouth a secretanxiety would always lurk beneath the apparent calm of his wife'sface. She tried to revenge herself by making fun of him; but shecould never do anything with his inconsiderate manners. Oskar behavedwhenever he had a chance as though he didn't belong to the family atall. A somewhat hesitating contempt would play over his features forthat progenitor who was not quite worthy of him, and he would smilemeaningly for sympathy at the young baron. Only Else in those days wasreally nice to her father. She was quite glad to hang on his arm onthe promenade and she would often throw her arms round his neck beforeevery one.

George had seen Else again in Florence a year before his mother'sdeath. She was then taking drawing lessons from an old grizzled German,about whom the legend was circulated that he had once been celebrated.He spread the rumour about himself that when he felt his genius on thewane he had discarded his former well-known name and had given up hiscalling, though what that was he never disclosed. If his own versionwas to be believed, his downfall was due to a diabolical female who haddestroyed his most important picture in a fit of jealousy; and thenended her life by jumping out of the window. This man who had struckthe seventeen-year-old George as a kind of fool and impostor was theobject of Else's first infatuation. She was then fourteen years old,and had all the wildness and naïveté of childhood. When she stood infront of the Titian Venus in the Uffizi Gallery her cheeks would flushwith curiosity, yearning and admiration, and vague dreams of futureexperiences would play in her eyes. She often came with her motherto the house which the Wergenthins had hired at Lungarno, and whileFrau Ehrenberg tried in her languid blasé way to amuse the ailingbaroness, Else would stand at the window with George, start precociousconversations about the art of the Pre-Raphaelites, and smile at herold childish games. Felician too would come in sometimes, slim andhandsome, cast his cold grey eyes over the objects and people in theroom, murmur a few polite words, sit down by his mother's bedside, andtenderly stroke and kiss her hand. He would usually soon go away again,though not without leaving behind, so far as Else was concerned, a verypalpable atmosphere of old-time aristocracy, cold-blooded fascinationand elegant contempt of death. She always had the impression that hewas going to a gaming-table where hundreds of thousands were at stake,to a duel to the death or to a princess with red hair and a dagger onher dressing-table. George remembered that he had been somewhat jealousboth of the erratic drawing-master and of his brother. The master wassuddenly dismissed for reasons which were never specified, and soonafterwards Felician left for Vienna with Baron von Wergenthin. Georgenow played to the ladies on the piano more frequently than before, bothhis own compositions and those of others, and Else would sing fromthe score easy songs from Schubert and Schumann in her small, rathershrill voice. She visited the galleries and churches with her motherand George; when spring came there were excursion parties up the HillRoad or to Fiesole, and George and Else exchanged smiling glanceswhich were eloquent of a deeper understanding than actually existed.Their relations went on progressing in this somewhat disingenuousmanner, when their acquaintance was renewed and continued in Vienna.Else seemed pleasurably thrilled all over again by the equable friendlymanner with which George approached her, notwithstanding the fact thatthey had not seen each other for some months. She herself, on the otherhand, grew outwardly more self-possessed and mentally more unsettledwith each succeeding year. She had abandoned her artistic aspirationsfairly early, and in the course of time she came to regard herself asdestined to the most varied careers.

She often saw herself in the future as a society woman, an organiserof battles of flowers, a patroness of great balls, taking part inaristocratic charity performances; more frequently she would believeherself called to sit enthroned as a great appreciator in an artisticsalon of painters, musicians and poets. She would then dream againof a more adventurous life: a sensational marriage with an Americanmillionaire, the elopement with a violin virtuoso or a Spanish officer,a diabolical ruination of all the men who came near her. Sometimesshe would think a quiet life in the country by the side of a worthylandowner the most desirable consummation; and then she would imagineherself sitting with prematurely grey hair at a simply-laid table in acircle of numerous children while she stroked the wrinkles out of theforehead of her grave husband. But George always felt that her loveof comfort, which was deeper than she guessed herself, would save herfrom any rash step. She would often confide in George without everbeing quite honest with him; for the wish which she cherished mostfrequently and seriously of all was to become his wife. George was wellaware of this, but that was not the only reason why the latest pieceof intelligence about her engagement with Heinrich Bermann struck himas somewhat incredible—this Bermann was a gaunt clean-shaven man withgloomy eyes and straight and rather too long hair, who had recently wona reputation as a writer and whose demeanour and appearance remindedGeorge, though he could not tell why, of some fanatical Jewish teacherfrom the provinces; there was nothing in him which could fascinate Elseparticularly or even make a pleasurable appeal.

This impression was no doubt dispelled by subsequent conversation.George had left the Ehrenbergs' in company with him one evening lastspring, and they had fallen into so thrilling a conversation aboutmusical matters that they had gone on chatting till three o'clock inthe morning on a seat in the Ringstrasse.

It is strange, thought George, what a lot of things are running throughmy mind to-day which I had scarcely thought of at all since theyhappened. And he felt as though he had on this autumn evening emergedout of the grievous dreary obscurity of so many weeks into the light ofday at last.

He was now standing in front of the house in the Paulanergasse wherethe Rosners lived. He looked up to the second story. A window was open,white tulle curtains pinned together in the centre fluttered in thelight breeze.

The Rosners were at home. The housemaid showed George in. Anna wassitting opposite the door, she held a coffee-cup in her hand and hereyes were turned towards the newcomer. On her right her father wasreading a paper and smoking a pipe. He was clean-shaven except for apair of narrow grizzled whiskers on his cheeks. His thin hair of astrange greenish-grey hue was parted at the temples in front and lookedlike a badly-made wig. His eyes were watery and red-lidded.

The stoutish mother, around whose forehead the memory of fairer yearsseemed as it were to hover, looked straight in front of her; her handswere contemplatively intertwined and rested on the table.

Anna slowly put down her cup, nodded and smiled in silence. The two oldpeople began to get up when George came in.

"Please, don't trouble, please don't," said George.

Then there was a noise from the wall at the side of the room. Josef,the son of the house, got up from the sofa on which he had been lying."Charmed to see you, Herr Baron," he said in a very deep voice, andadjusted the turned-up collar of his yellow-check rather shabby loungejacket.

"And how have you been all this time, Herr Baron?" inquired the oldman. He remained standing a gaunt and somewhat bowed figure, andrefused to resume his seat until George had sat down. Josef pushed achair between his father and sister, Anna held out her hand to thevisitor.

"We haven't seen one another for a long time," she said, and drank someof her coffee.

"You've been going through a sad time," remarked Frau Rosnersympathetically.

"Yes," added Herr Rosner. "We were extremely sorry to read of yourgreat loss—and so far as we knew your father always enjoyed the bestof health."

He spoke very slowly all the time, as if he had still something moreto say, stroking his head several times with his left hand, and noddedwhile he listened to the answer.

"Yes, it came very unexpectedly," said George gently, and looked at thefaded dark-red carpet at his feet.

"A sudden death then, so to speak," remarked Herr Rosner and there wasa general silence.

George took a cigarette out of his case and offered one to Josef.

"Much obliged," said Josef as he took the cigarette and bowed while heclicked his heels together without any apparent reason; while he wasgiving the Baron a light he thought the latter was looking at him,and said apologetically, with an even deeper voice than usual, "Officejacket."

"Office jacket straight from the office," said Anna simply withoutlooking at her brother.

"The lady fancies she has the ironic gift," answered Josef merrily, buthis manifest restraint indicated that under other conditions he wouldhave expressed himself less agreeably.

"Sympathy was universally felt," old Rosner began again. "I read anobituary in the Neuen Freie Presse on your good father by HerrHoffrat Kerner, if I remember rightly; it was highly laudatory. Sciencetoo has suffered a sad loss."

George nodded in embarrassment, and looked at his hands.

Anna began to speak about her past summer-outing. "It was awfullypretty in Weissenfeld," she said. "The forest was just behind our housewith good level roads, wasn't it, papa? One could walk there for hoursand hours without meeting a soul."

"And did you have a piano out there?" asked George.

"Oh yes."

"An awful affair," observed Herr Rosner, "a thing fit to wake up thestones and drive men mad."

"It wasn't so bad," said Anna.

"Good enough for the little Graubinger girl," added Frau Rosner.

"The little Graubinger girl, you see, is the daughter of the localshopkeeper," explained Anna: "and I taught her the elements ofpianoforte, a pretty little girl with long blonde pig-tails."

"Just a favour to the shopkeeper," said Frau Rosner.

"Quite so, but I should like to remind you," supplemented Anna, "thatapart from that I gave real lessons, I mean paid-for ones."

"What, also in Weissenfeld?" asked George.

"Children on a holiday. Anyway, it's a pity, Herr Baron, that you neverpaid us a visit in the country. I am sure you would have liked it."

George then remembered for the first time that he had promised Annathat he would try to pay her a visit some time in the summer on acycling tour.

"I am sure the Baron would not have found a place like that really tohis liking," began Herr Rosner.

"Why not?" asked George.

"They don't cater there for the requirements of a spoilt Viennese."

"Oh, I'm not spoilt," said George.

"Weren't you at Auhof either?" Anna turned to George.

"Oh no," he answered quickly. "No, I wasn't there," he added lesssharply. "I was invited though.... Frau Ehrenberg was so kind as to ...I had various invitations for the summer. But I preferred to stay inVienna by myself."

"I am really sorry," said Anna, "not to see anything more of Else. Youknow of course that we went to the same boarding-school. Of course it'sa long time ago. I really liked her. A pity that one gets so out oftouch as time goes on."

"How is that?" asked George.

"Well, I suppose the reason is that I'm not particularly keen on thewhole set."

"Nor am I," said Josef, who was blowing rings into the air.... "Ihaven't been there for years. Putting it quite frankly ... I've noidea, Baron, of your views on this question ... I'm not very gone onIsraelites."

Herr Rosner looked up at his son. "My dear Josef, the Baron visits thehouse and it will strike him as rather strange...."

"I?" said George courteously. "I'm not at all on intimate terms withthe Ehrenberg family, however much I enjoy talking to the two ladies."And then he added interrogatively, "But didn't you give singing lessonsto Else last year, Fräulein Anna?"

"Yes. Or rather ... I just accompanied her...."

"I suppose you'll do so again this year?"

"I don't know. She hasn't shown any signs of life, so far."

"Perhaps she's giving it all up."

"You think so? It would be almost better if she did," replied Annasoftly, "for as a matter of fact, it was more like squeaking thansinging. But anyway," and she threw George a look which, as it were,welcomed him afresh, "the songs you sent me are very nice. Shall I singthem to you?"

"You've had a look at the things already? That is nice of you."

Anna had got up. She put both her hands on her temples and stroked herwavy hair gently, as though making it tidy. It was done fairly high,so that her figure seemed even taller than it actually was. A narrowgolden watch-chain was twined twice round her bare neck, fell downover her bosom, and vanished in her grey leather belt. With an almostimperceptible nod of her head she asked George to accompany her.

He got up and said, "If you don't mind...."

"Not at all, not at all, of course not," said Herr Rosner. "Very kindof you, Baron, to do a little music with my daughter. Very nice, verynice."

Anna had stepped into the next room. George followed her and left thedoor open. The white tulle curtains were pinned together in frontof the open window and fluttered slightly. George sat down at thecottage-piano and struck a few chords. Meanwhile, Anna knelt down infront of an old black partly gilded whatnot, and got out the music.George modulated the first chords of his song. Anna joined in and sangto George's song the Goethean words,

Deinem Blick mich zu bequemen,
Deinem Munde, deiner Brust,
Deine Stimme zu vernehmen,
War mir erst' und letzte Lust.

She stood behind him and looked over his shoulder at the music. Attimes she bent a little forward, and he then felt the breath of herlips upon his temples. Her voice was much more beautiful than heremembered its having ever been before.

They were speaking rather too loudly in the next room. Without stoppingsinging Anna shut the door. It had been Josef who had been unable tocontrol his voice any longer.

"I'll just pop in to the café for a jiffy," he said.

There was no answer. Herr Rosner drummed gently on the table and hiswife nodded with apparent indifference.

"Goodbye then." Josef turned round again at the door and said fairlyresolutely: "Oh, mamma, if you've got a minute to spare by anychance——"

"I'm listening," said Frau Rosner. "It's not a secret, I suppose."

"No. It's only that I've got a running account with you already."

"Is it necessary to go to the café?" asked old Rosner simply, withoutlooking up.

"It's not a question of the café. The fact is ... you can take it fromme that I'd prefer myself not to have to borrow from you. But what is aman to do?"

"A man should work," said old Rosner gently, painfully, and his eyesreddened. His wife threw a sad and reproachful look at her son.

"Well," said Josef, unbuttoning his office coat, and then buttoning itup again—"that really is ... for every single gulden-note——"

"Pst," said Frau Rosner with a glance towards the door, which was ajar,and through which, now that Anna had finished her song, came themuffled sound of George's piano-playing.

Josef answered his mother's glance with a deprecatory wave of his hand."Papa says I ought to work. As though I hadn't already proved that Ican work." He saw two pairs of questioning eyes turned towards him."Yes of course I proved it, and if it had only depended on me I'd havemanaged to get along all right. But I haven't got the temperament toput up with things, I'm not the kind to let myself be bullied by anychief if I happen to come in a quarter of an hour late—or anythinglike that."

"We know all about that," interrupted Herr Rosner wearily. "But afterall, as we're already on the subject, you really must start lookinground for something."

"Look round ... good ..." answered Josef. "But no one will persuademe to go into any business run by a Jew. It would make me thelaughing-stock of all my acquaintances ... of my whole set in fact."

"Your set ..." said Frau Rosner. "What is your set? Café cronies?"

"Well if you don't mind, now that we are on the subject," saidJosef—"it's connected with that gulden-note, too. I've got anappointment at the café now with young Jalaudek. I'd have preferred tohave told you when the thing had gone quite through ... but I see nowthat I'd better show my hand straight away. Well, Jalaudek is the sonof Councillor Jalaudek the celebrated paper-merchant. And old Jalaudekis well-known as a very influential personage in the party ... veryintimate with the publisher of the Christliche Volksbote: his nameis Zelltinkel. And they're looking out on the Volksbote for youngmen with good manners—Christians of course, for the advertisem*ntbusiness. And so I've got an appointment to-day with Jalaudek atthe café, because he promised me his governor would recommend me toZelltinkel. That would be ripping ... it would get me out of my mess.Then it wouldn't be long before I was earning a hundred or a hundredand fifty gulders a month."

"O dear!" sighed old Rosner.

The bell rang outside.

Rosner looked up.

"That must be young Doctor Stauber," said Frau Rosner and cast ananxious glance at the door, through which the sound of George'spiano-playing came in even softer tones than before.

"Well, mamma, what's the matter?" said Josef.

Frau Rosner took out her purse and with a sigh gave her son a silvergulden.

"Much obliged," said Josef and turned to go.

"Josef," cried Herr Rosner, "it's really rather rude—at the veryminute when we have a visitor——"

"Oh thank you, but I mustn't have all the treats."

There was a knock, Doctor Berthold Stauber came in.

"I apologise profusely, Herr Doctor," said Josef, "I'm just going out."

"Not at all," replied Doctor Stauber coldly, and Josef vanished.

Frau Rosner invited the young doctor to sit down. He took a seat on theottoman and turned towards the quarter from which the piano-playingcould be heard.

"Baron Wergenthin, the composer. Anna has just been singing," explainedFrau Rosner, somewhat embarrassed. And she started to call her daughterin.

Doctor Berthold gripped her arm lightly but firmly, and said amiably:"No, please don't disturb Fräulein Anna, please don't. I'm not in theleast hurry. Besides, this is a farewell visit." The latter wordsseemed jerked out of his throat; but Berthold nevertheless smiledcourteously, leant back comfortably in his corner and stroked his shortbeard with his right hand.

Frau Rosner looked at him as if she were positively shocked.

"A farewell visit?" Herr Rosner asked. "Has the party allowed you totake a holiday, Herr Stauber? Parliament has only been assembled ashort time, as one sees in the papers."

"I have resigned my seat," said Berthold.

"What?" exclaimed Herr Rosner.

"Yes, resigned," repeated Berthold, and smiled nervously.

The piano-playing had suddenly stopped, the door which had been ajarwas now opened. George and Anna appeared.

"Oh, Doctor Berthold," said Anna, and held out her hand to the doctor,who had immediately got up. "Have you been here long? Perhaps you heardme singing?"

"No, Fräulein, I'm sorry I was too late for that. I only caught a fewnotes on the piano."

"Baron Wergenthin," said Anna, as though she were introducing. "But ofcourse you know each other?"

"Oh yes," answered George, and held out his hand to Berthold.

"The Doctor has come to pay us a farewell visit," said Frau Rosner.

"What?" exclaimed Anna in astonishment.

"I'm going on a journey, you see," said Berthold, and looked Anna inthe face with a serious, impenetrable expression. "I'm giving up mypolitical career ... or rather," he added jestingly, "I'm interruptingit for a while."

George leant on the window with his arms crossed over his breast andlooked sideways at Anna. She had sat down and was looking quietly atBerthold, who was standing up with his hand resting on the back of thesofa, as though he were going to make a speech.

"And where are you going?" asked Anna.

"Paris. I'm going to work in the Pasteur Institute. I'm going back tomy old love, bacteriology. It's a cleaner life than politics."

It had grown darker. The faces became vague, only Berthold's forehead,which was directly opposite the window, was still bathed in light.His brows were twitching. He really has his peculiar kind of beauty,thought George, who was leaning motionless in the window-niche and felthimself bathed in a pleasant sense of peace.

The housemaid brought in the burning lamp and hung it over the table.

"But the papers," said Herr Rosner, "have no announcement at all so farof your resigning your seat, Doctor Stauber."

"That would be premature," answered Berthold. "My colleagues and theparty know my intention all right, but the thing isn't official yet."

"The news is bound to create a great sensation in the circles affectedby it," said Herr Rosner—"particularly after the lively debate theother day in which you showed such spirit and determination. I supposeyou've read about it, Baron?" He turned to George.

"I must confess," answered George, "that I don't follow theparliamentary reports as regularly as I really ought to."

"Ought to," repeated Berthold meditatively. "There's no questionof 'ought' about it really, although the session has not beenuninteresting during the last few days—at any rate as a proof of howlow a level a public body can sink to."

"The debate was very heated," said Herr Rosner.

"Heated?... Well, yes, what we call heated here in Austria. People wereinwardly indifferent and outwardly offensive."

"What was it all about then?" inquired George.

"It was the debate arising out of the questions on the Golowskicase.... Therese Golowski."

"Therese Golowski ..." repeated George. "I seem to know the name."

"Of course you know it," said Anna. "You know Therese herself. She wasjust leaving the house when you called the last time."

"Oh yes," said George, "one of your friends."

"I wouldn't go so far as to call her a friend; that seems to imply acertain mental sympathy that doesn't quite exist."

"You certainly don't mean to repudiate Therese," said Doctor Bertholdsmiling, but dryly.

"Oh no," answered Anna quickly. "I really never thought of doing that.I even admire her; as a matter of fact I admire all people who are ableto risk so much for something that doesn't really concern them at all.And when a young girl does that, a pretty young girl like Therese"—shewas addressing herself to George who was listening attentively—"I amall the more impressed. You know of course that Therese is one of theleaders of the Social Democratic Party?"

"And do you know what I took her for?" said George. "For a buddingactress."

"You're quite a judge of character, Herr Baron," said Berthold.

"She really did mean to go on the stage once," corroborated Frau Rosnercoldly.

"But just consider, Frau Rosner," said Berthold. "What young girlis there with any imagination, especially if she lives in crampedsurroundings into the bargain, who has not at some time or other in herlife at any rate coquetted with such an idea."

"Your forgiving her is good," said Anna, smiling.

It struck Berthold too late that this remark of his had probablytouched a still sensitive spot in Anna's mind. But he continued withall the greater deliberation. "I assure you, Fräulein Anna, it would bea great pity if Therese were to go on the stage, for there's no gettingaway from the fact that she can still do her party a tremendous lot ofgood if she isn't torn away from her career."

"Do you regard that as possible?" asked Anna.

"Certainly," replied Berthold. "Therese is between two dangers, shewill either talk her head off one fine day...."

"Or?" inquired George, who had grown inquisitive.

"Or she'll marry a Baron," finished Berthold curtly.

"I don't quite understand," said George deprecatingly.

"I only said 'Baron' for a joke, of course. Substitute Prince for Baronand I make my meaning clearer."

"I see ... I can now get some idea of what you mean, Doctor.... But howdid Parliament come to bother about her?"

"Well, it's like this, last year—at the time of the greatcoal-strike—Therese Golowski made a speech in some Bohemian hole,which contained an expression which was alleged to be offensive toa member of the Imperial family. She was prosecuted and acquitted.One might perhaps draw the conclusion from this that there was noparticular substance in the prosecution. Anyway the State Prosecutorgave notice of appeal, there was an order for a new trial, and Theresewas sentenced to two months' imprisonment, which she is now serving,and as if that wasn't enough the Judge who had discharged her in theCourt of first instance was transferred ... to somewhere on the Russianfrontier, from where no one ever comes back. Well, we put a questionover this business, which in my view was extremely tame. The Ministeranswered somewhat disingenuously amid the cheers of the so-calledConstitutional parties. I ventured to reply in possibly somewhat moredrastic terms than members are accustomed to use, and as the bencheson the other side had no facts with which to answer me they tried tooverwhelm me by shouts and abuse. And of course you can imagine whatthe strongest argument was, which a certain type of Conservatives usedagainst my points."

"Well?" queried George.

"Hold your jaw, Jew," answered Berthold with tightly compressed lips.

"Oh," said George with embarrassment, and shook his head.

"Be quiet, Jew! Hold your jaw! Jew! Jew! Shut up!" continued Berthold,who seemed somewhat to revel in the recollection.

Anna looked straight in front of her. George thought that this wasquite enough. There was a short, painful silence.

"So that was why?" inquired Anna slowly.

"What do you mean?" asked Berthold.

"That's why you're resigning your seat."

Berthold shook his head and smiled. "No, not because of that."

"You are, of course, above such coarse insults, Doctor," said HerrRosner.

"I won't go quite so far as that," answered Berthold, "but one alwayshas to be prepared for things like that all the same. I'm resigning myseat for a different reason."

"May one ask what it is?" queried George.

Berthold looked at him with an air which was penetrating and yetdistrait. He then answered courteously: "Of course you may. I wentinto the buffet after my speech. I met there, among others, one of thesilliest and cheekiest of our democratic popular representatives, who,as he usually does, had made more row than any one else while I wasspeaking ... Jalaudek the paper-merchant. Of course I didn't pay anyattention to him. He was just putting down his empty glass. When he sawme he smiled, nodded and hailed me as cheerily as though nothing hadtaken place at all. 'Hallo, Doctor, won't you have a drink with me?'"

"Incredible!" exclaimed George.

"Incredible?... No, Austrian. Our indignation is as little genuine asour enthusiasm. The only things genuine with us are our malice and ourhate of talent."

"Well, and what did you answer the man?" asked Anna.

"What did I answer? Nothing, of course."

"And you resigned your seat," added Anna with gentle raillery.

Berthold smiled. But at the same time his eye-brows twitched, as washis habit when he was painfully or disagreeably affected. It was toolate to tell her that as a matter of fact he had come to ask her forher advice, as he used to do in the old days. And at any rate he feltsure of this, he had done wisely in cutting off all retreat as soonas he entered the room by announcing the resignation of his seat asan already accomplished fact, and his journey to Paris as directlyimminent. For he now knew for certain that Anna had again escaped him,perhaps for a long time. He did not believe for a minute that any manwas capable of winning her really and permanently, and it never enteredhis head for a minute to be jealous of that elegant young artist whowas standing so quietly by the window with his crossed arms. It hadhappened many times before that Anna had fluttered away for a time,as though fascinated by the magic of an element which was strange toher. Why only two years ago, when she was thinking seriously of goingon the stage, and had already begun to learn her parts, he had givenher up for a short time as completely lost. Subsequently when shehad been compelled to relinquish her artistic projects, owing to theunreliability of her voice, she seemed as if she wanted to come back tohim again. But he had deliberately refused to exploit the opportunitiesof that period. For he wanted before he made her his wife to have wonsome triumph, either in science or in politics, and to have obtainedher genuine admiration. He had been well on the way to it. In the veryseat where she was now sitting as she looked him straight in the facewith those clear but alas! cold eyes, she had looked at the proofs ofhis latest medico-philosophical work which bore the title PreliminaryObservations on the Physiognomical Diagnosis of Diseases. And then,when he finally left science for politics, at the time when he madespeeches at election meetings and equipped himself for his new careerby serious studies in history and political economy, she had sincerelyrejoiced in his energy and his versatility.

All this was now over. She had grown to eye more and more severelythose faults of his of which he was quite aware himself, andparticularly his tendency to be swept away by the intoxication ofhis own words, with the result that he came to lose more and more ofhis self-confidence in his attitude towards her. He was never quitehimself when he spoke to her, or in her presence. He was not satisfiedwith himself to-day either. He was conscious, with an irritation whichstruck even himself as petty, that he had not given sufficient force tohis encounter with Jalaudek in the buffet, and that he ought to havemade his detestation of politics ring far more plausibly.

"You are probably quite right, Fräulein Anna," he said, "if yousmile at my resigning my seat on account of that silly incident.A parliamentary life without its share of comedy is an absoluteimpossibility. I should have realised it, played up to it and takenevery opportunity of drinking with the fellow who had publicly insultedme. It would have been convenient, Austrian—and possibly even the mostcorrect course to have taken." He felt himself in full swing again andcontinued with animation. "What it comes to in the end is that thereare two methods of doing anything worth doing in politics. The oneis a magnificent flippancy which looks on the whole of public lifeas an amusing game, has no true enthusiasm for anything, and no trueindignation against anything, and which regards the people whose miseryor happiness are ultimately at stake with consummate indifference. Ihave not progressed so far, and I don't know that I should ever havesucceeded in doing so. Quite frankly, I have often wished I could have.The other method is this: to be ready every single minute to sacrificeone's whole existence, one's life, in the truest sense of the word, forwhat one believes to be right——"

Berthold suddenly stopped. His father, old Doctor Stauber, had come inand been heartily welcomed. He shook hands with George, who had beenintroduced to him by Frau Rosner, and looked at him so kindly thatGeorge felt himself immediately drawn towards him. He looked youngerthan he was. His long reddish-yellow beard was only streaked by a fewgrey hairs, and his smoothly combed long hair fell in thick locks on tohis broad neck. The strikingly high forehead gave a kind of majesty tothe somewhat thick-set figure with its high shoulders. When his eyeswere not making a special point of looking kind or shrewd they seemedto be resting behind the tired lids as though to gather the energy forthe next look.

"I knew your mother, Herr Baron," he said to George rather gently.

"My mother, Herr Doctor...?"

"You will scarcely remember it, you were only a little boy of three orfour at the time."

"You attended her?" asked George.

"I visited her sometimes as deputy for Professor duch*egg, whoseassistant I was. You used to live then in the Habsburgergasse, in anold house that has been pulled down long ago. I could describe to youeven to-day the furniture of the room in which I was received by yourfather ... whose premature death I deeply regret.... There was a bronzefigure on the secretary, a knight in armour to be sure with a flag, anda copy of a Vandyck from the Liechtenstein gallery hung on the wall."

"Yes, quite right," said George, amazed at the doctor's good memory.

"But I have interrupted your conversation," continued Doctor Stauberin that droning slightly melancholy and yet superior tone which waspeculiar to him, and sat down in the corner of the sofa.

"Doctor Berthold has just been telling us, to our great astonishment,"said Herr Rosner, "that he has decided to resign his seat."

Old Stauber directed a quiet look towards his son, which the latteranswered with equal quietness. George, who had watched this play of theeyes, had the impression that there prevailed between these two a tacitunderstanding which did not need any words.

"Yes," said Doctor Stauber. "I wasn't at all surprised. I've alwaysfelt as though Berthold were never really quite at home in Parliament,and I am really glad that he has now begun to pine as it were to goback to his real calling. Yes, yes, your real calling, Berthold," herepeated, as though to answer his son's furrowed brow. "You have notprejudiced your future by it, in the least. Nothing makes life sodifficult as our frequent belief in consistency ... and our wastingour time in being ashamed of a mistake, instead of owning up to it andsimply starting life again on a fresh basis."

Berthold explained that he meant to leave in eight days at the outside.There would be no point in postponing his journey beyond that time,it would be possible too that he might not remain in Paris. Hisstudies might necessitate travelling further afield. Further, he haddecided not to make any farewell visits. He had, he added by way ofexplanation, completely given up all association with certain bourgeoissets, among whom his father had an extensive practice.

"Didn't we meet each other once this winter at Ehrenbergs'?" askedGeorge with a certain amount of satisfaction.

"That's right," answered Berthold. "We are distantly related to theEhrenbergs you know. The Golowski family is curiously enough theconnecting link between us. It would be no good, Herr Baron, if Iwere to make any attempt to explain it to you in greater detail. Ishould have to take you on a journey through the registry offices andcongregations of Temesvar Tarnopol and similar pleasant localities—andthat you mightn't quite fancy."

"Anyway," added old Doctor Stauber in a resigned tone, "the Baron isbound to know that all Jews are related to one another."

George smiled amiably. As a matter of fact it rather jarred on hisnerves. There was no necessity at all, in his view, for Doctor Stauberas well officially to communicate to him his membership of the Jewishcommunity. He already knew it and bore him no grudge for it. He borehim no grudge at all for it; but why do they always begin to talk aboutit themselves? Wherever he went, he only met Jews who were ashamed ofbeing Jews, or the type who were proud of it and were frightened ofpeople thinking they were ashamed of it.

"I had a chat with old Frau Golowski yesterday," continued DoctorStauber.

"Poor woman," said Herr Rosner.

"How is she?" asked Anna.

"How is she ... you can imagine ... her daughter in prison, her son aconscript—he is living in the barracks at the expense of the State ...just imagine Leo Golowski as a patriot ... and the old man sits in thecafé and watches the other people playing chess. He himself can't evenrun nowadays to the ten kreuzers for the chess money."

"Therese's imprisonment must soon be over anyway," said Berthold.

"It still lasts another twelve, fourteen days," replied his father...."Come, Annerl"—he turned towards the young girl—"it would be reallynice of you if you were to show yourself once more in Rembrandtstrasse;the old lady has taken an almost pathetic fancy to you. I really can'tunderstand why," he added with a smile, while he looked at Anna almosttenderly.

She looked straight in front of her and made no answer.

The clock on the wall struck seven. George got up as though he hadsimply been waiting for the signal.

"Going so soon, Herr Baron?" said Herr Rosner, getting up.

George requested the company not to disturb themselves, and shook handsall round.

"It is strange," said old Stauber, "how your voice reminds one of yourpoor father."

"Yes, many people have said so," replied George. "I, personally, can'tsee any trace of it."

"There isn't a man in the world who knows his own voice," remarked oldStauber, and it sounded like the beginning of a popular lecture.

But George took his leave. Anna accompanied him, in spite of his slightremonstrance, into the hall and left the door half open—almost onpurpose, so it struck George. "It's a pity we couldn't go on with ourmusic any longer," she said.

"I'm sorry too, Fräulein Anna."

"I liked the song to-day even better than the first time, when I had toaccompany myself, only it falls off a bit at the end.... I don't knowhow to express myself."

"Oh, I know what you mean, the end is conventional. I felt so too. Ihope soon to be able to bring you something better than that, FräuleinAnna."

"But don't keep me waiting for it too long."

"I certainly won't. Goodbye, Fräulein Anna." They shook hands with eachother and both smiled.

"Why didn't you come to Weissenfeld?" asked Anna lightly.

"I am really sorry, but just consider, Fräulein Anna, I could scarcelyget in the mood for society of any kind this year, you can quiteappreciate that."

Anna looked at him seriously. "Don't you think," she said, "thatperhaps one might have been some help to you in bearing it?"

"There's a draught, Anna," called out Frau Rosner from inside.

"I'm coming in a minute," answered Anna with a touch of impatience. ButFrau Rosner had already shut the door.

"When can I come back?" asked George.

"Whenever you like. At any rate ... I really ought to give you awritten time-table, so that you may know when I'm at home, but thatwouldn't be much good either. I often go for walks or go shopping intown or go to picture galleries or exhibitions——"

"We might do that together one day," said George.

"Oh, yes," answered Anna, took her purse out of her pocket and thentook out a tiny note-book.

"What have you got there?" asked George.

Anna smiled and turned over the leaves of a little book. "Just wait....I meant to go and see the Exhibition of Miniatures in the Royal Libraryat eleven on Thursday. If you too are interested in miniatures, wemight meet there."

"Delighted, I'm sure."

"Right you are then, we can then arrange the next time for you toaccompany my singing."

"Done," said George and shook hands with her. It struck him that whileAnna was chatting with him here outside, young Doctor Stauber woulddoubtless be getting irritated or offended inside, and he was surprisedthat he should be more disturbed by this circ*mstance than Anna, whostruck him as on the whole a perfectly good-natured person. He freedhis hand from hers, said good-bye and went.

It was quite dark when George got into the streets. He strolled slowlyover the Elizabeth Bridge to the Opera, past the centre of thetown and undisturbed by the hubbub and traffic around him, listenedmentally to the tune of his song. He thought it strange that Anna'svoice which had so pure and sound a tone in a small room, should haveno future whatsoever before it on the stage and concert platform, andeven stranger that Anna scarcely seemed to mind this tragic fact. Butof course he was not quite clear in his mind whether Anna's calmnessreally reflected her true character.

He had known her more or less casually for some years, but an eveningin the previous spring had been the first occasion when they hadbecome rather more intimate. A large party had been got up on thatoccasion in the Waldsteingarten. They took their meal in the open airunder the high chestnut-trees, and they all experienced the pleasure,excitement and fascination of the first warm May evening of the year.George conjured up in his mind all the people who had come: FrauEhrenberg, the organiser of the party, dressed in an intentionallymatronly style, in a dark loose-fitting foulard dress; Hofrat Wilt,wearing as it were the mask of an English statesman with all the sloppyaristocracy of his nonchalant demeanour, and his chronic and somewhatcheap superior manner towards everything and everybody; Frau Oberbergerwho looked like a rococo marquise with her grey powdered hair, herflashing eyes and her beauty spot on her chin; Demeter Stanzideswith his white gleaming teeth and that pale forehead that showedall the weariness of an old race of heroes; Oskar Ehrenberg dressedwith a smartness that smacked a great deal of the head clerk in adressmaking establishment, a great deal of a young music-hall comedianand something, too, of a young society man; Sissy Wyner who keptswitching her dark laughing eyes from one man to another, as thoughshe had a merry secret understanding with every single member of theparty; Willy Eissler who related in his hoarse jovial voice all kindsof jolly anecdotes of his soldier days and Jewish stories as well;Else Ehrenberg in a white English cloth dress with all the delicatemelancholy of the spring flowing around her, while her grande damemovements combined with her baby-face and delicate figure to investher with an almost pathetic grace; Felician, cold and courteous, withhaughty eyes which gazed between the members of the party to the othertables, and from the other tables beyond into the distance; Sissy'smother, young, red-cheeked and a positive chatter-box, who wanted totalk about everything at the same time and to listen to everything atthe same time; Edmund Nürnberger with his piercing eyes and his thinmouth curving into that smile of contempt (which had almost becomea chronic mask) for that whirligig of life, which he thoroughly sawthrough, though to his own amazement he frequently discovered that hewas playing in the game himself; and then finally Heinrich Bermann in asummer suit that was too loose, with a straw hat that was too cheap anda tie that was too light, who one moment spoke louder than the othersand at the next moment was more noticeably silent.

Last of all Anna Rosner had appeared, self-possessed and without anyescort, greeted the party with a slight nod and composedly sat downbetween Frau Ehrenberg and George. "I have asked her for you," saidFrau Ehrenberg softly to George, who prior to this evening had scarcelygiven Anna a single thought. These words, which perhaps only originatedin a stray idea of Frau Ehrenberg's, became true in the course of theevening. From the moment when the party got up and started on theirmerry expedition through the Volksprater George and Anna had remainedtogether everywhere, in the side-shows and also on the journey home totown, which for the fun of the thing was done on foot, and surroundedthough they were by all that buzz of jollity and foolishness they hadfinished by starting a perfectly rational conversation. A few dayslater he called and brought her as he had promised the piano scoreof "Eugen Onegin" and some of his songs; on his next visit she sangthese songs over to him as well as many of Schubert's, and he wasvery pleased with her voice. Shortly afterwards they said goodbye toeach other for the summer without a single trace of sentimentalism ortenderness. George had regarded Anna's invitation to Weissenfeld as amere piece of politeness, just in the same way as he had thought hispromise to come had been understood; and the atmosphere of to-day'svisit when compared with the innocence of their previous acquaintancewas bound to strike George as extremely strange.

At the Stephansplatz George saw that he was being saluted by some onestanding on the platform of a horse-omnibus. George, who was somewhatshort-sighted, did not immediately recognise the man who was salutinghim.

"It's me," said the gentleman on the platform.

"Oh, Herr Bermann, good evening." George shook hands with him. "Whichway are you going?"

"I'm going into the Prater. I'm going to dine down there. Have youanything special on, Baron?"

"Nothing at all."

"Well, come along with me then."

George swung himself on to the omnibus, which had just begun to moveon. They told each other cursorily how they had spent the summer.Heinrich had been in the Salzkammergut and subsequently in Germany,from which he had only come back a few days ago.

"Oh, in Berlin?" hazarded George.

"No."

"I thought perhaps in connection with a new piece——"

"I haven't written a new piece," interrupted Heinrich somewhat rudely."I was in the Taunus and on the Rhine in several places."

"What's he got to do on the Rhine?" thought George, although the topicdid not interest him any further. It struck him that Bermann waslooking in front of him in a manner that was not only absent-minded butreally almost melancholy.

"And how's your work getting on, my dear Baron?" asked Heinrich withsudden animation, while he drew closer round him the dark grey overcoatwhich hung over his shoulders.[1] "Have you finished your quintette?"

"My quintette?" repeated George in astonishment. "Have I spoken to youabout my quintette, then?"

"No, not you, but Fräulein Else told me that you were working at aquintette."

"I see, Fräulein Else. No, I haven't got much further with it. I didn'tfeel quite in the mood, as you can imagine."

"Quite," said Heinrich, and was silent for a while. "And your fatherwas still so young," he added slowly.

George nodded in silence.

"How is your brother?" asked Heinrich suddenly.

"Quite well, thanks," answered George somewhat coldly.

Heinrich threw his cigarette over the rail and immediately proceededto light another. Then he said: "You must be surprised at my inquiringafter your brother when I have scarcely ever spoken to him. But heinterests me. He represents in my view a type which is absolutelyperfect of its kind, and I regard him as one of the happiest men going."

"That may well be," answered George hesitatingly. "But how do you cometo think so seeing that you scarcely know him?"

"In the first place his name is Felician Freiherr vonWergenthin-Recco," said Heinrich very seriously, and blew the smokeinto the air.

George looked at him with some astonishment.

"Of course your name is Wergenthin-Recco, too," continued Heinrich,"but only George—and that's not the same by a long way, is it?Besides, your brother is very handsome. Of course you haven't got atall a bad appearance. But people whose real point is that they'rehandsome have really a much better time of it than others whose realpoint is that they're clever. If you are handsome you are handsomefor always, while clever people, or at any rate nine-tenths of them,spend their life without showing a single trace of talent. Yes, that'scertainly the case. The line of life is clearer so to speak when oneis handsome than when one is a genius. Of course all this could beexpressed far better."

George was disagreeably affected. What's the matter with him? hethought. Can he perhaps be jealous of Felician ... on account of ElseEhrenberg?

They got out at the Praterstern. The great stream of the Sunday crowdwas flowing towards them. They went towards the Hauptallee, where therewas no longer any crush, and strolled slowly on. It had grown cool.George made remarks about the autumnal atmosphere of the evening, thepeople sitting in the restaurants, the military bands playing in thekiosks.

At first Heinrich answered offhandedly, and subsequently not at all,and finally seemed scarcely to be paying any attention. George thoughtthis rude. He was almost sorry that he had joined Heinrich, all themore so as he made it an almost invariable practice not to respondstraight away to casual invitations. The excuse he gave to himselfwas that it was simply out of absent-mindedness that he had done iton this occasion. Heinrich was walking close to him or even going afew steps in front, as if he were completely oblivious of George'spresence. He still held tightly in both hands the overcoat which wasswung round him, wore his dark grey felt hat pressed down over hisforehead and looked extremely uncouth. His appearance suddenly beganto jar keenly on George's nerves. Heinrich Bermann's previous remarksabout Felician now struck him as in bad taste, and as quite devoidof tact, and it occurred to him at the psychological moment thatpractically all he knew of Heinrich's literary productions had goneagainst the grain. He had seen two pieces of his: one where the scenewas laid in the lower strata of society, among artizans or factoryworkers, and which finished up with murder and fatal blows; the other akind of satirical society comedy whose first production had occasioneda scandal and which had soon been taken out of the repertoire of thetheatre. Anyway George did not then know the author personally, and hadtaken no further interest in the whole thing. He only remembered thatFelician had thought the piece absolutely ridiculous, and that CountSchönstein had expressed the opinion that if he had anything to do withit pieces written by Jews should only be allowed to be performed by theBuda-Pesth Orpheum Company.[2] But Doctor von Breitner in particular,a baptised Jew with a philosophical mind, had given vent to hisindignation that such an adventurer of a young man should have dared tohave put a world on to the stage that was obviously closed to him, andwhich it was consequently impossible for him to know anything about.

While George was remembering all this his irritation at the rudeconduct and stubborn silence of his companion rose to a genuine senseof enmity, and quite unconsciously he began to think that all theinsults which had been previously directed against Bermann had been infact justified. He now remembered too that Heinrich had been personallyantipathetic to him from the beginning, and that he had indulged insome ironic remark to Frau Ehrenberg about her cleverness in havinglost no time in adding that young celebrity to the tame lions in herdrawing-room. Else, of course, had immediately taken Heinrich's part,and explained that he was an interesting man, was in many respectspositively charming, and had prophesied to George that sooner or laterhe would become good friends with him. And as a matter of fact Georgehad preserved, as the result of that nocturnal conversation on the seatin the Ringstrasse in the spring of this year, a certain sympathy forBermann which had survived down to the present evening.

They had passed the last inns some time ago. The white high road ran bytheir side out into the night on a straight and lonely track betweenthe trees, and the very distant music only reached them in more or lessbroken snatches.

"But where are you going to?" Heinrich exclaimed suddenly, as though hehad been dragged there against his will, and stood still.

"I really can't help it," remarked George simply.

"Excuse me," said Heinrich.

"You were so deep in thought," retorted George coolly.

"I wouldn't quite like to say 'deep.' But it often happens that oneloses oneself in one's thoughts like this."

"I know," said George, somewhat reconciled.

"They were expecting you in August at Auhof," said Heinrich suddenly.

"Expected? Frau Ehrenberg was certainly kind enough to invite me, but Inever accepted. Did you stay there a fairly long time, Herr Bermann?"

"A fairly long time? No. I was up there a few times, but only for anhour or so."

"I thought you stayed there."

"Not a bit of it. I stayed down at the hotel. I only occasionally wentup to Auhof. There was too much noise and bustle there for me.... Thehouse was positively packed with visitors. And I can't stand most ofthe people who go there."

An open fiacre in which a gentleman and lady were sitting passed by.

"Why, that was Oskar Ehrenberg," said Heinrich.

"And the lady?" queried George, looking towards something bright thatgleamed through the darkness.

"Don't know her."

They turned their steps through a dark side-avenue. The conversationstuck again. Finally Heinrich began: "Fräulein Else sang a few of yoursongs to me at Auhof. I'd heard some of them already too, sung by theBellini, I think."

"Yes, Bellini sang them last winter at a concert."

"Well, Fräulein Else sang those songs and some others of yours as well."

"Who accompanied her, then?"

"I myself, as well as I could. I must tell you, my dear Baron, thatas a matter of fact those songs impressed me even more than when Iheard them the first time at the concert, in spite of the fact thatFräulein Else has considerably less voice and technique than FräuleinBellini. Of course one must take into consideration on the other handthat it was a magnificent summer afternoon when Fräulein Else sangyour songs. The window was open, there was a view of the mountains andthe deep-blue sky opposite ... but anyway, you came in for a more thansufficient share of the credit."

"Very flattering," said George, who felt pained by Heinrich's sarcastictone.

"You know," continued Heinrich, speaking as he frequently did withclenched teeth and unnecessary emphasis, "you know it is not generallymy habit to invite people whom I happen to see in the street to joinme in an omnibus, and I prefer to tell you at once that I regarded itas—what does one say?—a sign of fate when I suddenly caught sight ofyou on the Stephansplatz."

George listened to him in amazement.

"You perhaps don't remember as well as I do," continued Heinrich, "ourlast conversation on that seat in the Ringstrasse."

George now remembered for the first time that Heinrich had then made aquite casual allusion to the libretto of an opera on which he was busy,and that he had offered himself as the composer of the music with equalcasualness and more as a joke than anything else. He answered withdeliberate coldness: "Oh yes, I remember."

"Well, that binds you to nothing," answered Heinrich, even more coldlythan the other. "All the less so since, to tell you the truth, I've notgiven my opera libretto a single thought till that beautiful summerafternoon when Fräulein Else sang your song. Anyway, what do you say toour stopping here?"

The restaurant garden which they entered was fairly empty. Heinrich andGeorge sat down in a little arbour next to the green wooden railing andordered their dinner.

Heinrich leant back, stretched out his legs, looked with probing almostcynical eyes at George, who maintained an obstinate silence, and saidsuddenly: "I don't think I am making a mistake if I venture to presumethat you've not been exactly keen on the things I have done so far."

"Oh," answered George, blushing a little, "what makes you think that?"

"Well, I know my pieces ... and I know you."

"Me!" queried George, feeling almost insulted.

"Certainly," replied Heinrich in a superior manner. "Besides, I havethe same feeling with regard to most men, and I regard this facultyas the only indisputable one I've really got. All my others, I think,are fairly problematical. My so-called art in particular is more orless mediocre, and a good deal too could be said against my character.The only thing which gives me a certain amount of confidence is simplythe consciousness of being able to see right into people's souls ...right deep down, every one, rogues and honest people, men, womenand children, heathens, Jews and Protestants, yes, even Catholics,aristocrats and Germans, although I have heard that that is supposed tobe infinitely difficult, not to say impossible, for people like myself."

George gave a slight start. He knew that Heinrich had been subjectedto the most violent personal attacks by the clerical and conservativepress, particularly with reference to his last piece. "But what's thatgot to do with me?" thought George. There was another one of them whohad been insulted! It was really absolutely impossible to associatewith these people on a neutral footing. He said politely, thoughcoldly, with a semi-conscious recollection of old Herr Rosner's retortto young Dr. Stauber: "I really thought that people like you were aboveattacks of the kind to which you're obviously alluding."

"Really ... you thought that?" queried Heinrich, in that cold almostrepulsive manner which was peculiar to him on many occasions. "Well,"he went on more gently, "that is the case sometimes. But unfortunatelynot always. It doesn't need much to wake up that self-contempt which isalways lying dormant within us; and once that takes place there isn't asingle rogue or a single scoundrel with whom we don't join forces, andquite sincerely too, in attacking our own selves. Excuse me if I say'we.'"

"Oh, I've frequently felt something of the same kind myself. Of courseI have not yet had the opportunity of being exposed to the public asoften as you and in the same way."

"Well, supposing you did ... you would never have to go through quitewhat I did."

"Why not?" queried George, slightly hurt.

Heinrich looked him sharply in the face. "You are the Baron vonWergenthin-Recco."

"So that's your reason! But you must remember that there are a wholelot of people going about to-day who are prejudiced against one forthat very reason—and manage to cast in one's teeth the fact of one'sbeing a baron whenever they get a chance."

"Yes, yes, but I think you will agree with me that being ragged forbeing a baron is a very different matter than being ragged for beinga 'Jew,' although the latter—you'll forgive me of course—may attimes denote the better aristocracy. Well, you needn't look at meso pitifully," he added with abrupt rudeness. "I am not always sosensitive. I have other moods in which nothing can affect me in anyway nor any person either. Then I feel simply this—what do you allknow—what do you know about me...." He stopped, proudly, with ascornful look that seemed to pierce through the foliage of the arbourinto the darkness. He then turned his head, looked round and saidsimply to George in quite a new tone: "Just look, we shall soon be theonly ones left."

"It is getting quite cold, too," said George.

"I think we might still stroll a bit through the Prater."

"Charmed."

They got up and went. A fine grey cloud hung over a meadow which theypassed.

"The fraud of summer doesn't last after nightfall. It'll soon all beover," said Heinrich in a tone of unmitigated melancholy, while headded, as though to console himself: "Well, one will be able to work."

They came into the Wurstelprater. The sound of music rang out from therestaurants, and some of the exuberant gaiety communicated itself toGeorge. He felt suddenly swung out of the dismalness of an inn gardenat autumn time and a somewhat painful conversation into a new world. Atout, in front of a merry-go-round, from which a gigantic hurdy-gurdysent into the open air the pot-pourri cut of the "Troubadour" with allthe effect of some fantastic organ, invited people to take a journeyto London, Atzgersdorf and Australia. George remembered again theexcursion in the spring with the Ehrenberg party. It was on thisnarrow seat inside the room that Frau Oberberger had sat with DemeterStanzides, the lion of the evening, by her side, and had probablytold him one of her incredible stories: that her mother had been themistress of a Russian Grand Prince; that she herself had spent a nightwith an admirer in the Hallstadt cemetery, of course without anythinghappening; or that her husband, the celebrated traveller, had madeconquests of seventeen women in one week in one harem at Smyrna. Itwas in this carriage upholstered in red velvet, with Hofrat Wilt asher vis-à-vis, that Else had lounged with lady-like grace, just asthough she were in a carriage on Derby Day, while she yet managed toshow by her manner and demeanour that, if it came to the point, sheherself could be quite as childish as other persons of happier and lesscomplex temperaments. Anna Rosner with the reins nonchalantly in herhand, looking dignified, but with a somewhat sly face, rode a whiteArab; Sissy rocked about on a black horse that not only turned round ina circle with the other animals and carriages, but swung up and downas well. The boldest eyes imaginable flashed and laughed beneath theaudacious coiffure with its gigantic black feather hat, while herwhite skirt fluttered and flew over her low-cut patent leather shoesand open-work stockings. Sissy's appearance had produced so strange aneffect on a couple of strangers that they called out to her a quiteunambiguous invitation. There had then ensued a short mysteriousinterview between Willy, who immediately came on the spot, and the twosomewhat embarrassed gentlemen, who first tried to save their faces bylighting fresh cigarettes with deliberate nonchalance and then suddenlyvanished in the crowd.

Even the side-show with its "Illusions" and "Illuminated Pictures" hadspecial memories for George. It was here, while Daphne was turninginto a tree, that Sissy had whispered into his ear a gentle "remember"and thus called to his memory that masked ball at Ehrenberg's at whichshe had lifted up her lace veil for a fleeting kiss, though presumablyhe had not been the only one. Then there was the hut where the wholeparty had had themselves photographed: the three young girls, Anna,Else and Sissy in the pose of classical goddesses and the men at theirfeet with ecstatic eyes, so that the whole thing looked like the climaxof a transformation scene. And while George was thinking of theselittle episodes there floated up through his memory the way in whichhe and Anna had said goodbye to-day, and it seemed full of the mostpleasant promise.

A striking number of people stood in front of an open shooting gallery.Now the drummer was hit in the heart and beat quick strokes upon hisdrum, now the glass ball which was dancing to and fro upon a jet ofwater broke with a slight click, now a vivandière hastily put hertrumpet to her mouth and blew a menacing blast, now a little railwaythundered out of a door which had sprung open, whizzed over a flyingbridge and was swallowed up by another door.

When the crowd began to thin, George and Heinrich made their way to thefront and recognised that the good shots were Oskar Ehrenberg and hislady friend. Oskar was just aiming his gun at an eagle which was movingup and down near the ceiling with outstretched wings, and missed forthe first time. He laid his weapon down in indignation, gazed roundhim, saw the two gentlemen behind him and saluted them.

The young lady with her cheek resting on her gun threw a fleetingglance at the new arrivals, then aimed again with great keenness, andpressed the trigger. The eagle drooped its hit wings and did not moveany more.

"Bravo," shouted Oskar.

The lady laid the weapon before her on the table. "That's my littlelot," she said to the boy who wanted to load again. "I've won."

"How many shots were there?" asked Oskar.

"Forty," answered the boy, "that's eighty kreuzers." Oskar put his handinto his waistcoat pocket, threw a silver gulden down and received withcondescension the thanks of the loading boy. "Allow me," he then said,while he placed both his hands on his hips, moved the top of his bodyslightly in front and put his left foot forward, "Allow me, Amy, tointroduce the gentlemen who witnessed your triumph, Baron Wergenthin,Herr von Bermann ... Fräulein Amelie Reiter."

The gentlemen lifted their hats, Amelie returned the greeting bynodding a few times with her head. She wore a simple foulard dressdesigned in white, and over it a light cloak of bright yellow borderedwith lace and a black but extremely lively hat.

"I know Herr von Bermann already," she said. She turned towards him."I saw you at the first night of your play last winter, when you cameon the stage to bow your acknowledgments. I enjoyed myself very much.Don't think I am saying this as a mere compliment."

Heinrich thanked her sincerely.

They walked on further between side-shows which were growing quieterand quieter, past inn gardens which were gradually becoming empty.

Oskar thrust his right arm through his companion's left and then turnedto George. "Why didn't you come to Auhof this year? We were all verysorry."

"Unfortunately I didn't feel much in the mood for society."

"Of course, I can quite understand," said Oskar with all properseriousness. "I was only there myself for a few weeks. In August Istrengthened my tired limbs in the waves of the North Sea; I was inthe Isle of Wight, you know."

"That must be very nice," said George. "Who is it that always goesthere?"

"You're thinking of the Wyners," replied Oskar. "When they used to livein London they went there regularly, but now they only go there everytwo or three years."

"But they've kept the Y for Austrian consumption as well," said Georgewith a smile.

Oskar was serious. "Old Herr Wyner," he answered, "honestly earnedhis right to the Y. He went to England in his thirteenth year, becamenaturalised there and was made a partner when quite a young man in thegreat steel manufacturing concern which is still called Black & Wyner."

"At any rate he got his wife from Vienna."

"Yes, and when he died seven or eight years ago she came over here withher two children, but James will never get acclimatised here.... LordAntinous, you know, that's what Frau Oberberger calls him. He is nowback at Cambridge again where strangely enough he is studying Greekscholarship. Demeter was a few days in Ventnor, too."

"Stanzides?" added George.

"Do you know Herr von Stanzides, Herr Baron?" asked Amy.

"Oh yes."

"Then he does really exist?" she exclaimed.

"Yes, but just you listen," said Oskar. "She put a lot of money on himthis spring at Freudenau, and won a lot of money, and now she inquiresif he really exists."

"What makes you have doubts about Stanzides' existence, Fräulein?"asked George.

"Well, you know, whenever I don't know where he is—Oskar, I mean—it'salways a case of 'I've an appointment with Stanzides' or 'I'm ridingwith Stanzides in the Prater.' Stanzides this and Stanzides that, whyit sounds more like an excuse than a name."

"You be quiet now, will you?" said Oskar gently.

"Not only does Stanzides exist," explained George, "but he has the mostbeautiful black moustache and the most fiery black eyes that are to befound anywhere."

"That's quite possible, but when I saw him he looked more like ajack-in-the-box, yellow jacket, green cap, violet sleeves."

"And she won forty gulden on him," added Oskar facetiously.

"And where are the forty gulden?" sighed Fräulein Amelie.... Then shesuddenly stood still and exclaimed: "But I've never yet been on it."

"Well, that can be remedied," said Oskar simply.

The Great Wheel was turning slowly and majestically in front of themwith its lighted carriages. The young people passed the turnstile,climbed into an empty compartment and swept upwards.

"Do you know, George, whom I got to know this summer?" said Oskar. "ThePrince of Guastalla."

"Which one?" asked George.

"The youngest, of course, Karl Friedrich. He was there incognito. He'svery thick with Stanzides, an extraordinary man. You take my word forit," he added softly, "if people like us said one hundredth part of thethings the prince says, we'd never get out of prison our whole lifelong."

"Look, Oskar," cried Amy, "at the tables and the people down there. Itlooks just like a little box, doesn't it? And that mass of lights overthere, far off. I'm sure that's going to Prague, don't you think so,Herr Bermann?"

"Possibly," answered Heinrich, knitting his forehead as he staredthrough the glass wall out into the night.

When they left the compartment and got out into the open air the Sundayhubbub was subsiding.

"Poor little girl," said Oskar Ehrenberg to George, while Amy went onin front with Heinrich, "she has no idea that this is the last time weare going out together in the Prater."

"But why the last time?" asked George, not feeling particularlyinterested.

"It's got to be," replied Oskar. "Things like this oughtn't to lastlonger than a year at the outside. Any way, you might buy your glovesfrom her after December," he added brightly, though with a certaintouch of melancholy. "I am setting her up, you know, in a littlebusiness. I more or less owe her that, for I took her away from afairly safe situation."

"A safe one?"

"Yes, she was engaged, to a case-maker. Did you know that there weresuch people?"

In the meanwhile Amy and Heinrich were standing in front of a narrowmoving staircase that went boldly up to a platform and waited for theothers. All agreed that they ought not to leave the Prater before goingfor a ride on the switchback.

They whizzed through the darkness down and up again in the groaningcoach under the black tree-tops; and George managed to discover agrotesque motif in 3/4 time in the heavy rhythmic noise.

While he was going down the moving staircase with the others, he knewthat the melody should be introduced by an oboe and clarionet andaccompanied by a cello and contra bass. It was clearly a scherzoprobably for a symphony.

"If I were a capitalist," expounded Heinrich with emphasis, "I wouldhave a switchback built four miles long to go over fields and hills,through forests and dancing-halls; I would also see that there weresurprises on the way." Anyway, he thought that the time had come todevelop more elaborately the fantastic element in the Wurstelprater. Hehimself, he informed them, had a rough idea for a merry-go-round thatby means of some marvellous machinery was to revolve spiral-fashionabove the ground, winding higher and higher till eventually it reachedthe top of a kind of tower.

Unfortunately he lacked the necessary technical knowledge to explainit in greater detail. As they went on he invented burlesque figuresand groups for the shooting galleries, and finally declared that therewas a pressing need for a magnificent Punch and Judy show for whichoriginal authors should write pieces at once profound and frivolous.

In this way they came to the end of the Prater where Oskar's carriagewas waiting. Squashed, but none the less good-tempered, they drove toa wine-restaurant in the town. Oskar ordered champagne in a privateroom, George sat down by the piano and improvised the theme that hadoccurred to him on the switchback. Amy lounged back in the corner ofthe sofa, while Oskar kept whispering things into her ears which madeher laugh. Heinrich had grown silent again and twirled his glass slowlybetween his fingers. Suddenly George stopped playing and let his handslie on the keys. A feeling of the dreamlike and purposeless characterof existence came over him, as it frequently did when he had drunkwine. Ages seemed to have passed since he had come down a badly-lightedstaircase in the Paulanergasse, and his walk with Heinrich in the darkautumn avenue lay far away in the distant past. On the other hand hesuddenly remembered, as vividly as though the whole thing had happenedyesterday, a very young and very depraved individual, with whom he hadspent many years ago a few weeks of that happy-go-lucky life whichOskar Ehrenberg was now leading with Amy. She had kept him waitingtoo long one evening in the street, he had gone away impatiently andhad neither heard nor seen anything of her again. How easy life wassometimes....

He heard Amy's soft laugh and turned round. His look encountered thatof Oskar, who seemed to be trying to catch his eye over Amy's blondehead. He felt irritated by that look and deliberately avoided it andstruck a few chords again in a melancholy ballad-style. He felt adesire to describe all that had happened to him to-day, and looked atthe clock over the door. It was past one. He caught Heinrich's eye andthey both got up. Oskar pointed to Amy, who had gone to sleep on hisshoulder, and intimated by a smile and a shrug of his shoulders thatunder such circ*mstances he could not think of going for the present.The two others shook hands with him, whispered good-night and slippedaway.

"Do you know what I've done?" said Heinrich. "While you wereimprovising so extraordinarily finely on that ghastly piano I tried toget the real hang of that libretto that I spoke to you about in thespring."

"Oh, the opera libretto! that is interesting. Won't you tell me?"

Heinrich shook his head. "I should like to, but the unfortunate thingis, as you've already seen, that it's really not yet finished—likemost of my other so-called plots."

George looked at him interrogatively. "You had a whole lot of things onhand last spring, when we saw each other last."

"Yes, I have made a lot of notes, but to-day I've done nothing morethan sentences ... no words, no, just letters on white paper. It's justas if a dead hand had touched everything. I'm frightened the next timeI tackle the thing that it will all fall to pieces like tinder. Yes,I've been going through a bad time, and who knows if there's a betterone in store for me?"

George was silent. Then he suddenly remembered the notice in thepapers which he had read somewhere or other about Heinrich's father,the former deputy, Doctor Bermann. He suspected that that might be thereason. "Your father is ill, isn't he?" he asked.

Heinrich answered without looking at him. "Yes, my father has been in amental home since June."

George shook his head sympathetically.

Heinrich continued: "Yes, it's an awful business, even though Iwasn't on very intimate terms with him during the last months it isindescribably awful, and goes on being so."

"I can quite understand," said George, "not making any headway withone's work under circ*mstances like that."

"Yes," answered Heinrich hesitatingly. "But it's not that alone. To bequite frank that business plays a comparatively subordinate part in mypresent mental condition. I don't want to make myself out better than Iam. Better...! Should I be better...!" He gave a short laugh and thenwent on speaking. "Look here, yesterday I still thought that it was theaccumulation of every possible misfortune that depressed me so. Butto-day I've had an infallible proof that things of no importance atall, positively silly things in fact, affect me more deeply than veryreal things like my father's illness. Disgusting, isn't it?"

George looked in front of him. Why do I still go on walking with him,he thought, and why does he take it quite for granted that I should?

Heinrich went on speaking with clenched teeth and unnecessary vehemenceof tone. "I received two letters this afternoon. Two letters, yes ...one from my mother, who had visited my father yesterday in the home.This letter contained the news that he is bad—very bad; to come tothe point he won't last much longer"—he gave a deep breath—"and asyou can imagine that involves all kinds of troubles, responsibilitiesfor my mother and my sister and for myself. But just think of it,another letter came at the same time as that one; it contained nothingof importance so to speak—a letter from a person with whom I have beenintimate for two years—and there was a passage in that letter whichstruck me as a little suspicious—one isolated passage ... otherwisethe letter was very affectionate and very nice, like all her otherletters ... and now, just imagine, the memory of that one suspiciouspassage, which another man wouldn't have noticed at all, has beenhaunting me and torturing me the whole day. I've not been thinkingabout my father in the lunatic asylum, nor about my mother and sisterwho are in despair, but only about that unimportant passage in thatsilly letter from a really by no means brilliant female. It eats up allmy strength, it makes me incapable of feeling like a son, like a humanbeing ... isn't it ghastly?"

George listened coldly. It struck him as strange that this taciturnmelancholy man should suddenly confide in so casual an acquaintance ashimself, and he could not help feeling a painful sense of embarrassmentwhen confronted with this unexpected revelation. He did not have theimpression either that any particular sympathy for him on Heinrich'spart was the real reason for all these confessions. He rather feltinclined to put it down to a want of tact, a certain natural lackof self-control, something which seemed very well described bythe expression "bad breeding," which he had once heard applied toHeinrich—wasn't it by Hofrat Wilt? They went as far as the Burg gate.A starless sky lay over the silent town, there was a slight rustle inthe trees of the park, they could hear somewhere or other the noise ofa rolling carriage as it drove away into the distance.

As Heinrich was silent again, George stood still and said in as kind atone as he could: "I must now really say good-bye, dear Herr Bermann."

"Oh," exclaimed Heinrich, "I now see that you've come with me quite along way—and I've been tactless enough to tell you, or rather myselfin your presence, a lot of things which can't interest you in theleast.... Forgive me!"

"What is there to forgive?" answered George gently. He felt a littlemoved by this self-reproach of Heinrich's and held out his hand.

Heinrich took it, said "Good-bye, my dear Baron," and rushed off in ahurry, as though he had suddenly decided that any further word would bebound to be importunate.

George looked after him with a mixture of sympathy and repulsion, andsuddenly a free and almost happy mood came over him. He felt young,devoid of care and destined for the most brilliant future. He rejoicedat the winter which was coming, there were all kinds of possibilities:work, amusem*nt, sentiment, while he was absolutely indifferent as towho it was from whom these joys might come. He lingered a moment by theOpera-house. If he went home through the Paulanergasse it would not beappreciably out of his way. He smiled at the memory of the serenadesof his earlier years. Not far from here lay the street where he hadlooked up many a night at a window behind whose curtains Marianne hadbeen accustomed to show herself when her husband had gone to sleep.This woman who was always playing with dangers in whose seriousnessshe herself did not believe had never really been worthy of George....Another memory more distant than this one was much more gracious. Whenhe was a boy of seventeen in Florence he had walked to and fro many anight before the window of a beautiful girl, the first creature of theother sex who had given her virgin self to him as yet untouched. Andhe thought of the hour when he had seen his beloved step on the arm ofher bridegroom up to the altar, where the priest was to consecrate themarriage, of the look of eternal farewell which she had sent to himfrom under her white veil....

He had now arrived at his goal. The lamps were still burning at bothends of the short street, so that it was quite dark where he stoodopposite the house. The window of Anna's room was open, and the pinnedcurtains fluttered lightly in the wind, just as in the afternoon. Itwas quite dark below. A soft tenderness began to stir in George'sheart. Of all the beings who had ever refrained from hiding theirinclination for him he thought Anna the best and the purest. She wasalso the first who brought the gift of sympathy for his artisticaspirations. She was certainly more genuine than Marianne, whose tearswould roll over her cheeks whatever he happened to play on the piano;she was deeper too than Else Ehrenberg, who no doubt only wanted toconfirm herself in the proud consciousness of having been the firstto recognise his talent. And if any person was positively cut out tocounteract his tendency to dilettantism and nonchalance and to keephim working energetically, profitably and with a conscious object thatperson was Anna. He had thought only last winter of looking out for apost as a conductor or accompanist at some German Opera; at Ehrenbergs'he had casually spoken of his intentions, which had not been taken veryseriously. Frau Ehrenberg, woman of the world that she was, had givenhim the motherly advice rather to undertake a tour through the UnitedStates as a composer and conductor, whereupon Else had cut in, "And anAmerican heiress shouldn't be sniffed at either." As he remembered thisconversation he was very pleased with the idea of knocking about theworld a bit, he wished to get to know foreign towns and foreign men, towin love and fame somewhere out in the wide world, and finally came tothe conclusion that his life was slipping away from him on the whole infar too quiet and monotonous a fashion.

He had long ago left the Paulanergasse, without having taken mentallyany farewell of Anna, and was soon home.

As he stepped into the dining-room he saw a light shining fromFelician's room.

"Good evening, Felician," he cried out.

The door was opened and Felician came out still fully dressed.

The brothers shook hands with each other.

"Only just got home?" said Felician. "I thought you had been asleepquite a long time." As he spoke he looked past him, as his manner was,and nodded his head towards the right. "What have you been doing, then?"

"I've been in the Prater," answered George.

"Alone?"

"No, I met people. Oskar Ehrenberg with his girl and Bermann theauthor. We shot and went on the switchback. It was quite jolly.... Whathave you got in your hand?" he said, interrupting his narrative. "Haveyou been out for a walk like that?" he added jestingly.

Felician let the sword which he held in his right hand shine in thelight of the lamp. "I've just taken it down from the wall, I beginto-morrow again in earnest. The tournament is in the middle ofNovember, and I want to try what I can do this year against Forestier."

"By Jove!" cried George.

"A piece of cheek, you think, what? But it's still a long time beforethe middle of November. And the strange thing is I've got the feelingas though I had learnt something fresh in the very six weeks of thissummer when I didn't have the thing in my hand at all. It's as thoughmy arm had got new ideas in the meanwhile. I can't explain it properly."

"I follow what you mean."

Felician held the sword stretched out in front of him and looked at itaffectionately. He then said: "Ralph inquired after you, so did Guido... a pity you weren't there."

"You spent the whole day with them?"

"Oh no, I remained at home after dinner. You must have gone outstraight away. I've been studying."

"Studying?"

"Yes, I must really do something serious now. I want to pass myDiplomatic exam, by May at the outside."

"So you've quite made up your mind?"

"Absolutely. There's no point in my remaining on any more in theStadthalterei. The longer I stay there the clearer it becomes. Anyway,the time won't have been wasted. They don't mind at all if one hasspent a year or two in Home Service."

"So you'll probably be leaving Vienna in the autumn."

"Presumably."

"And where will they send you?"

"If one only knew."

George looked in front of him. "So the parting is as near as that?" Butwhy did it affect him so much all of a sudden?... Why, he himself haddetermined to go away, and had quite recently spoken to his brotherabout his plans for next year. Was he still as sceptical as everof his seriousness? If only they could have a good frank brotherlyheart-to-heart talk as they had had on that evening after theirfather's funeral. As a matter of fact, it was only when life revealedits gloomy side to them that they felt absolutely in touch. Otherwisethere was always this strange constraint between them both. There wasobviously no help for it. They just had to talk more or less discreetlyto each other like fairly intimate friends. And as though resigned tothe situation George went on with his questions. "What did you do inthe evening?"

"I had supper with Guido and an interesting young lady."

"Really?"

"He's in silken dalliance again, you know."

"Who is it, then?"

"Conservatoire, Jewess, violin. But she didn't bring it with her. Notparticularly pretty, but clever. She improves him and he respects her;he wants her to be baptised. A humorous affair I can tell you. Youwould have had quite a good time."

George turned his eyes towards the sword which Felician still held inhis hand. "Would you like to fence a bit?" he asked.

"Why not?" answered Felician and fetched a second foil out of his room.Meanwhile George had moved the big table in the middle up against thewall.

"I haven't had a thing in my hand since May," he said as he took holdof his sword. They took off their coats and crossed blades. Georgecried touché the next second.

"Come on," cried George, and thought himself lucky that it was hisbrother whom he had to face as he stood in an awkward position with theslender flashing weapon in his hand.

Felician hit him as often as he wanted to without himself being toucheda single time. He then lowered his sword and said: "You're too tiredto-day, there's no point in it. But you should come more often to theclub. I assure you it's a pity, with your talent."

George was pleased by his brotherly praise. He laid his sword down onthe table, took a deep breath and went to the wide centre window whichwas open. "What wonderful air," he said. A lonely lamp was shining fromthe park, there was absolute silence.

Felician came up to George, and while the latter leant with both handson the sill the elder brother remained upright and swept over street,park and town with one of his proud quiet glances. They were bothsilent for a long time. And they knew they were each thinking of thesame thing: a May night of last spring when they had gone home togetherthrough the park and their father had greeted them with a silent nod ofhis head from the very same window by which they were now standing.And both felt a little shocked at the thought that they had enjoyed thewhole day with such full gusto, without any painful memories of thebeloved man who now lay beneath the ground.

"Well, good-night," said Felician in a softer tone than usual as heheld out his hand to George. He pressed it in silence and each wentinto his own room.

George arranged the table lamp, took out some music paper and began towrite. It was not the scherzo which had occurred to him when he hadwhizzed through the night with the others under the black tree-topsa few hours ago; and it was not the melancholy folk-ballad of therestaurant either; but a quite new motif that swam up slowly andcontinuously as though from secret depths. George felt as though he hadto allow some mysterious element to take its course. He wrote down themelody, which he thought should be sung by an alto voice or playedon the viola, and at the same time a strange accompaniment rang in hisears, which he knew would never vanish from his memory.

It was four o'clock in the morning when he went to bed with thecalmness of a man to whom nothing evil can ever come in all his lifeand for whom neither solitude nor poverty nor death possess any terror.

[1] A special way of wearing a coat affected in Vienneseartistic circles.

[2] A company celebrated for its risqué plays.

II

Frau Ehrenberg sat with her knitting on the green velvet sofa in theraised bow-window. Opposite her Else was reading a book. The whitehead of the marble Isis gleamed from out the far dark part of theroom behind the piano, while a streak of light from the next roomplayed through the open door over the grey carpet. Else looked upfrom her book through the window to the high tops of the trees inthe Schwarzenberg Park which were waving in the autumn wind and saidcasually: "We might perhaps ring up George Wergenthin, to know if he'scoming this evening."

Frau Ehrenberg let her knitting fall on her lap. "I don't know," shesaid. "You remember what a really charming condolence letter I wrotehim and what a pressing invitation I gave him to come to Auhof. Hedidn't come and the coldness of his answer was quite marked. I wouldn'tring him up."

"One shouldn't treat him like other people," answered Else. "He belongsto the people whom one has occasionally to remind that one is stillalive. When he has been reminded he is extremely glad."

Frau Ehrenberg went on with her knitting. "It really won't come toanything," she said quietly.

"It's not meant to come to anything," retorted Else. "I thought youknew that by this time, mamma. We're good friends, nothing more—andeven that only at intervals; or do you really think that I'm in lovewith him, mamma? Yes, when I was a little girl I was, in Nice, when weplayed tennis together, but that is long past."

"Well—and Florence?"

"In Florence—I was more in love with Felician."

"And now?" asked Frau Ehrenberg slowly.

"Now ... you're probably thinking of Heinrich Bermann ... but you'remaking a mistake, mother."

"I prefer to be making a mistake. But this summer I really quite hadthe impression that——"

"I tell you," interrupted Else a little impatiently, "it isn't anythingand never was anything. On one solitary occasion, when we went outboating on a sultry afternoon, you saw us from your balcony with youropera-glasses, no doubt—it was only then that it became a littledangerous. And even supposing we had fallen on each other's neck—whichas a matter of fact we never did—it wouldn't have meant anything. Itwas simply a summer flirtation."

"And besides, he's supposed to be involved in a very seriouslove-affair," said Frau Ehrenberg.

"You mean ... with that actress, mamma?"

Frau Ehrenberg looked up. "Did he tell you anything about her?"

"Tell...? Not in so many words, but when we went for walks together inthe park or went out in the evening on the lake, why, he practicallyspoke of nothing but her—of course without mentioning her name ... andthe better he liked me—men really are such awfully funny people—themore jealous he became about the other woman.... But if it were onlythat? What young man isn't involved in a serious love affair? Do youthink by any chance, mamma, that George Wergenthin is not?"

"In a serious one ... no, that will never happen to him. He's too cold,too superior for that ... he hasn't got enough temperament."

"That's exactly why," explained Else, airing her knowledge of humannature. "He'll slip into some whirlpool or other and get taken out ofhis depth without his having noticed it, and some fine day he'll getmarried ... out of sheer indolence ... to some person or other who'llprobably be absolutely indifferent to him."

"You must have a definite suspicion," said Frau Ehrenberg.

"I have."

"Marianne?"

"Marianne! but that's been over a long time, mamma. And that was neveranything particularly serious, either."

"Well, who is it then?"

"Well whom do you think, mamma?"

"I have no idea."

"It's Anna," said Else curtly.

"Which Anna?"

"Anna Rosner, of course."

"But...."

"You can say 'but' as much as you like—it's a fact."

"Else, you don't seriously think that Anna with her reserved charactercould so far forget herself as to——"

"So far forget herself...? Really, mamma, the number of expressionsyou keep on using—anyway, I don't think that's quite a case of one'sforgetting oneself."

Frau Ehrenberg smiled, not without a certain pride.

The bell rang outside.

"It's he at last," said Else.

"It might quite as well be Demeter Stanzides," observed Frau Ehrenberg.

"Stanzides was to bring the Prince along sometime," said Else casually.

"Do you think that will come off?" inquired Frau Ehrenberg, letting herknitting fall into her lap.

"Why shouldn't it come off?" said Else. "They are so intimate."

The door opened. As a matter of fact it was none of the expectedvisitors who came in, but Edmund Nürnberger. He was dressed, asalways, with the greatest care, though not after the latest fashion.His tail coat was a little too short and an emerald pin was stuck inhis voluminous satin tie. He bowed as soon as he had got to the door,though his demeanour expressed at the same time a certain irony at hisown politeness. "Am I the first?" he inquired. "No one here yet? Not aHofrat—nor a count—nor an author—nor a diabolical female?"

"Only a woman who never was one, I'm sorry to say," answered FrauEhrenberg as she shook hands with him.

"And one ... who will perhaps become one sometime."

"Oh, I am convinced," said Nürnberger, "that if she only takes itseriously, Fräulein Else will succeed in that." He stroked his smoothblack somewhat glossy hair slowly with his left hand.

Frau Ehrenberg expressed her regret that their expectation of hiscoming to Auhof had not been realised. Had he really spent the wholesummer in Vienna?

"Why do you wonder so much, my dear madam? Whether I am walking up anddown among mountain scenery or by the shore of the sea or in my ownroom, it doesn't really matter much in the end."

"But you must have felt quite lonely," said Frau Ehrenberg.

"You certainly realise solitude more clearly when there's no one inthe neighbourhood who shows any desire of talking to you.... But let'stalk of more interesting and promising men than I am. How are all thenumerous friends of your popular family?"

"Friends!" repeated Else. "I should like first to know what you mean bythe word?"

"Well, all the people who say something agreeable to you from whatevermotive, and whom you believe in when they say it."

The door of the bedroom opened, Herr Ehrenberg appeared and greetedNürnberger.

"Are you ready packed?" asked Else.

"Packed and ready," answered Ehrenberg, who had on a grey suit that wasfar too loose and was biting a fat cigar between his teeth. He turnedto Nürnberger to explain.... "I'm off to-day, just as I am, to Corfu... for the time being; the season is beginning and the Ehrenberg 'athomes' make me feel sick."

"No one asks you," replied Frau Ehrenberg gently, "to honour them withyour presence."

"Cute answer, eh," said Ehrenberg, puffing at his cigar. "I don't mind,of course, staying away from your real 'at homes.' But when I'd liketo dine quietly at home on a Thursday and there's an attaché sittingin one corner and a hussar in the other, and some one over there isplaying his own compositions and some one else on the sofa is beingfunny, while by the window Frau Oberberger is fixing up an assignationwith any one who happens to come along ... well, it really gets on mynerves. One can stand it once, but not a second time."

"Do you think you'll remain away all the winter?" asked Nürnberger.

"It's possible. I intend, you know, to go further, to Egypt, to Syria,probably to Palestine as well. Yes, it's perhaps only because one'sgetting older, perhaps because one reads so much about Zionism and soforth, but I can't help it, I should like to see Jerusalem before Idie."

Frau Ehrenberg shrugged her shoulders.

"Those are matters," said Ehrenberg, "which my wife don'tunderstand—and my children even less so. What do you know about it,Else? no, you don't know anything either. But when one reads what'sgoing on in the world it often makes one inclined to think that there'sno other way out for us."

"For us?" repeated Nürnberger. "I've not observed up to the presentthat Anti-Semitism has done you any particular harm."

"You mean because I've grown a rich man? Well if I were to tell youthat I don't give any shakes for money, you would, of course, notbelieve me, and quite right too. But as sure as you see me here, Iswear to you that I would give half my fortune to see the worst of ourenemies on the gallows."

"I'm only afraid," remarked Nürnberger, "that you would have the wrongones hanged."

"There's not much danger," replied Ehrenberg. "Even if you don't catchthe man you're after, the man you do catch is bound to be one of them,too, right enough."

"This is not the first time, my dear Herr Ehrenberg, that I observethat your standpoint towards this question is not ideally objective."

Ehrenberg suddenly bit through his cigar and with fingers shaking withrage put it on the ash-tray. "If any one here's to tell me ... and even... excuse me ... or perhaps you're baptised...? One can really nevertell nowadays."

"I'm not baptised," replied Nürnberger quietly. "But on the otherhand I am certainly not a Jew either. I've ceased to belong to thecongregation for a long time, for the simple reason that I never feltmyself to be a Jew."

"If some one were to bash in your top hat in the Ringstrasse because,if you will allow me to say so, you have a somewhat Jewish nose,you'd realise pretty quick that you were insulted because you were aYiddisher fellow. You take my word for it."

"But, papa, how excited you are getting," said Else, and stroked him onhis bald reddish shiny head.

Old Ehrenberg took her hand, stroked it and asked, apparently withoutany connection with what he had been saying before: "By-the-bye, shallI have the pleasure of seeing my son and heir before I leave?"

Frau Ehrenberg answered: "Oskar's bound to be home soon."

Ehrenberg turned to Nürnberger. "You will doubtless be glad to knowthat my son Oskar is an Anti-Semite as well."

Frau Ehrenberg sighed gently. "It's a fixed idea of his," she said toNürnberger. "He sees Anti-Semites everywhere, even in his own family."

"That is the latest Jewish national disease," said Nürnberger. "Imyself have only succeeded up to the present in making the acquaintanceof one genuine Anti-Semite. I'm afraid I am bound to admit, dear HerrEhrenberg, that it was a well-known Zionist leader."

Ehrenberg could only make an eloquent gesture.

Demeter Stanzides and Willy Eissler came in and immediately spreadan atmosphere of vivid brilliancy around them. Demeter wore hisuniform lightly and magnificently, as though it were a fancy costumerather than a military dress; Willy stood there in a dinner jacketlooking tall and pale and as if he had been keeping late hours, andthen immediately gathered up the reins of the conversation, whilehis pleasantly hoarse voice rasped through the air with amiableimperiousness.

He gave an account of the preparations for an aristocratic theatricalperformance in which he was adviser, producer and actor, just as he hadbeen last year, and described a meeting of the young lords, where, ifhis account was to be believed, every one had behaved as though theywere in a lunatic asylum, and then went on to treat them to a humorousdialogue between two countesses whose mannerisms he managed to take offin a most delightful way. Ehrenberg was always very amused by WillyEissler. The vague feeling that this Hungarian Jew managed somehowor other to outwit and make a fool of that whole feudal set, whompersonally he hated so much, filled him with respect for the young man.

Else sat at the little table in the corner with Demeter and made himtell her about the Isle of Wight. "You were there with your friend?"she inquired, "weren't you, Prince Karl Friedrich?"

"My friend the Prince?... that's not quite right, Fräulein Else. ThePrince has no friends, nor have I. We're neither of us the type to havefriends."

"He must be an interesting man according to all one hears."

"Interesting—I don't know about that. At any rate he's thought over alot of things which people in his position are not usually accustomedto bother their heads about very much. Perhaps he'd have managed to doall kinds of things too, if he'd been left to himself. Well, who knows,it was perhaps better for him that they kept a tight hold on him, forhim and for the country too in the long run. One man alone can donothing—never in this life. That's why it's best to let matters slideand get out of things, as he did."

Else looked at him somewhat coldly. "You're so philosophical to-day,what is it? It seems to me that Willy Eissler has spoilt you."

"Willy spoilt me?"

"Yes, you know you shouldn't associate with such clever people."

"Why not?"

"You should simply be young, shine, live, and then when there's nothingmore to do, do whatever you like ... but without bothering aboutyourself and the world."

"You should have told me that before, Fräulein Else; once a man'sstarted getting clever...."

Else shook her head. "But perhaps in your case it might have beenavoided," she said quite seriously. And then they both had to laugh.

The chandelier was lighted up. George Wergenthin and Heinrich Bermannhad come in. Invited by a smile George sat down by Else's side.

"I knew that you would come," she said disingenuously but warmly asshe pressed his hand; she was more glad than she thought she would havebeen that he should sit opposite to her after so long an interval, thatshe could see again his proud gracious face and hear again his somewhatgentle yet warm voice.

Frau Wyner appeared, a little woman with a high colour, jolly andawkward. Her daughter Sissy was with her. The groups got broken up inthe "general post" of mutual greetings.

"Well, have you composed that song for me yet?" Sissy asked George withlaughing eyes and laughing lips, as she played with one of her glovesand moved about like a snake in her dark-green shimmering dress.

"A song?" asked George. He really didn't remember.

"Or waltz or something. But you promised me to dedicate somethingto me." While she spoke her looks were wandering round. They glowedinto the eyes of Willy, passed caressingly by Demeter and addresseda sphinx-like question to Heinrich Bermann. It seemed as thoughwill-o'-the-wisps were dancing through the drawing-room.

Frau Wyner suddenly came up to her daughter. She flushed deeply. "Sissyis really so silly.... What are you thinking of, Sissy? Baron Georgehas had more important things to do this year than to compose thingsfor you."

"Oh not at all," said George politely.

"You buried your father, that's no trifle."

George looked straight in front of him.

But Frau Wyner went on speaking quite unperturbed. "And your fatherwasn't old, was he? And such a handsome man.... Is it true that he wasa chemist?"

"No," answered George calmly. "He was President of the BotanicalSociety." Heinrich with one arm on the shut piano-top was speaking toElse.

"So you've been in Germany?" she asked.

"Yes," replied Heinrich. "I've been back a fairly long time, four orfive weeks."

"And when are you going back again?"

"I don't know, perhaps never."

"Come, you don't believe that yourself—what are you working at?" sheadded quickly.

"All kinds of things," he answered. "I'm going through a ratherrestless time. I sketch out a lot but I finish nothing. I'm very rarelykeen on completing things, obviously I lose all my interest in thingstoo quickly."

"And people too," added Else.

"Possibly. Only unhappily one's emotions remain attached to peopleafter one's reason has long ago decided to have nothing more to dowith them. A poet—if you will allow me to use the expression—mustgo away from every one who no longer presents any riddle to him ...particularly from any one whom he loves."

"They say," suggested Else, "that it is just those whom we know leastthat we love."

"That's what Nürnberger makes out, but it's not quite right. If itwere really so, my dear Else, then life would probably be much morebeautiful than it is. No, we know those whom we love much betterthan we do other people—but we know them with a feeling of shame,bitterness and with the fear that others may know them as well aswe do. Love means this—being afraid that the faults which we havediscovered in the person we love may be revealed to others. Love meansthis—being able to look into the future and curse this very gift....Love means this—knowing some one so that it smashes one."

Else leant on the piano in her childish lady-like way and listened tohim curiously. How much she liked him in moments like this! She wouldhave liked to have stroked his hair again consolingly, as she had donebefore on the lake when he had been torn by his love for that otherwoman, but when he suddenly retired into his shell, coldly and drily,and looked as though all his fire had been extinguished she felt thatshe could never live with him, and she would be bound to run awayafter a few weeks ... with a Spanish officer or a violin virtuoso."It is a good thing," she said somewhat condescendingly, "that you seesomething of George Wergenthin. He'll have a sound influence on you. Heis quieter than you are. I don't think that he is so gifted as you are,and I am sure that he is not so clever."

"What do you know about his gifts?" interrupted Heinrich almost rudely.

George came up and asked Else if they couldn't have the pleasureto-night of hearing one of her songs. She didn't want to. Besidesshe was principally studying opera parts nowadays. That interestedher more. As a matter of fact she was far from having a lyricaltemperament. George asked her jokingly if she didn't have perhaps thesecret intention of going on the stage?

"With my little bit of a voice!" said Else.

Nürnberger was standing near them. "That wouldn't be an obstacle,"he observed. "Why, I feel quite positive that a modern critic wouldsoon turn up who would boom you as an important singer for the veryreason that you have no voice, but who would discover some othergift in you by way of compensation, as, for instance, your gift forcharacterisation, just as we have to-day certain painters who haveno sense of colour but only intellect; and celebrated authors whonever have the vaguest ideas but who succeed in discovering the mostunsuitable epithets for every noun they use."

Else noticed that Nürnberger's manner of speaking got on George'snerves. She turned to him. "I should like to show you something," shesaid, and took a few steps towards the music-case.

George followed her.

"Here is a collection of old Italian folksongs. I should like you toshow me the best. I myself don't know enough about it."

"I can't understand," said George gently, "how you can stand any onelike that man Nürnberger near you. He spreads around him an absoluteatmosphere of distrust and malice."

"As I've often told you, George, you're no judge of character. Afterall, what do you know about him? He's different from what you think heis; just ask your friend Heinrich Bermann."

"Oh, I know well enough that he raves about him, too," replied George.

"You're speaking about Nürnberger?" asked Frau Ehrenberg, who had justjoined them.

"George can't stand him," said Else in her casual way.

"Well, you're doing him a great injustice, if that's the case. Have youever read anything of his?"

George shook his head.

"Not even his novel which made so great a sensation fifteen or sixteenyears ago? That is really a shame. We've just lent it to Hofrat Wilt.I tell you he was quite flabbergasted at the way in which the whole ofpresent-day Austria is anticipated in that book, written all that timeago."

"Really, is that so?" said George, without conviction.

"You have no idea," continued Frau Ehrenberg, "of the applause withwhich Nürnberger was then hailed; one could go so far as to say thatall doors sprang open before him."

"Perhaps he found that enough," observed Else, with an air ofmeditative wisdom.

Heinrich was standing by the piano engaged in conversation withNürnberger, and was making an effort, as he frequently did, to persuadehim to undertake a new work or to bring out an edition of previouswritings.

Nürnberger would not agree. He was filled with positive horror atthe thought of seeing his name a prey to publicity again, of plungingagain into a literary vortex which seemed to him as repulsive as it wasfatuous. He had no desire to enter the competition. What was the point?Intriguing cliques that no longer made any attempt at concealment wereat work everywhere. Did there remain a single man of sound talent andhonest aspirations who did not have to face every minute the prospectof being dragged down into the dirt? Was there a blockhead in thecountry who could not boast of having been hailed as a genius in somerag or other? Had celebrity in these days anything at all to do withhonour, and was being ignored and forgotten worth even a single shrugof regret? And who could know after all what verdicts would pass as thecorrect ones in the future? Were not the fools really the geniuses andthe geniuses really the fools? It would be ridiculous to allow himselfto be tempted to stake his peace of mind and even his self-respect ona game where even the greatest possible win held out no promise of anysatisfaction.

"None at all?" queried Heinrich. "I'll grant you as much as you likeabout fame, wealth, world-wide influence—but for a man, simply becauseall these things are of dubious advantage, to relinquish something soabsolutely indubitable as the moments of inner consciousness of one'sown power——"

"Inner consciousness of power? Why don't you say straight away thehappiness of creating?"

"It does exist, Nürnberger."

"It may be so; why, I even think I remember that I felt somethinglike that myself now and then, a very long time ago ... only, as youno doubt know, as the years went by I completely lost the faculty ofdeceiving myself."

"Perhaps you only think so," replied Heinrich. "Who knows if it is notthat very faculty of self-deception which you have developed morestrongly than any other as the years went by?"

Nürnberger laughed. "Do you know how I feel when I hear you talk likethat? just like a fencing-master feels who gets a thrust in the heartfrom one of his own pupils."

"And not even one of his best," said Heinrich.

Herr Ehrenberg suddenly appeared in the doorway, to the astonishment ofhis wife, who had presumed that he would be by now on his way to thestation. He led a young lady by the hand. She was dressed simply inblack, and had her hair done extraordinarily high after a fashion thatwas now out of date. Her lips were full and red, the eyes in the palevivid face had a clear hard gaze.

"Come along," said Ehrenberg with some malice in his small eyes, andled the visitor straight up to Else, who was chatting with Stanzides."I've brought a visitor for you."

Else held out her hand. "But this is nice." She introduced them—"HerrDemeter Stanzides—Fräulein Therese Golowski."

Therese bowed slightly and let her gaze rest on him for a while with alittle embarrassment as though she were scrutinising a beautiful beast,then she turned to Else: "If I had known that you had such a lot ofvisitors."

"Do you know what she looks like?" said Stanzides softly to George."Like a Russian student, don't you think?"

George nodded. "That's about it. I know her. She is a school-friendof Fräulein Else's, and now she's playing a leading part amongthe Socialists. Just think of it! she's just been in prison forlèse-majesté, I believe."

"Yes, I think I've read something about it," replied Demeter. "Oneshould really get to know a person of that type more intimately. She'spretty. Her face might be made of ivory."

"And her features show a lot of energy," added George. "Her brothertoo is an extraordinary fellow, a pianist and a mathematician, and thefather's supposed to be a ruined Jewish skin-dealer."

"It's really a strange race," observed Demeter.

In the meanwhile Frau Ehrenberg had come up to Therese. She consideredit correct not to show any surprise. "Sit down, Therese," she said."And how have you been getting on all this time? Since you've devotedyourself to political life you don't bother about your old friends anymore."

"Yes, I'm afraid my work gives me very little time to pay privatevisits," replied Therese, thrusting out her chin, in a way that madeher face look masculine and almost ugly.

Frau Ehrenberg vacillated as to whether she should or should not makeany reference to the term of imprisonment which Therese had justserved. It was certainly to be borne in mind there was scarcely anotherhouse in Vienna where ladies who had been locked up a short time ago,were allowed to call.

"And how is your brother?" asked Else.

"He's doing his service this year," answered Therese. "You can imaginepretty well how he's getting on." And she looked ironically atDemeter's hussar uniform.

"I suppose he doesn't get much opportunity there for playing thepiano," said Frau Ehrenberg.

"Oh, he's given up all thoughts of being a pianist," replied Therese."He's all for politics now." And turning with a smile to Demeter sheadded: "Of course you won't give him away, Herr Oberlieutenant?"

Stanzides laughed somewhat awkwardly.

"What do you mean by politics?" asked Herr Ehrenberg. "Does he want toget into the Cabinet?"

"Not in Austria at any rate," replied Therese. "He is a Zionist, youknow."

"What?" exclaimed Ehrenberg, and his visage beamed.

"That's certainly a subject on which we don't quite agree," addedTherese.

"My dear Therese ..." began Ehrenberg.

"You'll miss your train, my dear," interrupted his wife.

"I'm not going to miss my train, and anyway, another one goesto-morrow. My dear Therese, this is the only thing I want to say—eachperson should find happiness in his own way. But in this case yourbrother and not you is the cleverer of you two. Excuse me, I'm perhapsa layman in politics, but I assure you, Therese, exactly the same thingwill happen to you Jewish Social Democrats as happened to the JewishLiberals and German Nationalists."

"How do you mean?" asked Therese haughtily. "In what way will the samething happen to us?"

"In what way...? I'll tell you soon enough. Who created the Liberalmovement in Austria?... the Jews. By whom have the Jews been betrayedand deserted? By the Liberals. Who created the National-Germanmovement in Austria? the Jews. By whom were the Jews left in thelurch?... what—left in the lurch!... Spat upon like dogs!... By theNational-Germans, and precisely the same thing will happen in the caseof Socialism and Communism. As soon as you've drawn the chestnuts outof the fire they'll start driving you away from the table. It alwayshas been so and always will be so."

"We will wait and see," Therese replied quietly.

George and Demeter looked at each other like two friends maroonedtogether on a desert island.

Oskar, who had come in during the middle of his father's speech,compressed his lips and was very embarrassed. But they all felt a kindof deliverance when Ehrenberg suddenly looked at his watch and took hisleave.

"We certainly shan't agree to-day," he said to Therese.

Therese smiled. "Scarcely. Hope you will enjoy your journey and I wantonce more to ... to thank you in the name of...."

"Hush!" said Ehrenberg and vanished.

"What are you thanking papa for?" said Else.

"For a gift of money for which I came to ask him in the most shamelessmanner. Apart from him there is not a single rich man in the circle ofmy acquaintances. I am not in a position to speak of the purpose forwhich it is wanted."

Frau Ehrenberg came up to Bermann and Nürnberger, who were continuingtheir conversation over the top of the piano, and said softly: "Ofcourse you know that she"—then she looked at Therese—"has just beenreleased from prison."

"I read about it," said Heinrich.

Nürnberger half shut his eyes and cast a glance at the group in thecorner where the three girls were talking to Stanzides and WillyEissler and shook his head.

"What cynicism are you suppressing?" said Frau Ehrenberg.

"I was just thinking how easily it might have come about for FräuleinElse to have languished two months in prison and for Fräulein Thereseto have held receptions in a stylish drawing-room as daughter of thehouse."

"Easily come about?"

"Herr Ehrenberg has had good luck, Herr Golowski bad luck.... Perhapsthat is the only difference."

"Look here, now, Nürnberger," said Heinrich, "you're not going to denythat such a thing as individuality exists in the world.... Else andTherese are rather different characters you know."

"I think so too," observed Frau Ehrenberg.

Nürnberger shrugged his shoulders. "They are both young girls, quitegifted, quite pretty ... everything else is more or less of anaccidental appanage, just as it is with most young women—most people,in fact."

Heinrich shook his head energetically. "No, no," he said, "life isreally not as simple as all that."

"That doesn't make it simpler, my dear Heinrich."

Frau Ehrenberg turned her eyes towards the door and beamed.

Felician had just come in. With all the sureness of a sleep-walker hewalked up to the hostess and kissed her hand. "I have just had thepleasure of meeting Herr Ehrenberg on the steps; he told me he wasgoing off to Corfu. It must be awfully beautiful out there."

"You know Corfu?"

"Yes, a memory of my childhood." He greeted Nürnberger and Bermann, andthey all talked about the South for which Bermann longed and in whichNürnberger did not believe.

George gave his brother a hand-shake which meant a salutation and agoodbye at the same time. As he unobtrusively disappeared through theopen door of the dining-room he looked round again, noticed Mariannesitting in the furthest corner of the drawing-room and looking athim ironically through her lorgnette. This woman had always had themysterious gift of suddenly being present without one realising whereshe came from. And then a veiled lady came up to him on the steps."Don't be in such a hurry, you can surely wait another moment," shesaid. "One really shouldn't spoil women so.... I wonder if you'd bein such a hurry, you know, if you were going to keep an appointmentwith me...? But you prefer to be non-committal. Probably becauseyou're afraid that my husband will shoot you when he comes back fromStockholm. I mean he's probably got as far as Copenhagen to-day. Buthe places absolute confidence in me. And he's quite right too. For I'mable to swear to you that no one has managed to get any further than akiss on my hand.... No, to tell the full truth, on my neck, here. Ofcourse, you believe, too, that I have had an affair with Stanzides?No, he wouldn't be at all in my line! I positively loathe handsome men.I couldn't find anything in your brother Felician either...."

One could form no idea when the veiled lady would leave off speaking,for it was Frau Oberberger. Similar conduct in other women wouldhave betokened a specific overture, but that was not so in her case.In spite of the dubious impression created by her whole manner theworld had never been able to fix her so far with a single lover. Shelived in a strange, but apparently happy, childless marriage. Herbrilliant handsome husband, a geologist by profession, had undertakenscientific expeditions in days gone by, when, so Hofrat Wilt used toassert, he had set more store by the good travelling and facilities andunimpeachable cooking of the districts in question than on their beingactually unexplored. But for some years past he had given up travellingin favour of lecturing and ladykilling. When he was at home he livedwith his wife in the best camaraderie. George had frequently, thoughnever seriously, considered the possibility of a liaison with FrauOberberger. He was even one of those who had kissed her neck, a factwhich she probably did not remember herself. And as she threw backher veil now George again surrendered himself with pleasure to thefascination of this face, which though no longer in its first flushof youth was yet both charming and animated. He wanted to take up theconversation, but she went on speaking. "Do you know you're very pale?a nice life you must be leading. What kind of a woman is it who isresponsible for taking you away from me this time?"

Hofrat Wilt, with his usual silent step, suddenly stood by them. Witha casual air of gallantry and superiority he threw them a "Good-day,beauteous lady, Hullo, Baron," and started to go on.

But Frau Oberberger thought it fitting to inform him first that BaronGeorge was just going to one of his usual orgies—she then followedHofrat up to the second story at the risk, as she remarked, of hisbeing taken for her ninety-fifth lover if he presented himself atEhrenberg's at the same time as she did.

It was seven o'clock before George could settle himself in a flyand drive to Mariahilf. He felt quite exhausted by the two hours atEhrenberg's and he was even more than usually glad at the meetingwith Anna which was before him. Since that morning at the miniatureexhibition they had seen each other nearly every day; in parks,picture-galleries, at her house. They usually talked about the littleincidents of their life or gossiped about books or music. They did notoften talk of the past, but when they did it was without doubts ormisgivings. For so far as Anna was concerned the adventures from whichGeorge had just come were far from being surrounded with the uncannyatmosphere of mystery; while George gathered from her own jestingallusions that she herself had already experienced more than oneinfatuation, though that did not cause him to lose the serenity of hisgood spirits or even to ask her any further questions.

He had kissed her for the first time eight days ago, in an empty roomin the Liechtentein Gallery, and from that moment Anna had employed thefamiliar 'du,' as though a less intimate appellation would have rungsomewhat false. The fly stopped at a street corner. George got out, lita cigarette and walked up and down opposite the house out of which Annawas due to come.

After a few minutes she came out of the door, he rushed across thestreet to meet her and kissed her hand ecstatically. Following herhabit, for she was in the habit of reading on her journeys, she carrieda book with her in a pressed leather cover.

"It is quite cool, Anna," said George, took the book out of her handand helped her into the jacket which she had been carrying over her arm.

"I was a little bit late you see," she said, "and I was very impatientto see you. Yes," she added with a smile, "one's temperament will breakout now and again. What do you think of my new dress?" she added asthey walked on.

"It suits you very well."

"They thought at my lesson that I looked like a lady-in-waiting."

"Who thought so?"

"Frau Bittner herself and her two daughters whom I am teaching."

"I should rather say, like an Arch-duch*ess."

Anna nodded with satisfaction.

"And now tell me, Anna, all that's happened to you since yesterday."

She began quite seriously: "Twelve o'clock, after I left you at thedoor of our house, dinner in the family circle. Rested a little inthe afternoon, and thought about you. Pupils from four to six-thirty,then read 'Grüner Heinrich,' and the evening paper. Too lazy to go outagain, messed about at home. Supper. The usual domestic scene."

"Your brother?" queried George.

She answered with a "Yes" that ruled out all further questions. "Alittle music after supper.... Even tried to sing."

"Were you satisfied?"

"It was quite good enough for me, anyway," she said, and George thoughthe detected a slight note of melancholy in her tone. She quickly wenton with her report. "Went to bed at half-past ten, slept well, got upearly at eight ... one can't lie in bed any longer in our house ...dressed till half-past nine, was about the house till eleven...."

"... Messing about," added George.

"Right. Then went on to Weils, gave the boy a lesson."

"How old is he?" asked George.

"Thirteen," replied Anna.

"Well, after all that is not so young."

"Quite so," said Anna. "But you can set your mind at rest when I informyou that he loves his Aunt Adele, a sentimental blonde of thirty-three,and is not thinking for the time being of breaking his troth to her....Well, to continue the record. Got home at one-thirty, had my mealalone, thank Heaven! Father already at the office, mamma in a state ofsleep. Rested again from three to four, thought even more about you,and more seriously too, than yesterday, then went shopping in town,gloves, safety pins and something for mamma, and then drove on thetram, reading all the way to Mariahilf, to the two Bittner kiddies....So now you know all. Satisfied?"

"Except for the boy of thirteen."

"Well, I agree that that might be a bit upsetting. But now we shouldlike to know if you haven't got even more sinister confessions to maketo me."

They were in a narrow silent street, which seemed quite strange toGeorge, and Anna took his arm.

"I have just come from Ehrenbergs'," he began.

"Well?" queried Anna. "Did they try very much to inveigle you?"

"No, I can't go so far as that. Of course they seemed a little hurtthat I did not go to Auhof this summer," he added.

"Did dear little Else perform?" Anna asked.

"No; of course I don't know what happened after I left."

"It won't be worth the trouble now," said Anna with exuberant mirth.

"You are wrong, Anna. There are people there for whom it is quite worthwhile singing."

"Who?"

"Heinrich Bermann, Willy Eissler, Demeter Stanzides...."

"Oh, Stanzides!" exclaimed Anna. "Now I am really sorry that I wasn'tthere too."

"It seems to me," said George, "that that is a true word spoken injest."

"Quite so," replied Anna. "I think Demeter is really desperatelyhandsome."

George was silent for a few seconds and suddenly asked, with moreemotion than he usually manifested: "Is it he then...?"

"What 'he' do you mean?"

"The one you ... loved more than me."

She smiled, nestled closer up to him and answered simply, though alittle ironically: "Am I really supposed to have been fonder of any oneelse than of you?"

"You confessed it to me yourself," replied George.

"But I also confess to you that I should love you in time more than Ihave loved or ever could love any one else."

"Are you quite sure about that, Anna?"

"Yes, George, I am quite certain of it."

They had now come again into a more lively street and reluctantly letgo of each other's arms.

They remained standing in front of various shops. They discovered aphotographer's show-case by a house-door and were very much amusedby the laboriously-natural poses in which golden and silver weddingcouples, cadets, cooks in their Sunday best and ladies in masked fancydress were taken.

George asked again in a lighter tone: "So it was Stanzides?"

"What an idea! I have never spoken a hundred words to him in my life."

They went on walking.

"Leo Golowski, then?" asked George.

She shook her head and smiled. "That was calf-love," she replied. "Thatreally doesn't count. I should like to know the girl of sixteen whowouldn't have fallen in love in the country with a handsome youth whofights a duel with a real Count and then goes about for eight days withhis arm in a sling."

"But he didn't do it on your account, but for his sister's honour, asit were."

"For Therese's honour? What makes you think that?"

"You told me that the young man had spoken to Therese in the forestwhile she was studying 'Emilia Galotti.'"

"Yes, that is quite true. Anyway, she was quite glad to be spoken to.The only thing Leo objected to was that the young Count belonged toa club of young men who really behaved rather cheekily, and I thinkshowed a touch of Anti-Semitism. So when Therese once went with herbrother for a walk by the lake, and the Count came up and spoke toTherese as though he had known her for ages, while he mumbled his nameoff-handedly, for the benefit of Leo, Leo made a bow and introducedhimself like this: 'Leo Golowski, Cracow Jew.' I don't know exactlywhat happened further; there was an exchange of words and the duel tookplace next day in the cavalry barracks at Klagenfurt."

"So I am quite right," persisted George humorously. "He did fight forhis sister's honour."

"No, I tell you. I was there when he once discussed the matter withTherese, and said to her: 'So far as I am concerned you can do whateveramuses you. You can flirt with any one you like'...."

"Only it's got to be a Jew, I suppose...." added George.

Anna shook her head. "He's really not like that."

"I know," replied George gently. "We have become quite good friendslately, your Leo and I.

"Why, only yesterday evening we met at the café again and he was reallyquite condescending to me. I think he really forgives me my lineage.Besides, I haven't told you that Therese was at Ehrenbergs', too."And he described the appearance of the young girl in the Ehrenbergdrawing-room and the impression she had made on Demeter.

Anna smiled with pleasure.

Later on, when they were again walking arm-in-arm in a quieter street,George began again. "But I still don't know who your great passion was."

Anna was silent and looked straight in front of her.

"Come, Anna, you promised me, didn't you?"

Without looking at him she replied: "If you only had an idea howstrange the whole thing seems to me to-day."

"Why strange?"

"Because the man you're trying to find out was quite an old man."

"Thirty-five," said George jestingly; "isn't that so?"

She shook her head seriously. "He was fifty-eight or sixty."

"And you?" asked George slowly.

"It is two years ago last summer. I was then twenty-one."

George suddenly stood still. "I know now, it was your singing-master.Wasn't it?"

Anna did not answer.

"So it was he, then?" said George, without being really surprised, forhe was aware that all the celebrated master's pupils fell in love withhim in spite of his grey hairs.

"And did you love him most," asked George, "of all the men you had comeacross?"

"Strange, isn't it? but it's a fact all the same."

"Did he know it?"

"I think so."

They had arrived at an open space with a small garden ... that was onlyscantily lighted. At the back there towered a church with a reddishglow. As though drawn to a quieter place they wandered on under darksoftly-waving branches.

"And what actually was there between you, if it is not a rude question?"

Anna was silent, and that moment George felt that everything waspossible—even that Anna should have been that man's mistress. Butunderneath the disquiet which he felt at that thought the desire arosegently and unconsciously to hear his fear confirmed. For if Anna hadalready belonged to some one else before she became his, the adventurecould proceed as lightly and irresponsibly as possible.

"I will tell you the whole story," said Anna at last. "It is really notso awful."

"Well?" asked George, strangely excited.

"Once, after the lesson," Anna began hesitatingly, "he gallantly helpedme into my jacket. And then suddenly he drew me to him, took me in hisarms and kissed me."

"And you...?"

"I ... I was quite intoxicated."

"Intoxicated?..."

"Yes, it was something indescribable. He kissed me on the forehead andthe hair, and then he took my hand and murmured all sorts of thingsthat I didn't hear properly...."

"And...."

"And then ... then voices came near, he let go my hand and it was allover."

"All over?"

"Yes, over ... of course it was all over."

"I certainly don't think it such a matter of course. You saw him again,no doubt."

"Of course, I still went on learning with him."

"And...?"

"I tell you it was over ... absolutely ... as though it had neverhappened."

George was surprised that he should feel reassured. "And he never triedagain?" he asked.

"Never. It would have been so ridiculous, and as he was very clever heknew that quite well himself. It is quite true that up to then I hadbeen very much in love with him, but after this episode he was nothingmore to me than my old teacher. In some way he seemed even older thanhe really was. I don't know if you can really understand what I mean.It was as though he had spent all the remains of his youth in thatmoment."

"I quite understand," said George. He believed her and loved her morethan before. They went into the church. It was almost dark within thelarge building. There were only some dim candles burning in front ofa side altar, and opposite, behind the small statue of a saint, thereshone a feeble light. A broad stream of incense flowed between the domeand the flagstones. The verger was walking, jangling his keys softly.Motionless figures appeared vaguely on the seats at the back. Georgeslowly walked forward with Anna and felt like a young husband on hishoneymoon going sight-seeing in a church with his young wife. He saidso to Anna. She only nodded.

"But it would be very much nicer," whispered George, as they stoodnestling close together in front of the chancel, "if we really weretogether somewhere abroad...."

She looked at him ecstatically and yet interrogatively: and he wasfrightened at his own words. Supposing Anna had taken it as a seriousdeclaration or as a kind of wooing? Was he not obliged to enlighten herthat he had not meant it in that way?... He remembered the conversationwhich they had had a short time ago, when they had gone out hanging onto one umbrella on a rainy windy day in the direction of Schönbrunn. Hehad suggested to her she should drive into the town with him and dinewith him in a private room in some restaurant; she had answered withthat iciness in which her whole being was sometimes frozen: "I don't dothat kind of thing." He had not pressed her further.

And yet a quarter of an hour later she had said to him, apropos nodoubt of a conversation about George's mode of life, but yet with asmile of many possibilities: "You have no initiative, George." And hehad suddenly felt at that moment as though depths in her soul wererevealing themselves, undreamt-of and dangerous depths, which it wouldbe a good thing to beware of. He could not help now thinking of thisagain. What was passing within her mind?... What did she want and whatwas she ready for?... And what did he desire, what did he feel himself?

Life was so incalculable. Was it not perfectly possible that he shouldgo travelling about the world with her, live with her a period ofhappiness and finally part from her just as he had parted from manyanother?... Yet when he thought of the end that was inevitably bound tocome, whether death brought it or life itself, he felt a gentle griefin his heart.... She still remained silent. Did she think again thathe was lacking in initiative?... Or did she think perhaps "I am reallygoing to succeed, I shall be his wife?..."

He then felt her hand stroke his very gently, with a kind of newtenderness that did him great good.

"George," she said.

"What is it?" he asked.

"If I were religious," she replied, "I should like to pray forsomething now."

"What for?" said George, feeling almost nervous.

"For you to do something, George—something that really counted. Foryou to become a genuine artist, a great artist."

He could not help looking at the floor, as though for very shame thather thoughts had travelled on paths that were so much cleaner than hisown.

A beggar held open the thick green curtain. George gave the man a coin;they were in the open air. The street lights shone up, the noise ofvehicles and closing shutters suddenly grew near. George felt as if afine veil which the twilight of the church had woven around him andher had now been torn, and in a tone of relief he suggested a littleride. Anna agreed with alacrity. They got into an open fiacre, had thetop pulled down over them, drove through the streets, then drove roundthe Ring, without seeing much of the buildings and gardens, spoke nota word and nestled closer and closer to each other. They were bothconscious of each other's impatience and their own, and they knew itwas no longer possible to go back.

When they were near Anna's home George said: "What a pity that you havegot to go home now."

She shrugged her shoulders and smiled strangely. The depths, thoughtGeorge again, but without fear and almost gaily. Before the vehiclestopped at the corner they arranged an appointment for the followingmorning in the Schwarzenberggarten and then got out. Anna rushed homeand George slowly strolled towards the town.

He considered whether he should go into the café. He did not reallyfeel keen on it. Bermann would probably stay to supper at theEhrenbergs' to-day, one could rarely count on Leo Golowski coming:and George was not much attracted by the other young people, most ofthem Jewish writers, with whom he had recently struck up a casualacquaintance, even though he had thought many of them not at alluninteresting. Speaking broadly, he found their tone to each other nowtoo familiar, now too formal, now too facetious, now too sentimental:not one of them seemed really free and unembarrassed with the others,scarcely indeed with himself.

Heinrich too had declared only the other day that he didn't want tohave anything more to do with the whole set, who had become thoroughlyantagonistic to him since his successes. George regarded it asperfectly possible that Heinrich, with his characteristic vanityand hypochondria, was scenting enmity and persecution where it wasperhaps merely a case of indifference or antipathy. He for his partknew that it was not so much friendship that attracted him to theyoung author, as the curiosity to get to know a strange man moreintimately. Perhaps also the interest of looking into a world whichup to the present had been more or less foreign to him. For while hehimself had remained somewhat reserved and had specially avoided anyreference to his own relations with women, Heinrich had not only toldhim of his distant mistress, for whom he asserted he suffered pangs ofjealousy, but also of a blonde and pretty young person with whom hehad recently got into the habit of spending his evenings—merely todeaden his feelings as he ironically added; he not only told him of hislife as a student and journalist in Vienna, which did not lie so farback, but also of his childhood and boyhood in that little provincialtown in Bohemia where he had come into the world thirty years ago.The half-affectionate and half-disgusted tone, with its mixture ofattachment and detachment, in which Heinrich spoke of his family andespecially of his suffering father, who had been an advocate in thatlittle town and a member of Parliament for a considerable period,struck George as strange and at times as almost painful. Why, he seemedto be even a little proud of the fact that when he was only twentyyears old he had prophesied his blissfully confident parent's fate tothe old man himself, exactly as it had subsequently fulfilled itself.After a short period of popularity and success the growth of theAnti-Semitic movement had driven him out of the German Liberal party,most of his friends had deserted and betrayed him, and a dissipated'corps' student, who described at public meetings the Tschechs and Jewsas the most dangerous enemies of Germanism, propriety and morality,while at home he thrashed his wife and had children by his servants,was his successor in the confidence of the electors and in Parliament.Heinrich, who had always felt a certain amount of irritation at hisfather's phrases, honest though they were, about Pan-Germanism, libertyand progress, had at first gloated over the spectacle of the old man'sdownfall. And it was only when the lawyer who had once been so much indemand began to lose his practice into the bargain, and the financialposition of the family got worse from day to day, that the son beganto experience a somewhat belated sympathy. He had given up his legalstudies early enough, and had been compelled to come to the help of hisfamily with his daily journalistic work. His first literary successesraised no echo in the melancholy household. There were sinister signsthat madness was looming over his father, while now that the latter wasfalling into mental darkness his mother, for whom state and fatherlandhad ceased to exist, when her husband was not elected to Parliament,lost her grip of life and of the world. Heinrich's only sister, once abuxom clever girl, had developed melancholia after an unhappy passionfor a kind of provincial Don Juan, and with morbid perverseness she putthe blame for the family misfortune on the shoulders of her brother,though she had always got on with him perfectly well in her youth.Heinrich also told George about other relations whom he remembered inhis early days, and a half-grotesque, half-pathetic series of strictbigoted old-fashioned Jews and Jewesses swept by George like shadowsfrom another world. He eventually realised that Heinrich did not feelhimself any homesickness for that small town with its miserable pettysquabbles, or any call to return to the gloomy narrowness of his almostruined family, and saw that Heinrich's egoism was at once his salvationand his deliverance.

It was striking nine from the tower of the Church of St. Michael whenGeorge stood in front of the café. He saw Rapp the critic sitting by awindow not completely covered by the curtain, with a pile of papers infront of him on the table. He had just taken his glasses off his noseand was polishing them, and the dull eyes brought a look of absolutedeadness into a face that was usually so alive with clever malice.Opposite him with gestures that swept over vacancy sat Gleissner thepoet in all the brilliancy of his false elegance, with a colossal blackcravat in which a red stone scintillated. When George, without hearingtheir voices, saw the lips of these two men move, while their glanceswandered to and fro, he could scarcely understand how they could standsitting opposite each other for a quarter of an hour in that cloud ofhate. It flashed across him at once that this was the atmosphere inwhich the life of the whole set played its comedy, and through whichthere darted many a redeeming flash of wit and self-analysis.

What had he in common with these people? A kind of horror seized onhim, he turned away and decided to look up his club once again insteadof going into the café, the rooms of which he had not been in formonths past. It was only a few steps away. George was soon walking upthe broad marble staircase, went into the little dining-room with thelight green curtain and was greeted as a long-lost friend by RalphSkelton, the attaché of the English Embassy, and Doctor von Breitner.They talked about the tournament which was going to take place andabout the banquet that was going to be organised in honour of theforeign fencing-masters; they gossiped about the new operetta at theWiedner Theatre where Fräulein Lovan as a bayadère had come on tothe stage almost naked, and about the duel between the manufacturerHeidenfeld and Lieutenant Novotny, in which the injured husband hadfallen. George had a game of billiards with Skelton after the meal andwon. He felt in better spirits and resolved henceforth to pay morefrequent visits to these airy prettily-furnished rooms frequented bypleasant well-bred young men with whom one could converse lightly andpleasantly.

Felician appeared, told his brother that it had been very amusing atthe Ehrenbergs' and that Frau Marianne sent her regards. Breitner, withone of his celebrated huge cigars in his mouth, joined the brothers,and began to speak about the hanging of the portraits of some of thosemembers of the club who had conferred services on it, mentioningparticularly the one of young Labinski who had ended all by suicidein the previous year. And George could not help thinking of Grace, ofthat strange hot-and-cold conversation with her in the cemetery in themelting February snow and of that wonderful night on the moonlit deckof the steamer that had brought them both from Palermo to Naples. Hescarcely knew which woman he longed for the most at this particularmoment: for Marianne whom he had deserted, for Grace who had vanished,or for the fair young creature with whom he had walked about in a duskychurch a few hours ago like a honeymoon couple in a foreign town, andwho had wanted to pray to heaven for him to become a great artist. Thememory stirred a gentler emotion. Was it not almost as though she setmore store by his artistic future than by him himself?... No.... Notmore. She had only just spoken out what had lain slumbering all thetime at the bottom of her soul. It was simply that he forgot as itwere only too frequently that he was an artist. But all that must bechanged. He had begun and prepared so much. Just a little industry andsuccess was assured. And next year he would go out into the world. Hewould soon get a post as conductor and with a sudden leap he would findhimself launched in a profession that brought both money and prestige.He would get to know new people, a different sky would shine above himand white unknown arms stretched towards him mysteriously as thoughfrom distant clouds. And while the young people at his side wereweighing very seriously the chances of the champions at the approachingtournament, George went on dreaming in his corner of a future full ofwork, fame and love.

At the same time Anna was lying in her dark room. She was not asleepand her wide-open eyes were turned towards the ceiling. She had for thefirst time in her life the infallible feeling that there was a man inthe world who could do anything he liked with her. Her mind was firmlymade up to take all the happiness or all the sorrow that might lie infront of her, and she had a gentle hope, more beautiful than all herdreams of the past, of a serene and abiding happiness.

III

George and Heinrich dismounted from their cycles. The last villas laybehind them and the broad road with its gradual upward incline ledinto the forest. The foliage still hung fairly thickly on the trees,but every slight puff of wind brought away some leaves which slowlyfluttered down. The shimmer of autumn floated over the yellow-reddishhills. The road ascended higher past an imposing restaurant gardenapproached by a flight of stone steps. Only a few people sat in theopen air, most of them were in the glass verandah, as though they didnot quite trust themselves to the faltering warmth of this late Octoberday, through which a dangerous and chilly draught kept on penetrating.

George thought of the melancholy memory of the winter evening on whichhe and Frau Marianne had paid a visit here, and had had the place tothemselves. He had been bored as he had sat by her side and listenedimpatiently to her prattle about yesterday's concert in which FräuleinBellini had sung songs; and when he had been obliged to get out of thecarriage in a suburban street on his way back on account of Marianne'snervousness, he had taken a deep breath of deliverance. A similarfeeling of release, of course, almost invariably came over him wheneverhe left a mistress, even after some more or less beautiful hours.Even when he had left Anna on her doorstep a few days ago, after thefirst evening of complete happiness, the first emotion of which he wasconscious was the joy of being alone again. And immediately in itstrain, even before the feeling of gratitude and the dim realisation ofa genuine affinity with this gentle creature who enveloped his wholebeing with such intimate tenderness had managed to penetrate his soul,there fluttered through it a wistful dream of voyages over a shimmeringsea, of coasts which approached seductively, of walks along shoreswhich would vanish again on the next day, of blue distances, freedomfrom responsibility and solitude.

The next morning, when the atmosphere of the previous evening, pregnantas it was with memory and with presage, enveloped him as he woke up,the journey was of course put off to a later but not so distant thoughof course more convenient time. For George knew at this very hour,though without any touch of horror, that this adventure was predestinedto have an end however sincerely and picturesquely it had begun.Anna had given herself to him without indicating by a word, a lookor gesture that so far as she was concerned, what was practically anew chapter in her life was now beginning. And in the same way Georgefelt quite convinced that the farewell to her, too, would be devoidof melancholy or of difficulty; a pressure of the hand, a smile and aquiet "it was very beautiful"; and he felt still easier in his mindwhen she came to him at their next meeting with a simple intimategreeting, quite free from that uneasy tone of nestling sorrow oraccomplished fate which he had heard thrilling in the voice of manyanother woman, who had woken up to such a morning, though not for thefirst time in her life.

A faintly-defined line of mountains appeared in the distance and thenvanished again as the road mounted through thick-wooded country up tothe heights. Pine-wood and leaf-bearing wood grew peacefully next toeach other, and the foliage of beeches and birch-trees shimmered withits autumn tints through the quieter tints of the firs. Ramblers couldbe seen, some with knapsack, alpine-stock and nailed shoes, as thoughequipped for serious mountaineering; now and again cyclists would comewhizzing down the road in a feverish rush. Heinrich told his companionof a cycle-tour which he had made along the Rhine at the beginning ofSeptember.

"Isn't it strange," said George, "I have knocked about the world a fairbit, but I do not yet know the district where my ancestors' home was."

"Really?" queried Heinrich, "and you feel no emotion when you hear theword Rhine spoken?"

George smiled. "After all it is nearly a hundred years since mygreat-grandparents left Biebrich."

"Why do you smile, George? It's a much longer time since my ancestorswandered out of Palestine, and yet many otherwise quite rational peopleinsist on my heart throbbing with homesickness for that country."

George shook his head irritably. "Why do you always keep botheringabout those people? It will really soon become a positive obsessionwith you."

"Oh, you think I mean the Anti-Semites? Not a bit of it. I am nottouchy any more about them, not usually, at any rate. But you just goand ask our friend Leo what his views are on this question."

"Oh, you mean him, do you? Well, he doesn't take it so literally butmore or less symbolically ... or from the political standpoint," headded uncertainly.

Heinrich nodded. "Both these ideas are very intimately connectedin brains of that character." He sank into meditation for a while,thrust his cycle forward with slight impatient spurts and was soona few paces in front again. He then began to talk again about hisSeptember tour. He thought of it again with what was almost emotion.Solitude, change of scene, movement: had he not enjoyed a threefoldhappiness? "I can scarcely describe to you," he said, "the feelingof inner freedom which thrilled through me. Do you know those moodsin which all one's memories near or distant lose, as it were, theiroppressive reality? all the people who have meant anything in one'slife, whether it be grief, care or tenderness, seem to sweep by morelike shadows, or, to put it more precisely, like forms which one hasimagined oneself? And the creations of one's own imagination also comeon the scene, of course, and are certainly quite as vivid as the peoplewhom one remembers as having been real; and then one gets the mostextraordinary complications between the figures of reality and of one'simagination. I could describe to you a conversation which took placebetween my great-uncle who is a rabbi and the Duke Heliodorus, thecharacter you know who is the centre of my opera plot—a conversationwhich was amusing and profound to a degree which, speaking generally,neither life nor any opera libretto scarcely ever reaches.... Yes,such journeys are really wonderful, and so one goes on through townswhich one has never seen before, and perhaps will never see again,past absolutely unknown faces which speedily vanish again for alleternity.... Then one whizzes again into the street between the riversand the vineyards. Such moods really cleanse the soul. A pity that theyare so rarely vouchsafed to one."

George always felt a certain embarrassment whenever Heinrich becametragic. "Perhaps we might go on a bit," he said, and they jumped on totheir machines.

A narrow bumpy byroad between the forest and fields soon led them to abare unimpressive two-storied house, which they recognised to be an innby its brown surly signboard. On the green, which was separated fromthe house by the street, stood a large number of tables, many coveredwith cloths which had once been white, others with cloths which wereembroidered. Ten or twelve young men who were members of a cycling clubsat at some pushed-back tables. Several of them had taken off theircoats, others with an affectation of smartness wore them with theirsleeves hanging down. Designs in magnificent red and green knittingblazed on the sky-blue sweaters with their yellow edges.

A chorus rang out to the sky with more power than purity: "Der Gott derEisen wachsen liess, der wollte keine Knechte."

Heinrich surveyed the company with a quick glance, half shut his eyesand said to George with clenched teeth and vehement emphasis: "I don'tknow if these youths are staunch, true and courageous, which theycertainly think they are; but there is no doubt that they smell of wooland perspiration, and so I am all for our sitting down at a reasonabledistance from them."

What does he want? thought George. Would he find it more congenial ifa party of Polish Jews were to sit here and sing psalms?

Both pushed their machines to a distant table and sat down. A waiterappeared in black evening dress sprinkled with the relics of grease andvegetables, cleared the table energetically with a dirty napkin, tooktheir orders and went off.

"Isn't it lamentable," said Heinrich, "that in the immediate outskirtsof Vienna nearly all the inns should be in such a state of neglect? Itmakes one positively depressed."

George thought that this exaggerated regret was out of place. "Oh well,in the country," he said, "you have got to take things as you findthem. It is almost part of the whole thing."

Heinrich would not admit the soundness of this point of view. He beganto develop a plan for the erection of seven hotels on the borders ofthe Wienerwald, and was calculating that one would need at the outsidethree or four millions, when Leo Golowski suddenly appeared. He was inmufti, which, as was frequently the case with him, was not withouta certain element of bizarreness. He wore to-day, in addition to alight-grey lounge suit, a blue velvet waistcoat and a yellow silkcravat with a smooth steel tie-ring. Both the others greeted him withdelight and expressed their astonishment.

Leo sat down by them. "I heard you fixing up your excursion yesterdayevening, and when we were discharged from the barracks at nine o'clockto-day, I at once thought how nice it would be to have a chat for anhour or so in the open air with a couple of keen and congenial men.So I went home, threw myself into mufti and started off." He spokein his usual tone, which always fascinated George with its charm andsemi-naïveté, though when he thought of it afterwards it always seemedto possess a certain touch of irony, of insincerity in fact. He hada knack of conducting serious conversations with a cut-and-drieddefiniteness that really impressed George. He had recently had anopportunity of listening to discussions in the café between Leo andHeinrich on questions dealing with the theory of art, especially therelation between the laws of music and mathematics. Leo thought hewas on the track of the fundamental cause of major and minor keysaffecting the human soul in such different ways. George took pleasurein following the chain of his acute and lucid analysis, even though hewas instinctively on his guard against the audacious attempt to ascribeall the magic and mystery of sound to the rule of laws, which were asinexorable as those in accordance with which the earth and the planetsrevolved, and must necessarily spring from the same origin as thoseeternal principles. It was only when Heinrich tried to carry Leo'stheories still further, and to apply them for instance to the productsof literary style, that George became impatient and immediately felthimself tacit ally of Leo who invariably smiled gently at Heinrich'stangled and fantastic expositions.

The meal was served and the young men ate with appetite; Heinrichnot less than the others, in spite of the fact that he expressed hisopinion of the inferiority of the cooking in the most disparagingterms, and was inclined to regard the conduct of the proprietor, notmerely as a sign of his personally low mind, but as characteristic ofthe decay of Austria in many other spheres. The conversation turnedon the military position of the country, and Leo gave a satiricaldescription of his comrades and superiors, with which both the otherswere very much amused. Much merriment, especially, was occasioned by aFirst-Lieutenant who had introduced himself to the volunteer contingentwith the ominous words: "I shan't give you anything to laugh about, Iam a fiend in human form."

While they were still eating a gentleman came up to the table, clickedhis heels together, put his hand to his cycle cap by way of salutation,addressed them with a facetious "All hail," added a friendly "Hallo"for the benefit of Leo, and introduced himself to Heinrich. "My nameis Josef Rosner." He then cheerily began the conversation with thesewords: "I suppose you gentlemen are also on a cycling expedition...."As no one answered him he continued: "One must make the best of thelast fine days, the splendid weather won't last much longer."

"Won't you sit down, Herr Rosner?" asked George politely.

"Much obliged but...." He pointed to his party.... "We have only juststarted out, we have still got a lot in front of us; going to ridedown to Tull and then via Stockerau to Vienna. Excuse me, gentlemen."He took a wooden vesta from the table and lighted his cigarette withdignity.

"What kind of a club are you in then, old chap?" asked Leo, and Georgewas surprised at the "old chap," till it occurred to him that they hadboth known each other from boyhood.

"This is the Sechshauser Cycle Club," replied Josef. In spite of thefact that no astonishment was expressed, he added: "Of course you aresurprised, gentlemen, at a real Viennese like myself belonging to thissuburban club, but it is only because a great friend of mine is thecaptain there. You see that fat chap there, just slipping into hiscoat. That is Jalaudek, the son of the town councillor and member ofParliament."

"Jalaudek ..." repeated Heinrich with obvious loathing in his voice,and said nothing more.

"Oh yes," said Leo, "that's the man, you know, who in a recent debateabout the popular education board gave this magnificent definition ofscience. Didn't you read it?" He turned to the others.

They did not remember.

"'Science,'" quoted Leo, "'Science is what one Jew copies fromanother.'"

All laughed. Even Josef, who, however, immediately started explaining:"He is really not that sort at all—I know him quite well—only he isso crude in political life ... simply because the opposing partiesscratch each other's eyes out in our beloved Austria. But in ordinarylife he is a very affable gentleman. The boy is much more Radical."

"Is your club Christian Socialist or National German?" asked Leocourteously.

"Oh, we don't make any distinction. Only of course as things are goingnowadays...." He stopped with sudden embarrassment.

"Come, come," said Leo encouragingly. "It is perfectly obvious thatyour club is not tainted by a single Jew. Why, one notices that a mileoff."

Josef thought it was best form to laugh. He then said: "Excuse me, nopolitics in the mountains! Anyway, as we are on this topic you arelabouring under a delusion, gentlemen. For instance, we have a man inthe club who is engaged to a Jewish girl. But they are beckoning to mealready. Goodbye, gentlemen; so long, Leo; goodbye, all." He salutedagain and swaggered off.

The others, smiling in spite of themselves, followed him with theireyes. Then Leo suddenly turned to George and asked: "And how is hissister getting on with her singing?"

"What?" said George, startled and blushing slightly.

"Therese has been telling me," went on Leo quietly, "that you and Annado music together sometimes. Is her voice all right now?"

"Yes," replied George, hesitating, "I believe so; at any rate Ithink it is very pleasant, very melodious, especially in the deeperregisters. It is a pity in my view that it is not big enough for largerrooms."

"Not big enough?" repeated Leo meditatively.

"How would you describe it?"

Leo shrugged his shoulders and looked quietly at George. "It is likethis," he said. "I personally like the voice very much, but even whenAnna had the idea of going on the stage ... to speak quite frankly, Inever thought anything would come of it."

"You probably knew," replied George with deliberate casualness, "thatFräulein Anna suffers from a peculiar weakness of the vocal chords."

"Yes, of course I knew that, but if she were cut out for an artisticcareer, really had it in her, I mean, she would certainly have overcomethat weakness."

"You think so?"

"Yes, I do. That is my decided opinion. That's why I think thatexpressions like 'peculiar weakness' or 'her voice is not big enough'are more or less euphemisms for something more fundamental, morepsychological. It's quite clear that her fate line says nothing abouther being an artist, that's a fact. She was, so to speak, predestinedfrom the beginning to end her days in respectable domesticity."

Heinrich enthusiastically caught up the theory of the fate line, andled their thoughts in his own erratic way from the sphere of clevernessto the sphere of sophistry, and from the sphere of sophistry to thesphere of the nonsensical.

He then suggested that they should bask for half an hour in the meadowin the sun. "It will probably not shine so warm again during this year."

The others agreed.

A hundred yards from the inn George and Leo stretched themselves out ontheir cloaks. Heinrich sat down on the grass, crossed his arms over hisknees, and looked in front of him. At his feet the sward sloped down tothe forest. Still deeper down rested the villas of Neuwaldegg, buriedin loose foliage. The spire-crosses and dazzling windows of the townshone out from the bluish-grey clouds, and far away, as though liftedup by a moving haze, the plain swept away to a gradual darkness.

Pedestrians were walking over the fields towards the inn. Some gavethem a greeting as they passed, and one of them, a slim young man wholed a child by the hand, remarked to Heinrich: "This is a really fineday, just like May."

Heinrich felt at first his heart go out as it were involuntarily,as it often did towards casual and unexpected friendliness of thisdescription. But he immediately pulled himself together, for of coursehe realised that the young man was only intoxicated, as it were,with the mildness of the day and the peace of the landscape; that atthe bottom of his soul he too felt hostile to him, just like all theothers who had strolled past him so harmlessly, and he himself founddifficulty in understanding why the view of these gently sloping hillsand the town merging into twilight should affect him with so sweet amelancholy, in view of the fact that the men who lived there meantso little good by him, and meant him even that little but rarely.The cycling club whizzed along the street which was quite close tothem. The jauntily-worn coats fluttered, the badges gleamed and crudelaughter rang out over the fields.

"Awful people," said Leo casually without changing his place.

Heinrich motioned down below with a vague movement of his head. "Andfellows like that," he said with set teeth, "imagine that they are moreat home here than we are."

"Oh, well," answered Leo quietly, "they aren't so far out in that,those fellows there."

Heinrich turned scornfully towards him: "Excuse me, Leo, I forgot for amoment that you yourself wish to count as only here on sufferance."

"I don't wish that for a minute," replied Leo with a smile, "and youneed not misunderstand me so perversely. One really can't bear a grudgeagainst these people if they regard themselves as the natives and youand me as the foreigners. After all, it is only the expression of theirhealthy instinct for an anthropological fact which is confirmed byhistory. Neither Jewish nor Christian sentimentalism can do anythingagainst that and all the consequences which follow from it." Andturning to George he asked him in a tone which was only too courteous:"Don't you think so too?"

George reddened and cleared his throat, but had no opportunity ofanswering, for Heinrich, on whose forehead two deep furrows nowappeared, immediately began to speak with considerable bitterness.

"My own instinct is at any rate quite as much a rule of conduct for meas the instinct of Herren Jalaudek Junior and Senior, and that instincttells me infallibly that my home is here, just here, and not in someland which I don't know, the description of which doesn't appeal tome the least bit and which certain people now want to persuade me ismy fatherland on the strength of the argument that that was the placefrom which my ancestors some thousand years ago were scattered into theworld. One might further observe on that point that the ancestors ofthe Herren Jalaudek and even of our friend Baron von Wergenthin werequite as little at home here as mine and yours."

"You mustn't be angry with me," retorted Leo, "but your standpoint inthese matters is really somewhat limited. You are always thinking aboutyourself and the really quite irrelevant circ*mstance ... excuse mysaying irrelevant circ*mstance, that you are an author who happens towrite in the German language because he was born in a German country,and happens to write about Austrian people and Austrian conditionsbecause he lives in Austria. But the primary question is not about you,or about me either, or even about the few Jewish officials who do notget promoted, the few Jewish volunteers who do not get made officers,the Jewish lecturers who either get their Professorship too late or notat all—those are sheer secondary inconveniences so to speak; we haveto deal, in considering this question, with quite another class of menwhom you know either imperfectly or not at all. We have to deal withdestinies to which, I assure you, my dear Heinrich, that in spite ofyour real duty to do so, I am sure you have not yet given sufficientthorough thought. I am sure you haven't.... Otherwise you wouldn'tbe able to discuss all these matters in the superficial and the ...egoistic way you are now doing."

He then told them of his experiences at the Bâle Zionist Congress inwhich he had taken part in the previous year, and where he had obtaineda deeper insight into the character and psychological condition of theJewish people than he had ever done before. With these people, whom hesaw at close quarters for the first time, the yearning for Palestine,he knew it for a fact, was no artificial pose. A genuine feeling wasat work within them, a feeling that had never become extinguished andwas now flaming up afresh under the stress of necessity. No one coulddoubt that who had seen, as he had, the holy scorn shine out in theirlooks when a speaker exclaimed that they must give up the hope ofPalestine for the time being and content themselves with settlements inAfrica and the Argentine. Why, he had seen old men, not uneducated meneither, no, learned and wise old men, weeping because they must needsfear that that land of their fathers, which they themselves would neverbe able to tread, even in the event of the realisation of the boldestZionist plans, would perhaps never be open to their children and theirchildren's children.

George listened with surprise, and was even somewhat moved.

But Heinrich, who had been walking up and down the field during Leo'snarrative, exclaimed that he regarded Zionism as the worst afflictionthat had ever burst upon the Jews, and that Leo's own words hadconvinced him of it more profoundly than any previous argument orexperience.

National feeling and religion, those had always been the words whichhad embittered him with their wanton, yes malignant, ambiguity.Fatherland.... Why, that was nothing more than a fiction, a politicalidea floating in the air, changeable, intangible. It was only the home,not the fatherland which had any real significance ... and so thefeeling of home was synonymous with the right to a home. And so faras religions were concerned, he liked Christian and Jewish mythologyquite as much as Greek and Indian; but as soon as they began to forcetheir dogmas upon him, he found them all equally intolerable andrepulsive. And he felt himself akin with no one, no, not with any onein the whole world: with the weeping Jews in Ble as little as with thebawling Pan-Germans in the Austrian Parliament; with Jewish usurersas little as with noble robber-knights; with a Zionist bar-keeper aslittle as with a Christian Socialist grocer. And least of all wouldthe consciousness of a persecution which they had all suffered, andof a hatred whose burden fell upon them all, make him feel linkedto men from whom he felt himself so far distant in temperament. Hedid not mind recognising Zionism as a moral principle and a socialmovement, if it could honestly be regarded in that light, but the ideaof the foundation of a Jewish state on a religious and national basisstruck him as a nonsensical defiance of the whole spirit of historicalevolution. "And you too, at the bottom of your heart," he explained,standing still in front of Leo, "you don't think either that this goalwill ever prove attainable; why, you don't even wish it, althoughyou fancy yourself in your element trying to get there. What is yourhome-country, Palestine? A geographical idea. What does the faith ofyour father mean to you? A collection of customs which you have nowceased to observe and some of which seem as ridiculous and in as badtaste to you, as they do to me."

They went on talking for a long time, now vehemently and almostoffensively, then calmly, and in the honest endeavour to convince eachother. Frequently they were surprised to find themselves holding thesame opinion, only again to lose touch with each other the next momentin a new contradiction. George, stretched on his cloak, listened tothem. His mind soon took the side of Leo, whose words seemed to thrillwith an ardent pity for the unfortunate members of his race, and whowould turn proudly away from people who would not treat him as theirequal. Soon he felt nearer again in spirit to Heinrich, who treatedwith anger and scorn the attempt, as wild as it was short-sighted,to collect from all the corners of the world the members of a racewhose best men had always merged in the culture of the land of theiradoption, or had at any rate contributed to it, and to send them alltogether to a foreign land, a land to which no homesickness calledthem. And George gradually appreciated how difficult those same pickedmen about whom Heinrich had been speaking, the men who were hatchingin their souls the future of humanity, would find it to come to adecision. How dazed must be their consciousness of their existence,their value and their rights, tossed to and fro as they were betweendefiance and exhaustion, between the fear of appearing importunate andtheir bitter resentment at the demand that they must needs yield to aninsolent majority, between the inner consciousness of being at homein the country where they lived and worked, and their indignation atfinding themselves persecuted and insulted in that very place. He sawfor the first time the designation Jew, which he himself had often usedflippantly, jestingly and contemptuously, in a quite new and at thesame time melancholy light. There dawned within him some idea of thispeople's mysterious destiny, which always expressed itself in every onewho sprang from the race, not less in those who tried to escape fromthat origin of theirs, as though it were a disgrace, a pain or a fairytale that did not concern them at all, than in those who obstinatelypointed back to it as though to a piece of destiny, an honour or anhistorical fact based on an immovable foundation.

And as he lost himself in the contemplation of the two speakers,and looked at their figures, which stood out in relief againstthe reddish-violet sky in sharply-drawn, violently-moving lines,it occurred to him, and not for the first time, that Heinrich whoinsisted on being at home here, resembled both in figure and gesturesome fanatical Jewish preacher, while Leo, who wanted to go back toPalestine with his people, reminded him in feature and in bearing ofthe statue of a Greek youth which he had once seen in the Vatican orthe Naples museum. And he understood again quite well, as his eyefollowed with pleasure Leo's lively aristocratic gestures, how Annacould have experienced a mad fancy for her friend's brother years agoin that summer by the seaside.

Heinrich and Leo were still standing opposite each other on thegrass, while their conversation became lost in a maze of words. Theirsentences rushed violently against each other, wrestled convulsively,shot past each other and vanished into nothingness, and George noticedat some moment or other that he was only listening to the sound of thespeeches, without being able to follow their meaning.

A cool breeze came up from the plain, and George got up from thesward with a slight shiver. The others, who had almost forgotten hispresence, were thus called back again to actualities, and they decidedto leave. Full daylight still shone over the landscape, but the sun wascouched faint and dark on the long strip of an evening cloud.

"Conversations like this," said Heinrich, as he strapped his cloakon to his cycle, "always leave me with a sense of dissatisfaction,which even goes as far as a painful feeling in the neighbourhood ofthe stomach. Yes really. They just lead absolutely nowhere. And afterall, what do political views matter to men who don't make politicstheir career or their business? Do they exert the slightest influenceon the policy and moulding of existence? You, Leo, are just likemyself; neither of us will ever do anything else, can ever do anythingelse, than just accomplish that which, in view of our character andour capacities, we are able to accomplish. You will never migrate toPalestine all your life long, even if Jewish states were founded andyou were offered a position as prime-minister, or at any rate officialpianist——"

"Oh, you can't know that," interrupted Leo.

"I know it for a certainty," said Heinrich. "That's why I'll admit,into the bargain, that in spite of my complete indifference to everysingle form of religion I would positively never allow myself to bebaptised, even if it were possible—though that is less the case to-daythan ever it was—of escaping once and for all Anti-Semitic bigotry andvillainy by a dodge like that."

"Hum," said Leo, "but supposing the mediæval stake were to be lightedagain."

"In that case," retorted Heinrich, "I hereby solemnly bind myself totake your advice implicitly."

"Oh," objected George, "those times will certainly not come again."

Both the others were unable to help laughing at George being kindenough to reassure them in that way about their future, in the name, asHeinrich observed, of the whole of Christendom.

In the meanwhile they had crossed the field.

George and Heinrich pushed their cycles forward up the bumpy by-road,while Leo at their side walked on the turf with his cloak fluttering inthe wind. They were all silent for quite a time, as though exhausted.At the place where the bad path turned off towards the broad high road,Leo remained stationary and said: "We will have to leave each otherhere, I am afraid." He shook hands with George and smiled. "You musthave been pretty well bored to-day," he said.

George blushed. "I say now, you must take me for a...."

Leo held George's hand in a firm grip. "I take you for a very shrewdman and also for a very good sort. Do you believe me?"

George was silent.

"I should like to know," continued Leo, "whether you believe me,George. I am keen on knowing." His voice assumed a tone of genuinesincerity.

"Why, of course I believe you," replied George, still, however, with acertain amount of impatience.

"I am glad," said Leo, "for I really feel a sympathy between us,George." He looked straight into his eyes, then shook hands once morewith him and Heinrich and turned to go.

But George suddenly had the feeling that this young man who with hisfluttering cloak and his head slightly bent forward was stridingdown-hill in the middle of the broad street was not waiting to any"home," but to some foreign sphere somewhere, where no one couldfollow him. He found this feeling all the more incomprehensible sincehe had not only spent many hours recently with Leo in conversation atthe café, but had also received all possible information from Annaabout him, his family and his position in life. He knew that thatsummer at the seaside, which now lay six years back, as did Anna'syouthful infatuation, had marked the last summer which the Golowskifamily had enjoyed free from trouble, and that the business of the oldman had been completely ruined in the subsequent winter. It had beenextraordinary, according to Anna's account, how all the members of thefamily had adapted themselves to the altered conditions, as though theyhad been long prepared for this revolution. The family removed fromtheir comfortable house in the Rathaus quarter to a dismal street inthe neighbourhood of the Augarten. Herr Golowski undertook all kinds ofcommission business while Frau Golowski did needlework for sale.

Therese gave lessons in French and English and at first continued toattend the dramatic school. It was a young violin player belongingto an impoverished noble Russian family who awakened her interestin political questions. She soon abandoned her art, for which, asa matter of fact, she had always shown more inclination than realtalent, and in a short time she was in the full swing of the SocialDemocratic movement as a speaker and agitator. Leo, without agreeingwith her views, enjoyed her fresh and audacious character. He oftenattended meetings with her, but as he was not keen on being impressedby magniloquence, whether it took the form of promises which were neverfulfilled or of threats which disappeared into thin air, he found itgood fun to point out to her, on the way home, with an irresistibleacuteness, the inconsistencies in her own speeches and those of themembers of her party. But he always made a particular point of tryingto convince her that she would never have been able to forget socompletely her great mission for days and weeks on end, if her pityfor the poor and the suffering were really as deep an emotion as sheimagined.

Leo's own life, moreover, had no definite object. He attended technicalscience lectures, gave piano lessons, sometimes went so far as to planout a musical career, and practised five or six hours a day for weekson end. But it was still impossible to forecast what he would finallydecide on. Inasmuch it was his way to wait almost unconsciously for amiracle to save him from anything disagreeable, he had put off his yearof service till he was face to face with the final time-limit, and nowin his twenty-fifth year he was serving for the first time.

Their parents allowed Leo and Therese to go their own way, and in spiteof their manifold differences of opinion there seemed to be no seriousdiscord in the Golowski family. The mother usually sat at home, sewed,knitted and crocheted, while the father went about his business withincreasing apathy, and liked best of all to watch the chess-players inthe café, a pleasure which enabled him to forget the ruin of his life.Since the collapse of his business he seemed unable to shake off acertain feeling of embarrassment towards his children, so that he wasalmost proud when Therese would give him now and again an article whichshe had written to read, or when Leo was good enough to play a game onSundays with him on the board he loved so well.

It always seemed to George as though his own sympathy for Leo werefundamentally connected with Anna's long-past fancy for him. He felt,and not for the first time, curiously attracted to a man to whom a soulwhich now belonged to him, had flown in years gone by.

George and Heinrich had mounted their cycles, and were riding along anarrow road through the thick forest that loomed darker and darker. Alittle later, as the forest retreated behind them again on both sides,they had the setting sun at their back, while the long shadows of theirbodies kept running along in front of their cycles. The slope of theroad became more and more pronounced and soon led them between lowhouses which were overhung with reddish foliage. A very old man sat ina seat in front of the door, a pale child looked out of an open window.Otherwise not a single human being was to be seen.

"Like an enchanted village," said George.

Heinrich nodded. He knew the place. He had been here with his love ona wonderful summer day this year. He thought of it and burning longingthrobbed through his heart. And he remembered the last hours that hehad spent with her in Vienna in his cool room with the drawn-downblinds, through whose interstices the hot August morning had glitteredin: he remembered their last walk through the Sunday quiet of the coolstone streets and through the old empty courtyards—and the completeabsence of any idea that all this was for the last time. For it wasonly the next day that the letter had come, the ghastly letter in whichshe had written that she had wished to spare him the pain of farewell,and that when he read these words, she would already be quite a longway over the frontier on her journey to the new foreign town.

The road became more animated. Charming villas appeared encircled withcosy little gardens, wooded hills sloped gently upwards behind thehouses. They saw once again the expanse of the valley as the waning dayrested over meadows and fields. The lamps had been lit in a great emptyrestaurant garden. A hasty darkness seemed to be stealing down fromevery quarter simultaneously. They were now at the cross-roads. Georgeand Heinrich got off and lit cigarettes.

"Right or left?" asked Heinrich.

George looked at his watch. "Six,... and I've got to be in town byeight."

"So I suppose we can't dine together?" said Heinrich.

"I am afraid not."

"It's a pity. Well, we'll take the short cut then through Sievering."

They lit their lamps and pushed their cycles through the forest in along serpentine. One tree after another in succession sprang out of thedarkness into the radiance of the globes of light and retreated againinto the night. The wind soughed through the foliage with increasedforce and the leaves rustled underneath. Heinrich felt a quite gentlefear, such as frequently came over him when it was dark in the opencountry. He felt, as it were, disillusioned at the thought of having tospend the evening alone. He was in a bad temper with George, and wasirritated into the bargain at the latter's reserve towards himself.He resolved also, and not for the first time, not to discuss his ownpersonal affairs with George any more. It was better so. He did notneed to confide in anybody or obtain anybody's sympathy. He had alwaysfelt at his best when he had gone his own way alone. He had foundthat out often enough. Why then reveal his soul to another? He neededacquaintances to go walks and excursions with, and to discuss all themanifold problems of life and art in cold shrewd fashion—he neededwomen for a fleeting embrace; but he needed no friend and no mistress.In that way his life would pass with greater dignity and serenity. Herevelled in these resolutions, and felt a growing consciousness oftoughness and superiority. The darkness of the forest lost its terror,and he walked through the gently rustling night as though through akindred element.

The height was soon reached. The dark sky lay starless over the greyroad and the haze-breathing fields that stretched on both sides towardsthe deceptive distance of the wooded hills. A light was shining from atoll-house quite near them. They mounted their cycles again and rodeback as quickly as the darkness permitted. George wished to be soonat the journey's end. It struck him as strangely unreal that he wasto see again in an hour and a half that quiet room which no one elseknew of besides Anna and himself; that dark room with the oil-prints onthe wall, the blue velvet sofa, the cottage piano, on which stood thephotographs of unknown people and a bust of Schiller in white plaster;with its high narrow windows, opposite which the old dark grey churchtowered aloft.

Lamps were burning all the way along. The roads again became more openand they were given a last view of the heights. Then they went at topspeed, first between well-kept villas, finally through a populous noisymain road until they got deeper into the town. They got off at theVotive Church.

"Good-bye," said George, "and I hope to see you again in the caféto-morrow."

"I don't know ..." replied Heinrich, and as George looked at himquestioningly he added: "It is possible that I shall go away."

"I say, that is a sudden decision."

"Yes, one gets caught sometimes by...."

"Lovesickness," filled in George with a smile.

"Or fear," said Heinrich with a short laugh.

"You certainly have no cause for that," said George.

"Do you know for certain?" asked Heinrich.

"You told us so yourself."

"What!"

"That you have news every day."

"Yes, that is quite true, every day. I get tender ardent letters.Every day by the same post. But what does that prove? Why, I writeletters which are yet more ardent and even more tender and yet...."

"Yes," said George, who understood him. And he hazarded the question:"Why don't you stay with her?"

Heinrich shrugged his shoulders. "Tell me yourself, George, wouldn't itstrike you as slightly humorous for a man to burn his boats on accountof a love affair like that and trot about the world with a littleactress...."

"Personally, I should regret it very much ... but humorous ... wheredoes the humour come in?"

"No, I have no desire to do it," said Heinrich in a hard voice.

"But if you ... but if you were to take it very seriously ... if youasked her point blank ... mightn't the young lady perhaps give up hercareer?"

"Possibly, but I am not going to ask her, I don't want to ask her. No,better pain than responsibility."

"Would it be such a great responsibility?" asked George. "What I meanis ... is the girl's talent so pronounced, is she really so keen on herart, that it would be really a sacrifice for her to give the thing up."

"Has she got talent?" said Heinrich. "Why, I don't know myself. Why, Ieven think she is the one creature in the world about whose talent Iwould not trust myself to give an opinion. Every time I have seen heron the stage her voice has rung in my ears like the voice of an unknownperson, and as though, too, it came from a greater distance than allthe other voices. It is really quite remarkable.... But you are boundto have seen her act, George. What's your impression? Tell me quitefrankly."

"Well, quite frankly ... I don't remember her properly. You'll excuseme, I didn't know then, you see.... When you talk of her I always seein my mind's eye a head of reddish-blonde hair that falls a little overthe forehead—and very big black roving eyes with a small pale face."

"Yes, roving eyes," repeated Heinrich, bit his lips and was silent fora while. "Good-bye," he said suddenly.

"You'll be sure to write to me?" asked George.

"Yes, of course. Any way I am bound to be coming back again," he added,and smiled stiffly.

"Bon voyage," said George, and shook hands with him with unusualaffection. This did Heinrich good. This warm pressure of the handnot only made him suddenly certain that George did not think himridiculous, but also, strangely enough, that his distant mistress wasfaithful to him and that he himself was a man who could take moreliberties with life than many others.

George looked after him as he hurried off on his cycle. He felt againas he had felt a few hours before, on Leo's departure, that some onewas vanishing into an unknown land; and he realised at this moment thatin spite of all the sympathy he felt for both of them he would neverattain with either that unrestrained sense of intimacy which had unitedhim last year with Guido Schönstein and previously with poor Labinski.

He reflected whether perhaps the fundamental reason for this was notperhaps the difference of race between him and them, and he askedhimself whether leaving out of account the conversation between thetwo of them, he would of his own initiative have realised so clearlythis feeling of aloofness. He doubted it. Did he not as a matter offact feel himself nearer, yes even more akin, to these two and to manyothers of their race than to many men who came from the same stock ashis own? Why, did he not feel quite distinctly that deep down somewherethere were many stronger threads of sympathy running between him andthose two men, than between him and Guido or perhaps even his ownbrother? But if that was so, would he not have been bound to have takensome opportunity this afternoon to have said as much to those two men?to have appealed to them? "Just trust me, don't shut me out. Just tryto treat me as a friend...." And as he asked himself why he had notdone it, and why he had scarcely taken any part in their conversation,he realised with astonishment that during the whole time he had notbeen able to shake off a kind of guilty consciousness of having notbeen free during his whole life from a certain hostility towards theforeigners, as Leo called them himself, a kind of wanton hostilitywhich was certainly not justified by his own personal experience, andhad thus contributed his own share to that distrust and defiance withwhich so many persons, whom he himself might have been glad to take anopportunity to approach, had shut themselves off from him. This thoughtroused an increasing malaise within him which he could not properlyanalyse, and which was simply the dull realisation that clean relationscould not flourish even between clean men in an atmosphere of folly,injustice and disingenuousness.

He rode homewards faster and faster, as though that would make himescape this feeling of depression. Arrived home, he changed quickly, soas not to keep Anna waiting too long. He longed for her as he had neverdone before. He felt as though he had come home from a far journey tothe one being who wholly belonged to him.

IV

George stood by the window. The stone backs of the bearded giantswho bore on their powerful arms the battered armorial bearings of along-past race were arched just beneath him. Straight opposite, out ofthe darkness of ancient houses the steps crept up to the door of theold grey church which loomed amid the falling flakes of snow as thoughbehind a moving curtain. The light of a street lamp on the squareshone palely through the waning daylight. The snowy street beneath,which, though centrally situated, was remote from all bustle, was evenquieter than usual on this holiday afternoon, and George felt oncemore, as indeed he always did when he ascended the broad staircase ofthe old palace that had been transformed into an apartment house, andstepped into the spacious room with its low-arched ceiling, that he wasescaping from his usual world and had entered the other half of hiswonderful double life.

He heard a key grating in the door and turned round. Anna came in.George clasped her ecstatically in his arms, and kissed her on theforehead and mouth. Her dark-blue jacket, her broad-rimmed hat, her furboa were all covered with snow.

"You have been working then," said Anna, as she took off her things andpointed to the table where music paper with writing on it lay close tothe green-shaded lamp.

"I have just looked through the quintette, the first movement, there isstill a lot to do to it."

"But it will be extraordinarily fine then."

"We'll hope so. Do you come from home, Anna?"

"No, from Bittner's."

"What, to-day, Sunday?"

"Yes, the two girls have got a lot behind-hand through the measles, andthat has to be made up. I am very pleased too, for money reasons forone thing."

"Making your fortune!"

"And then one escapes for an hour or two at any rate from the happyhome."

"Yes," said George, put Anna's boa over the back of a chair and strokedthe fur nervously with his fingers. Anna's remark, in which he coulddetect a gentle reproach, as it were, a reproach too which he hadheard before, gave him an unpleasant feeling. She sat down on thesofa, put her hands on her temples, stroked her dark blonde wavy hairbackwards and looked at George with a smile. He stood leaning on thechest of drawers, with both hands in his jacket pocket, and began totell her of the previous evening, which he had spent with Guido and hisviolinist. The young lady had, at the Count's wish, been for some weekstaking instruction in the Catholic religion with the confessor of anArch-duch*ess; she, on her side, made Guido read Nietzsche and Ibsen.But according to George's account the only result of this course ofstudy which one could report so far was that the Count had developedthe habit of nicknaming his Mistress "the Rattenmamsell," after thatwonderful character out of Little Eyolf.

Anna had nothing very bright to communicate about her last evening.They had had visitors. "First," Anna told him, "my mother's twocousins, then an office friend of my father's to play tarok. Even Josefwas domesticated for once and lay on the sofa from three to five. Thenhis latest pal, Herr Jalaudek, who paid me quite a lot of attention."

"Really, really."

"He was fascinating. I'll just tell you: a violet cravat with yellowspots which puts yours quite into the shade. He paid me the honour tooof suggesting that I should help him in a so-called charity-performanceat the 'Wild Man,' for the benefit of the Wahringer Church BuildingSociety."

"Of course you accepted?"

"I excused myself on account of my lack of voice and want of religiousfeeling."

"So far as the voice is concerned...."

She interrupted him. "No, George," she said lightly, "I have given upthat hope at last."

He looked at her and tried to read her glance, but it remained clearand free. The organ from the church sounded softly and dully.

"Right," said George, "I have brought you the ticket for to-morrow's'Carmen.'"

"Thanks very much," she answered, and took the card. "Are you goingtoo, dear?"

"Yes, I have a box in the third tier, and I have asked Bermann to come.I am taking the music with me, as I did the other day at Lohengrin, andI shall practise conducting again. At the back, of course. You can haveno idea what you learn that way. I should like to make a suggestion,"he added hesitatingly. "Won't you come and have supper somewhere withme and Bermann after the theatre?"

She was silent.

He continued: "I should really like it if you got to know him better.With all his faults he is an interesting fellow and...."

"I am not a Rattenmamsell," she interrupted sharply, while her faceimmediately assumed its stiff conventional expression.

George compressed the corners of his mouth. "That doesn't apply to me,my dear child. There are many points of difference between Guido andme. But as you like." He walked up and down the room.

She remained sitting on the ottoman. "So you are going to Ehrenbergs'this evening?" she asked.

"You know I am. I have already refused twice recently, and I couldn'tvery well do so this time."

"You needn't make any excuses, George, I am invited too."

"Where to?"

"I am going to Ehrenbergs' too."

"Really?" he exclaimed involuntarily.

"Why are you so surprised?" she asked sharply; "it is clear that theydon't yet know that I am not fit to be associated with any more."

"My dear Anna, what is the matter with you to-day? Why are you sotouchy? Supposing they did know ... do you think that would preventpeople from inviting you? Quite the contrary. I am convinced that youwould really go up in Frau Ehrenberg's respect."

"And the sweet Else, I suppose, would positively envy me. Don't youthink so? Anyway, she wrote me quite a nice letter. Here it is. Won'tyou read it?" George ran his eye over it, thought its kindness wassomewhat deliberate, made no further remark and gave it back to Anna.

"Here is another one too, if it interests you."

"From Doctor Stauber. Indeed? Would he mind if he knew that you gave itto me to read?"

"Why are you so considerate all of a sudden?" and as though to punishhim she added, "there are probably a great many things that he wouldmind."

George read the letter quickly through to himself. Berthold describedin his dry way, with an occasional tinge of humour, the progress ofhis work at the Pasteur Institute, his walks, his excursions and thetheatres he had visited, and quite a lot of remarks also of a generalcharacter. But in spite of his eight pages the letter did not containthe slightest allusion to either past or future. George asked casually"How long is he staying in Paris?"

"As you see he doesn't write a single word about his return."

"Your friend Therese was recently of opinion that his colleagues in theparty would like to have him back again."

"Oh, has she been in the café again?"

"Yes. I spoke to her there two or three days ago. She really amuses mea great deal."

"Really?"

"She starts off, of course, by always being very superior, even withme. Presumably because I am one of those who rot away their life withart and silly things like that, while there are so many more importantthings to do in the world. But when she warms up a bit it turns outthat she is every bit as interested as we ordinary people in all kindsof silly things."

"She easily gets warmed up," said Anna imperturbably.

George walked up and down and went on speaking. "She was reallymagnificent the other day at the fencing tournament in the Musikvereinrooms. By-the-bye, who was the gentleman who was up there in thegallery with her?"

Anna shrugged her shoulders. "I did not have the privilege of being atthe tournament, and besides, I don't know all Therese's cavaliers."

"I presume," said George, "it was a comrade, in every sense of theterm. At any rate he was very glum and was pretty badly dressed.When Therese clapped Felician's victory he positively collapsed withjealousy."

"What did Therese really tell you about Doctor Berthold?" asked Anna.

"Ho, ho!" said George jestingly, "the lady still appears to be keenlyinterested."

Anna did not answer.

"Well," reported George, "I can give you the information that they wantto make him stand in the autumn for the Landtag. I can quite understandit too, in view of his brilliant gifts as a speaker."

"What do you know about it? Have you ever heard him speak?"

"Of course I have; don't you remember? At your place."

"There is really no occasion for you to make fun of him."

"I assure you I'd no idea of doing so."

"I noticed at once that he struck you at the time as somewhat funny. Heand his father, too. Why, you immediately ran away from them."

"Not at all, Anna. You are doing me a great injustice in making suchinsinuations."

"They may have their weaknesses, both of them, but at any rate theybelong to the people whom one can count on. And that is something."

"Have I disputed that, Anna? Upon my word, I have never heard you talkso illogically. What do you want me to do then? Did you want me by anychance to be jealous about that letter?"

"Jealous? that would be the finishing touch. You with your past."

George shrugged his shoulders. Memories swam up in his mind of similarwrangles in the course of previous relationships, memories of thosemysterious sudden discords and estrangements which usually simply meantthe beginning of the end. Had he really got as far as all that alreadywith his good sensible Anna? He walked up and down the room moodily andalmost depressed. At times he threw a fleeting glance towards his lovewho sat silent in her corner of the sofa, rubbing her hands lightly asthough she were cold. The organ rang out more heavily than before inthe silence of the room that had suddenly become so melancholy; thevoices of singing men became audible and the window-panes rattledsoftly. George's glance fell on the little Christmas-tree which stoodon the sideboard and whose candles had burnt the evening before lastfor the benefit of Anna and himself. Half-bored, half-nervous, he tooka wooden vesta out of his pocket and began to light the little candlesone after another.

Then Anna's voice suddenly rang out to him. "There is no one I shouldprefer to old Doctor Stauber to confide in about anything serious."

George turned coldly towards her and blew out a burning vesta whichhe still held in his hand. He knew immediately what Anna meant, andfelt surprised that he had never given it another thought since theirlast meeting. He went up to her and took hold of her hand. Now for thefirst time she looked up. Her expression was impenetrable, her featuresimmobile. "I say, Anna...." He sat down by her side on the ottoman withboth her hands in his.

She was silent.

"Why don't you speak?"

She shrugged her shoulders. "There is nothing new to tell you," sheexplained simply.

"I see," he said slowly. It passed through his mind that her strangesensitiveness to-day was to be regarded as symptomatic of the conditionto which she was alluding, and the uneasiness in his soul increased."But you can't tell definitely for a good time yet," he said in asomewhat cooler tone than he really meant. "And ... even supposing ..."he added with artificial cheerfulness.

"So you would forgive me?" she asked with a smile.

He pressed her to him and suddenly felt quite transported. A vivid andalmost pathetic feeling of love flamed up in him for the soft goodcreature whom he held in his arms, and who could never occasion him,he felt deeply convinced, any serious suffering. "It really wouldn'tbe so bad," he said cheerily, "you would just leave Vienna for a time,that's all."

"Well, it certainly wouldn't be as simple as you seem all of a suddento think it would."

"Why not? You can soon find an excuse; besides, whom does it concern?Us two. No one else. But as far as I am concerned. I can get away anyday as you know; can stay away too as long as I want to. I have notyet signed any contract for next year," he added with a smile. He thengot up to put out the Christmas candles, whose tiny flames had almostburnt down to the end, and went on speaking with increasing liveliness."It would be positively delightful; just think of it, Anna! We shouldgo away at the end of February or the beginning of March. South, ofcourse, Italy, or perhaps the sea. We would stay at some quiet placewhere no one knows us, in a beautiful hotel with enormous grounds. Andwouldn't one be able to work there, by Jove?"

"So that's why!" she said, as though she suddenly understood him. Helaughed, held her more tightly in his arms and she pressed herselfa*gainst his breast. There was no longer any noise from outside. Thelast sounds of the organ and the men's voices had died away. The snowcurtains swept down in front of the window.... George and Anna werehappy as they had never been before.

While they were at peace in the darkness he spoke about his musicalplans for the near future, and told her, so far as he was able, aboutHeinrich's opera plot. The room became filled with shimmering shadows.The clatter of a wedding-feast swept through the fantastic hall of anancient king. A passionate youth stole in and thrust his dagger intothe prince. A dark sentence was pronounced more sinister than deathitself. A sluggish ship sailed on a darkling flood towards an unknowngoal. At the youth's feet there rested a princess, who had once beenthe betrothed of a duke. An unknown man approached the shining boatwith strange tidings; fools, star-gazers, dancers, courtiers sweptpast. Anna had listened in silence. When he had finished George wascurious to learn what impression the fleeting pictures had made uponher.

"I can't say properly," she replied. "I certainly feel quite puzzledto-day, how you are going to make anything real out of this more orless fantastic stuff."

"Of course you can't realise it yet to-day—particularly after justhearing me describe it.... But you do feel, don't you? the musicalatmosphere. I have already noted down a few motifs—and I should bereally very glad if Bermann would soon get to work seriously."

"If I were you, George ... may I tell you something?"

"Of course, fire ahead."

"Well, if I were you, I'd first get the quintette really finished. Itcan't want much doing to it now."

"Not much, and yet ... besides, you mustn't forget that I've startedall kinds of other things lately. The two pianoforte pieces, then theorchestra scherzo—I've already got pretty far with that. But itcertainly ought to be made part of a symphony."

Anna made no answer. George noticed that her thoughts were roving, andhe asked her where she had run away to this time.

"Not so far," she replied; "it only just passed through my mind what alot of things can happen before the opera is really ready."

"Yes," said George slowly, with a slight trace of embarrassment. "Ifone could just look into the future."

She sighed quite softly and he pressed her nearer to him, almost asthough he pitied her. "Don't worry, my darling, don't worry," he said."I am here all right, and I always shall be here." He thought he feltwhat she was thinking; can't he say anything better than that?...anything stronger? anything to take away all my fear—take it away fromme for ever? And he asked her disingenuously, as though conscious ofrunning a risk: "What are you thinking of?" And as she was obstinatelysilent he said once more: "Anna, what are you thinking of?"

"Something very strange," she answered gently.

"What is it?"

"That the house is already built, where it will come into theworld—that we have no idea where ... that is what I couldn't helpthinking of."

"Thinking of that!" he said, strangely moved. And pressing her to hisheart with a love that flamed up afresh, "I will never desert you, youtwo...."

When the room was lighted again they were in very good spirits,plucked the last forgotten sweets from the branches of the littleChristmas-tree and looked forward to their next meeting among peoplewho were absolutely indifferent to them, as though it were quite ajolly adventure, laughed and talked exuberant nonsense.

As soon as Anna had gone away George locked his music manuscript up ina drawer, put out the lamp and opened the window. The snow was fallinglightly and thinly. An old man was coming up the steps and his labouredbreathing sounded through the still air. Opposite the silent churchtowered aloft ... George remained awhile standing at the window. Hefelt almost convinced at this moment that Anna was mistaken in hersurmise. He felt almost reassured as there came into his mind thatremark of Leo Golowski's that Anna was destined to end her days inrespectable middle-class life. Having a child by a lover really couldnot be part of her fate line. It was not part of his fate line eitherto carry the burden of serious obligation, to be tied fast from to-dayand perhaps for all time to a person of the other sex; to become afather when he was still so young, a father ... the word sank into hissoul, oppressive, almost sinister.

He went into the Ehrenbergs' drawing-room at eight o'clock in theevening. He was met by the sound of waltz music. Old Eissler sat at thepiano with his long grey beard almost drooping on to the keys. Georgeremained at the entrance in order not to disturb him, and met welcomingglances from every quarter. Old Eissler was playing his celebratedViennese dances and songs with a soft touch and powerful rhythm, andGeorge enjoyed, as he always did, the sweet crooning melodies.

"Splendid," said Frau Ehrenberg, when the old man got up.

"Keep your big words for great occasions, Leonie," answered Eissler,whose time-honoured privilege it was to call all women and girls bytheir Christian names. And it seemed to do everybody good to hearthemselves spoken to by this handsome old man with his deep ringingvoice, in which there quivered frequently, as it were, a sentimentalecho of the vivid days of his youth.

George asked him if all his compositions had appeared in print.

"Very few, dear Baron. Unfortunately I can scarcely write a singlenote."

"It would certainly be an awful pity if these charming melodies were tobe absolutely lost."

"Yes, I have often told him that," put in Frau Ehrenberg, "butunfortunately he is one of those men who have never taken themselvesquite seriously."

"No, that is a mistake, Leonie. You know how I began my artisticcareer: I wanted to compose a great opera. Of course I was seventeenyears old at the time and madly in love with a great singer."

Frau Oberberger's voice rang out from the table towards the corner: "Iam sure it was a chorus girl."

"You are making a mistake, Katerina," answered Eissler. "Chorus girlswere never my line. It was, as a matter of fact, a platonic love, likemost of the great passions of my life."

"Were you so clumsy?" queried Frau Oberberger.

"I was often that as well," replied Eissler, in his sonorous voice andwith dignity. "For as far as I can see I could have had as much luck asa hussar riding-master, but I don't regret having been clumsy."

Frau Ehrenberger nodded appreciatively.

"Then one would not be making a mistake, Herr Eissler," remarkedNürnberger, "if one attributed the chief part in your life tomelancholy memories?"

Frau Ehrenberger nodded again. She was delighted whenever any one waswitty in her drawing-room.

"Why did you say," she inquired, "that you could have had as muchhappiness as a hussar riding-master? It is not true for a minutethat officers have any particular luck with women, even though mysister-in-law once had an affair with a First-Lieutenant...."

"I don't believe in platonic love," said Sissy, and beamed through theroom.

Frau Wyner gave a slight shriek.

"Fräulein Sissy is probably right," said Nürnberger; "at any rate I amconvinced that most women take platonic love either as an insult or anexcuse."

"There are young girls here," Frau Ehrenberg reminded him gently.

"One sees that already," said Nürnberger, "from the fact of theirjoining in the conversation."

"All the same, I would like to take the liberty of adding a littleanecdote to the chapter of platonic love," said Heinrich.

"But not a Jewish one," put in Else.

"Of course not. A blonde little girl...."

"That proves nothing," interrupted Else.

"Please let him finish his story," remonstrated Frau Ehrenberg.

"Well then, a blonde little girl," began Heinrich again, "onceexpressed her conviction to me, quite different, you see, from FräuleinSissy, that platonic love did, as a matter of fact, exist, and do youknow what she suggested as a proof of it? giving ... an experience outof her own life. She had, you know, once spent a whole hour in a roomwith a lieutenant and...."

"That is enough!" cried Frau Ehrenberg nervously.

"And," finished Heinrich, quite unperturbed and in a reassuring voice,"nothing at all happened in that hour."

"So the blonde girl says," added Else.

The door opened. George saw a strange lady enter in a clear bluesquare-cut dress, pale, simple and dignified. It was only when shesmiled that he realised that the lady was Anna Rosner, and he feltsomething like pride in her.

When he shook hands with his love he felt Else's look turn towards him.

They went into the next room, where the table was laid with a moderateshow of festivity. The son of the house was not there. He was atNeuhaus at his father's factory. But Herr Ehrenberg suddenly turned upat the table when the supper was served. He had just come back fromhis travels, which as a matter of fact had taken him to Palestine.When he was asked by Hofrat Wilt about his experiences he was at firstreluctant to let himself go; finally it turned out that he had beendisappointed in the scenery, annoyed by the fatigue of the journey, andhad practically seen nothing of the Jewish settlements which, accordingto reliable information, were in process of springing up.

"So we have some ground to hope," remarked Nürnberger, "that we maykeep you here even in the event of a Jewish state being founded in theimminent future?"

Ehrenberg answered brusquely: "Did I ever tell you that I intended toemigrate? I am too old for that."

"Really," said Nürnberger, "I didn't know that you had only visitedthe district for the benefit of Fräulein Else and Herr Oskar."

"I am not going to quarrel with you, my dear Nürnberger. Zionism isreally too good to serve as small talk at meals."

"We'll take it for granted," said Hofrat Wilt, "that it is too good,but it is certainly too complicated, if only for the reason thateverybody understands something different by it."

"Or wants to understand," added Nürnberger, "as is usually the casewith most catchwords, not only in politics either—that's why there isso much twaddle talked in the world."

Heinrich explained that of all human creatures the politicianrepresented in his eyes the most enigmatic phenomenon. "I canunderstand," he said, "pickpockets, acrobats, bank—directors,hotel—proprietors, kings ... I mean I can manage without anyparticular trouble to put myself into the souls of all these people.Of course the logical result is that I should only need certainalterations in degree, though no doubt enormous ones, to qualify myselfto play in the world the rôle of acrobat, king or bank-director. Onthe other hand I have an infallible feeling that even if I couldraise myself to the nth power I could never become what one calls apolitician, a leader of a party, a member, a minister."

Nürnberger smiled at Heinrich's theory of the politician representinga particular type of humanity, inasmuch as it was only one of thesuperficial and by no means essential attributes of his professionto pose as a special human type, and to hide his greatness or hisinsignificance, his feats or his idleness behind labels, abstractionsand symbols. What the nonentities or charlatans among them represented,why, that was obvious: they were simply business people or swindlers orglib speakers, but the people who really counted, the people who didthings—the real geniuses of course, they at the bottom of their soulswere simply artists. They too tried to create a work, and one, too,that raised in the sphere of ideas quite as much claim to immortalityand permanent value as any other work of art. The only difference wasthat the material in which they worked was one that was not rigid orrelatively stable, like tones or words, but that, like living men, itwas in a continual state of flux and movement.

Willy Eissler appeared, apologised to his hostess for being late, satdown between Sissy and Frau Oberberger and greeted his father like afriend long lost. It turned out that though they both lived togetherthey had not seen each other for several days.

Willy was complimented all round on his success in the aristocraticamateur performance where he had played the part of a marquis with theCountess Liebenburg-Rathony in a French one-act play. Frau Oberbergerasked him, in a voice sufficiently loud for her neighbours to catch it,where his assignations with the countess took place and if he receivedher in the same pied-à-terre quarter as his more middle-class flames.The conversation became more lively, dialogues were exchanged andbecame intertwined all over the room.

But George caught isolated snatches, including part of a conversationbetween Anna and Heinrich which dealt with Therese Golowski. He noticedat the same time that Anna would occasionally throw a dark inquisitivelook at Demeter Stanzides, who had appeared to-night in eveningdress with a gardenia in his buttonhole; and though he had no actualconsciousness of jealousy he felt strangely affected. He wondered ifat this moment she was really thinking that she was perhaps bearinga child by him under her bosom. The idea of "the depths ..." came tohim again. She suddenly looked over to him with a smile, as though shewere coming home from a journey. He felt an inner sense of relief andappreciated with a slight shock how much he loved her. Then he raisedhis glass to his lips and drank to her. Else, who up to this time hadbeen chatting with her other neighbour Demeter, now turned to George.With her deliberately casual manner and with a look towards Anna sheremarked: "She does look pretty, so womanly. But that's always been herline. Do you still do music together?"

"Frequently," replied George coolly.

"Perhaps I'll ask you to start accompanying me again at the beginningof the new year. I don't know why we have not done so before."

George was silent.

"And how are you getting on"—she threw a look at Heinrich—"with youropera?"

"Nothing is done so far. Who knows if anything will come of it?"

"Of course nothing will come of it."

George smiled. "Why are you so stern with me to-day?"

"I am very angry with you."

"With me! Why?"

"That you always go on giving people occasion to regard you as adilettante."

This was a home thrust. George actually felt a slight sense of maliceagainst Else, then quickly pulled himself together and answered: "Thatperhaps is just what I am. And if one isn't a genius it is much betterto be an honest dilettante than ... than an artist with a swollen head."

"Nobody wants you to do great things all at once, but all the same onereally should not let oneself go in the way you do in both your innerand your outward life."

"I really don't understand you, Else. How can one contend.... Do youknow that I am going to Germany in the autumn as a conductor?"

"Your career will be ruined by your not turning up to the rehearsals atten o'clock sharp."

The taunt was still gnawing at George. "And who called me a dilettante,if I may ask?"

"Who did? Good gracious, why it has already been in the papers."

"Really," said George feeling reassured, for he now remembered thatafter the concert in which Fräulein Bellini had sung his songs a critichad described him as an aristocratic dilettante. George's friends hadexplained at the time that the reason for this malicious critiquewas that he had omitted to call on the gentleman in question, whowas notoriously vain. So that was it once again. There were alwaysextrinsic reasons for people criticising one unfavourably, and Else'stouchiness to-day, what was it at bottom but sheer jealousy....

The table was cleared. They went into the drawing-room.

George went up to Anna, who was leaning on the piano, and said gentlyto her: "You do look beautiful, dear."

She nodded with satisfaction.

He then went on to ask: "Did you have a pleasant talk with Heinrich?What did you speak about? Therese, isn't that so?"

She did not answer, and George noticed with surprise that her eyelidssuddenly drooped and that she began to totter. "What is the matter?" heasked, frightened.

She did not hear him, and would have fallen down if he had not quicklycaught hold of her by the wrists. At the same moment Frau Ehrenberg andElse came up to her.

"Did they notice us?" thought George.

Anna had already opened her eyes again, gave a forced smile andwhispered: "Oh, it is nothing. I often stand the heat so badly."

"Come along!" said Frau Ehrenberg in a motherly tone. "Perhaps you willlie down for a moment."

Anna, who seemed dazed, made no answer and the ladies of the houseescorted her into an adjoining room.

George looked round. The guests did not seem to have noticed anything.Coffee was handed round. George took a cup and played nervously withhis spoon. "So after all," he thought, "she will not finish up inmiddle-class life." But at the same time he felt as far away from herpsychologically, as though the matter had no personal interest for him.

Frau Oberberger came up to him. "Well, what do you really think aboutplatonic love? You are an expert, you know."

He answered absent-mindedly. She went on talking, as was her way,without bothering whether he was listening or answering. Suddenly Elsereturned. George inquired how Anna was, with polite sympathy.

"I am certain it is not anything serious," said Else and looked himstrangely in the face.

Demeter Stanzides came in and asked her to sing.

"Will you accompany me?" She turned to George.

He bowed and sat down at the piano.

"What shall it be?" asked Else.

"Anything you like," replied Wilt, "but nothing modern." After supperhe liked to play the reactionary at any rate in artistic matters.

"Right you are," said Else, and gave George a piece of music.

She sang the Das Alte Bild of Hugo Wolf in her small well-trained andsomewhat pathetic voice. George played a refined accompaniment, thoughhe felt somewhat distrait. In spite of his efforts he could not helpfeeling a little annoyed about Anna. After all no one seemed to havereally noticed the incident except Frau Ehrenberg and Else.

After all, what did it really come to?... Supposing they did allknow?... Whom did it concern? Yes, who bothered about it? Why, they areall listening to Else now, he continued mentally, and appreciating thebeauty of this song. Even Frau Oberberger, though she is not a bitmusical, is forgetting that she is a woman for a few minutes and herface is quiet and sexless. Even Heinrich is listening spell-bound andperhaps for the moment is neither thinking of his work, nor of the fateof the Jews, nor of his distant mistress. Is perhaps not even givinga single thought to his present mistress, the little blonde girl, toplease whom he has recently begun to dress smartly. As a matter offact he does not look at all bad in evening dress, and his tie is nota ready-made one, such as he usually wears, but is carefully tied....Who is standing so close behind me? thought George, so that I can feelher breath over my hair.... Perhaps Sissy.... If the world were to bedestroyed to-morrow morning it would be Sissy whom I should choosefor to-night. Yes, I am sure of it. And there goes Anna with FrauEhrenberg; it seems I am the only one who notices it, although I havegot to attend simultaneously to both my own playing and Else's singing.I welcome her with my eyes. Yes, I welcome you, mother of my child....How strange life is!...

The song was at an end. The company applauded and asked for more.George played Else's accompaniment to some other songs by Schumann,by Brahms; and finally, by general request, two of his own, which hadbecome distasteful to him personally, since somebody or other hadsuggested that they were reminiscent of Mendelssohn.

While he was accompanying he felt that he was losing all touch withElse and therefore made a special effort in his playing to win backagain her sense of sympathy. He played with exaggerated sensibility, hespecifically wooed her and felt that it was in vain. For the first timein his life he was her unhappy lover.

The applause after George's songs was great.

"That was your best period," said Else gently to him while she put themusic away, "two or three years ago."

The others made kind remarks to him without going into distinctionsabout the periods of his artistic development.

Nürnberger declared that he had been most agreeably disillusioned byGeorge's songs. "I will not conceal the fact from you," he remarked,"that going by the views I have frequently heard you express, my dearBaron, I should have imagined them considerably less intelligible."

"Quite charming, really," said Wilt, "all so simple and melodiouswithout bombast or affectation."

"And he is the man," thought George grimly, "who dubbed me adilettante."

Willy came up to him. "Now you just say, Herr Hofrat, that you canmanage to whistle them, and if I know anything about physiognomy theBaron will send two gentlemen to see you in the morning."

"Oh no," said George, pulling himself together and smiling;"fortunately, the songs were written in a period which I have longsince got over, so I don't feel wounded by any blame or by any praise."

A servant brought in ices, the groups broke up and Anna stood alonewith George by the pianoforte.

He asked her quickly "What does it really mean?"

"I don't know," she replied, and looked at him in astonishment.

"Do you feel quite all right now?"

"Absolutely," she answered.

"And is to-day the first time you have had anything like it?" askedGeorge, somewhat hesitatingly.

She answered: "I had something like it yesterday evening at home. Itwas a kind of faintness. It lasted some time longer, while we weresitting at supper, but nobody noticed it."

"But why did you tell me nothing about it?"

She shrugged her shoulders lightly.

"I say, Anna dear," he said, and smiled guiltily, "I would like tohave a word with you at any rate. Give me a signal when you want togo away. I will clear out a few minutes before you, and will wait bythe Schwarzenbergplatz till you come along in a fly. I'll get in and wewill go for a little drive. Does that suit you?"

She nodded.

He said: "Good-bye, darling," and went into the smoking-room.

Old Ehrenberg, Nürnberger and Wilt had sat down at a green card-tableto play tarok. Old Eissler and his son were sitting opposite eachother in two enormous green leather arm-chairs and were utilising theopportunity to have a good chat with one another after all this time.George took a cigarette out of a box, lighted it and looked at thepictures on the wall with particular interest. He saw Willy's namewritten in pale red letters down below in the corner on the green fieldin a water-colour painted in the grotesque style, that representeda hurdle race ridden by gentlemen in red hunting-coats. He turnedinvoluntarily to the young man and said: "I never knew that one before."

"It is fairly new," remarked Willy lightly.

"Smart picture, eh?" said old Eissler.

"Oh, something more than that," replied George.

"Yes, I hope to be able to look forward to doing something better thanthat," said Willy.

"He is going to Africa, lion hunting," explained old Eissler, "withPrince Wangenheim. Felician is also supposed to be of the party, but hehas not yet decided."

"Why not?" asked Willy.

"He wants to pass his diplomatic examination in the spring."

"But that could be put off," said Willy; "lions are dying out, butunfortunately one can't say the same thing of professors."

"Book me for a picture, Willy," called out Ehrenberg from thecard-table.

"You play the Mæcenas later on, father Ehrenberg?" said Willy. "As I'vesaid, I'll take you two on."[1]

"Raise you," replied Ehrenberg, and continued: "If I can order anythingfor myself, Willy, please paint me a desert landscape showing PrinceWangenheim being gobbled up by the lions ... but as realistic aspossible."

"You are making a mistake about the person, Herr Ehrenberg," saidWilly; "the celebrated Anti-Semite you are referring to is the cousinof my Wangenheim."

"For all I care," replied Ehrenberg, "the lions, too, may be making amistake. Every Anti-Semite, you know, isn't bound to be celebrated."

"You will ruin the party if you don't look out," admonished Nürnberger.

"You should have bought an estate and settled in Palestine," saidHofrat Wilt.

"God save me from that," replied Ehrenberg.

"Well, since he has done that in everything up to the present," saidNürnberger, and put down his hand.

"It seems to me, Nürnberger, that you are reproaching me again for notgoin' about peddlin' ole clo'."

"Then you would certainly have the right to complain of Anti-Semitism,"said Nürnberger, "for who feels anything of it in Austria except thepeddlars ... only they, one might almost say."

"And some people with a sense of self-respect," retorted Ehrenberg."Twenty-seven ... thirty-one ... thirty-eight.... Well, who's won thegame?"

Willy had gone back into the drawing-room again. George sat smokingon the arm of an easy-chair. He suddenly noticed old Eissler's lookdirected towards him in a strange benevolent manner and felt himselfreminded of something without knowing what.

"I had a few words the other day," said the old gentleman, "with yourbrother Felician at Schönstein's; it is striking how you resemble yourpoor father, especially to one like me, who knew your father as a youngman."

It flashed across George at once what old Eissler's look reminded himof. Old Doctor Stauber's eyes had rested on him at Rosner's with thesame fatherly expression.

"These old Jews!" he thought sarcastically, but in a remote cornerof his soul he felt somewhat moved. It came into his mind that hisfather had often gone for morning walks in the Prater with Eissler, forwhose knowledge of art he had had a great respect. Old Eissler went onspeaking.

"You, George, take after your mother more, I think."

"Many say so. It is very hard to judge, oneself."

"They say your mother had such a beautiful voice."

"Yes, in her early youth. I myself never really heard her sing. Ofcourse she tried now and again. Two or three years before her death adoctor in Meran even advised her to practise singing. The idea was thatit should be a good exercise for her lungs, but unfortunately it wasn'tmuch of a success."

Old Eissler nodded and looked in front of him. "I suppose you probablywon't be able to remember that my poor wife was in Meran at the sametime as your late mother?"

George racked his memory. It had escaped him.

"I once travelled in the same compartment as your father," said oldEissler, "at night time. We were both unable to sleep. He told me agreat deal about you two—you and Felician I mean."

"Really...."

"For instance, that when you were a boy you had played one of your owncompositions to some Italian virtuoso, and that he had foretold agreat future for you."

"Great future.... Great heavens, but it wasn't a virtuoso, HerrEissler. It was a clergyman, from whom, as a matter of fact, I learnedto play the organ."

Eissler continued: "And in the evening, when your mother had gone tobed, you would often improvise for hours on end in the room."

George nodded and sighed quietly. It seemed as though he had had muchmore talent at that time. "Work!" he thought ardently, "work!..."

He looked up again. "Yes," he said humorously, "that is always thetrouble, infant prodigies so seldom come to anything."

"I hear you want to be a conductor, Baron."

"Yes," replied George resolutely, "I am going to Germany next autumn.Perhaps as an accompanist first in the municipal theatre of some littletown, just as it comes along."

"But you would not have any objection to a Court theatre?"

"Of course not. What makes you say that, Herr Eissler? if it is not arude question."

"I know quite well," said Eissler with a smile, as he dropped hismonocle, "that you have not sought out my help, but I can quiteappreciate on the other hand that you would not mind perhaps being ableto get on without the intermediaryship of agents and others of thatkind.... I don't mean because of the commissions."

George remained cold. "When one has once decided to take up atheatrical career one knows at the same time all that one's bargainingfor."

"Do you know Count Malnitz by any chance?" inquired Eissler, quiteunconcerned by George's air of worldly wisdom.

"Malnitz! Do you mean Count Eberhard Malnitz, who had a suite performeda few years ago?"

"Yes, I mean him."

"I don't know him personally, and as for the suite...."

With a wave of the hand Eissler dismissed the composer Malnitz. "He hasbeen manager at Detmold since the beginning of this season," he thensaid. "That is why I asked you if you knew him. He is a great friendof mine of long standing. He used to live in Vienna. For the last tenor twelve years we have been meeting every year in Carlsbad or Ischl.This year we want to make a little Mediterranean trip at Easter. Willyou allow me, my dear Baron, to take an opportunity of mentioningyour name to him, and telling him something about your plans to be aconductor?"

George hesitated to answer, and smiled politely.

"Oh please don't regard my suggestion as officious, my dear Baron. Ifyou don't wish it, of course I will sit tight."

"You misunderstand my silence," replied George amiably, but not withouthauteur; "but I really don't know...."

"I think a little Court theatre like that," continued Eissler, "isjust the right place for you for the beginning. The fact of yourbelonging to the nobility won't hurt you at all, not even with myfriend Malnitz, however much he likes to play the democrat, or even attimes the anarchist ... with the exception of bombs, of course; but heis a charming man and really awfully musical.... Even though he isn'texactly a composer."

"Well," replied George, somewhat embarrassed, "if you would have thekindness to speak to him.... I can't afford to let any chance slip. Atany rate, I thank you very much."

"Not at all, I don't guarantee success, it is just a chance, like anyother."

Frau Oberberger and Sissy came in, escorted by Demeter.

"What interesting conversation are we interrupting?" said FrauOberberger. "The experienced platonic lover and the inexperienced rake?One should really have been there."

"Don't upset yourself, Katerina," said Eissler, and his voice had againits deep vibrating ring. "One sometimes talks about other things, suchas the future of the human race."

Sissy put a cigarette between her lips, allowed George to give her alight and sat down in the corner of the green leather sofa. "You arenot bothering about me at all to-day," she began with that Englishaccent of hers which George liked so well. "As though I positivelydidn't exist. Yes, that's what it is. I am really a more constantnature than you are, am I not?"

"You constant, Sissy?"... He pushed an arm-chair quite near to her.They spoke of the past summer and the one that was coming.

"Last year," said Sissy, "you gave me your word you would come whereverI was, and you didn't do it. This year you must keep your word."

"Are you going into the Isle of Wight again?"

"No, I am going into the mountains this time, to the Tyrol or theSalzkammergut. I will let you know soon. Will you come?"

"But you are bound to have a large following anywhere."

"I won't trouble about any one except you, George."

"Even supposing Willy Eissler happens to stay in your vicinity?"

"Oh," she said, with a wanton smile and put out her cigarette bypressing it violently upon the glass ash-tray.

They went on talking. It was just like one of those conversationsthey had had so often during the last few years. It began lightly andflippantly, and eventually finished in a blaze of tender lies whichwere true for just one moment. George was once again fascinated bySissy.

"I would really prefer to go travelling with you," he whispered quitenear her.

She just nodded. Her left arm rested on the broad back of the ottoman."If one could only do as one wanted," she said, with a look that dreamtof a hundred men.

He bent down over her trembling arm, went on speaking and becameintoxicated with his own words. "Somewhere where nobody knows us, wherenobody bothers about any one, that is where I should like to be withyou, Sissy, many days and nights."

Sissy shuddered. The word "nights" made her shudder with fear.

Anna appeared in the doorway, signalled to George with a look and thendisappeared again. He felt an inward sense of reluctance, and yet hefelt that this was just the psychological moment to leave Sissy.

In the doorway of the drawing-room he met Heinrich, who accosted him."If you are going you might tell me, I should like to speak to you."

"Delighted! But I must ... promised to see Fräulein Rosner home, yousee. I'll come straight to the café, so till then...."

A few minutes later he was standing on the Schwarzenberg bridge. Thesky was full of stars, the streets stretched out wide and silent.George turned up his coat collar, although it was no longer cold, andwalked up and down. Will anything come of the Detmold business? hethought. Oh well, if it is not in Detmold it will be in some town orother. At any rate I mean real business now, and a great deal, a greatdeal will then lie behind me.

He tried to consider the matter quietly. How will it all turn out?We are now at the end of December. We must go away in March—at thelatest. We shall be taken for a honeymoon couple. I shall go walkingwith her arm-in-arm in Rome and Posilippo, in Venice.... There arewomen who grow very ugly in that condition ... but not she, no,not she.... There was always a certain touch of the mother in herappearance.... She must stay the summer in some quiet neighbourhoodwhere no one knows her ... in the Thuringian Forest perhaps, or bythe Rhine.... How strangely she said that to-day. The house in whichthe child will come into the world is already in existence. Yes....Somewhere in the distance, or perhaps quite near here, that house isstanding.... And people are living there whom we have never seen. Howstrange.... When will it come into the world? At the end of the summer,about the beginning of September. By that time, too, I am bound tohave gone away. How shall I manage it?... And a year from to-day thelittle creature will be already four months old. It will grow up ...become big. There will be a young man there one fine day, my son, or ayoung girl; a beautiful little girl of seven, my daughter.... I shallbe forty-four then.... When I am sixty-four I can be a grandfather ...perhaps a director of an opera or two and a celebrated composer inspite of Else's prophecies; but one has got to work for that, that isquite true. More than I have done so far. Else is right, I let myselfgo too much, I must be different ... I shall too. I feel a changetaking place within me. Yes, something new is taking place within mealso.

A fly came out of the Heugasse, some one bent out of the window. Georgerecognised Anna's face under the white shawl. He was very glad, gotin and kissed her hand. They enjoyed their talk, joked a little aboutthe party from which she had just come and found it really ridiculousto spend an evening in so inept a fashion. He held her hands in hisand was affected by her presence. He got out in front of her house andrung. He then came to the open door of the carriage and they arrangedan appointment for the following day.

"I think we have got a lot to talk about," said Anna.

He simply nodded. The door of the house was open. She got out of thefly, gave George a long look full of emotion and disappeared into thehall.

My love! thought George, with a feeling of happiness and pride. Lifelay before him like something serious and mysterious, full of gifts andfull of miracles.

When he went into the café, Heinrich was sitting in a window niche.Next to him was a pale young beardless man whom George had casuallyspoken to several times, in a dinner-jacket with a velvet collar butwith a shirt-front of doubtful cleanliness.

When George came in the young man looked up with ardent eyes from apaper that he was holding in his restless and not very well-kept hands.

"Am I disturbing you?" said George.

"Oh, not a bit of it," replied the young man, with a crazy laugh, "thelarger the audience the better."

"Herr Winternitz," explained Heinrich, as he shook hands with George,"was just reading me a series of his poems, but we will break off now."Slightly touched by the disappointed expression of the young man Georgeassured him that he would be delighted to hear the poems if he might bepermitted to do so.

"It won't last much longer," explained Winternitz gratefully. "It isonly a pity that you missed the beginning. I could——"

"What! Does it all hang together?" said Heinrich in astonishment.

"What, didn't you notice?" exclaimed Winternitz, and laughed againcrazily.

"I see," said Heinrich. "So it's always the same woman character whomyour poems deal with. I thought it was always a different one."

"Of course it is always the same one, but her special characteristic isthat she always seems to be a fresh person."

Herr Winternitz read softly but insistently, as though inwardlyconsumed. It appeared from his series that he had been loved as nevera man had been loved before, but also deceived as never a man had beendeceived before, a circ*mstance which was to be attributed to certainmetaphysical causes and not at all to any deficiencies in his ownpersonality. He showed himself, however, in his last poem completelyfreed of his passion, and declared that he was now ready to enjoy allthe pleasures, which the world could offer him. This poem had fourstanzas; the last verse of every stanza began with a "hei," and itconcluded with the exclamation: "Hei, so career I through the world."

George could not help recognising that the recitation had to a certainextent impressed him, and when Winternitz put the book down and lookedaround him with dilated pupils, George nodded appreciatively and said:"Very beautiful!"

Winternitz looked expectantly at Heinrich, who was silent for a fewseconds and finally remarked: "It is fairly interesting on the whole... but why do you say 'hei,' if it isn't a rude question? Positively,no one will believe it."

"What do you mean?" exclaimed Winternitz.

"Rather ask your own conscience, if you honestly mean that 'hei.' Ibelieve all the rest which you read to me, I mean I believe it inthe highest sense of the term, although not a single word is true. Ibelieve you when you tell me that you have been seducing a girl offifteen, that you have been behaving like a hardened Don Juan, that youhave been corrupting the poor creature in the most dreadful way. Thatshe deceived you with ... what was it now?..."

"A clown, of course," exclaimed Winternitz, with a mad laugh.

"That a clown was the man she deceived you with, that on account ofthat creature you had adventures which grew more and more sinister,that you wanted to kill your mistress and yourself as well, and thatfinally you get fed up with the whole business and go travelling aboutthe world, or even careering as far as Australia for all I care: yes,I can believe all that, but that you are the kind of man to cry out'hei,' that, my dear Winternitz, is a rank swindle."

Winternitz defended himself. He swore that this 'hei' had come fromhis most inward being, or at any rate from a certain element in hismost inward being. When Heinrich made further objections, he graduallybecame more and more reserved, and finally declared that some time orother he hoped to win his way to that inward freedom where he would beallowed to cry out "hei."

"That time will never come," replied Heinrich positively. "You mayperhaps get some time to the epic or the dramatic 'hei,' but thelyrical or subjective 'hei' will remain, my dear Winternitz, a closedbook to people like you and me for all eternity."

Winternitz promised to alter the last poem, to make a point ofcontinuing his development and to work at his inward purification.

He stood up, a proceeding which caused his starched shirt front tocrack and a stud to break, held out his somewhat clammy hand toHeinrich and George, and went off to the literary men's table at theback.

George expressed discreet appreciation of the poems which he had heard.

"I like him the best of the whole set, at any rate personally," saidHeinrich. "He at least has the good sense to maintain with me a certainmutual reserve in really intimate matters. Yes, you need not look at meagain as though you were catching me in an attack of megalomania, but Ican assure you, George, I have had nearly enough of the sort of people"(he swept the further table with a cursory glance) "who have always gotan 'ä soi' on their lips."

"What is always on their lips?"

Heinrich smiled. "You must know the story of the Polish Jew who wassitting in a railway compartment with an unknown man and behaved veryconventionally—until he realised by some remark of the other's thathe was a Jew too, and on the strength of it immediately proceeded tostretch out his legs on the seat opposite with an 'ä soi' of relief."

"Quite good," said George.

"It is more than that," explained Heinrich sternly, "it is deep; likeso many other Jewish stories it gives a bird's-eye view into thetragi-comedy of present-day Judaism. It expresses the eternal truththat no Jew has any real respect for his fellow Jew, never. As littleas prisoners in a hostile country have any real respect for each other,particularly when they are hopeless. Envy, hate, yes frequently,admiration, even love; all that there can be between them, but neverrespect, for the play of all their emotional life takes place in anatmosphere of familiarity, so to speak, in which respect cannot helpbeing stifled."

"Do you know what I think?" remarked George. "That you are a morebitter Anti-Semite than most of the Christians I know."

"Do you think so?" he laughed; "but not a real one. Only the man whois really angry at the bottom of his heart at the Jews' good qualitiesand does everything he can to bring about the further development oftheir bad ones is a real Anti-Semite. But you are right up to a certainpoint, but I must finish by confessing that I am also an Anti-Aryan.Every race as such is naturally repulsive, only the individual managesat times to reconcile himself to the repulsive elements in his race byreason of his own personal qualities. But I will not deny that I amparticularly sensitive to the faults of Jews. Probably the only reasonis that I, like all others—we Jews, I mean—have been systematicallyeducated up to this sensitiveness. We have been egged on from ouryouth to look upon Jewish peculiarities as particularly grotesqueor repulsive, though we have not been so with regard to the equallygrotesque and repulsive peculiarities of other people. I will notdisguise it—if a Jew shows bad form in my presence, or behaves in aridiculous manner, I have often so painful a sensation that I shouldlike to sink into the earth. It is like a kind of shame that perhaps isakin to the shame of a brother who sees his sister undressing. Perhapsthe whole thing is egoism too. One gets embittered at being always maderesponsible for other people's faults, and always being made to pay thepenalty for every crime, for every lapse from good taste, for everyindiscretion for which every Jew is responsible throughout the wholeworld. That of course easily makes one unjust, but those are touchesof nervousness and sensitiveness, nothing more. Then one pulls oneselftogether again. That cannot be called Anti-Semitism. But there are Jewswhom I really hate, hate as Jews. Those are the people who act beforeothers, and often before themselves, as though they did not belong tothe rest at all. The men who try to offer themselves to their enemiesand despisers in the most cowardly and cringing fashion, and thinkthat in that way they can escape from the eternal curse whose burdenis upon them, or from what they feel is equivalent to a curse. Thereare of course always Jews like that who go about with the consciousnessof their extreme personal meanness, and consequently, consciously orunconsciously, would like to make their race responsible. Of coursethat does not help them the least bit. What has ever helped the Jews?the good ones and the bad ones. I mean, of course," he hastily added,"those who need something in the way of material or moral help." Andthen he broke off in a deliberately flippant tone: "Yes, my dearGeorge, the situation is somewhat complicated and it is quite naturalthat every one who is not directly concerned with the question shouldnot be able to understand it properly."

"No, you really should not...."

Heinrich interrupted him quickly. "Yes, I should, my dear George, thatis just how it is. You don't understand us, you see. Many perhaps getan inkling, but understand? no. At any rate we understand you muchbetter than you do us. Although you shake your head! Do we not deserveto? We have found it more necessary, you see, to learn to understandyou than you did to learn to understand us. This gift of understandingwas forced to develop itself in the course of time ... according tothe laws of the struggle for existence if you like. Just consider, ifone is going to find one's way about in a foreign country, or, as Isaid before, in an enemy's country, to be ready for all the dangers andambushes which lurk there, it is obvious that the primary essentialis to get to know one's enemies as well as possible—both their goodqualities and their bad."

"So you live among enemies? Among foreigners! You would not admit asmuch to Leo Golowski. I don't agree with him either, not a bit of it.But how strangely inconsistent you are when you——"

Heinrich interrupted him, genuinely pained. "I have already toldyou the problem is far too complicated to be really solved. To finda subjective solution is almost impossible. A verbal solution evenmore so. Why, at times one might believe that things are not sobad. Sometimes one really is at home in spite of everything, feelsone is as much at home here—yes, even more at home—than any ofyour so-called natives can ever feel. It is quite clear that thefeeling of strangeness is to some extent cured by the consciousnessof understanding. Why, it becomes, as it were, steeped in pride,condescension, tenderness; becomes dissolved—sometimes, of course, insentimentalism, which is again a bad business."

He sat there with deep furrows in his forehead and looked in front ofhim.

"Does he really understand me better?" thought George, "than I do him,or is it simply another piece of megalomania...?"

Heinrich suddenly started as though emerging from a dream. He lookedat his watch. "Half-past two! And my train goes at eight to-morrow."

"What, you are going away?"

"Yes, that is what I wanted to speak to you about so much. I shall haveto say goodbye to you for a goodish time, I'm sorry to say. I am goingto Prague. I am taking my father away, out of the asylum home to ourown house."

"Is he better, then?"

"No, but he is in that stage when he is not dangerous to those nearhim.... Yes, that came quite quickly too."

"And about when do you think you will be back?"

Heinrich shook his shoulders. "I can't tell to-day, but however thething develops, I certainly cannot leave my mother and sisters alonenow."

George felt a genuine regret at being deprived of Heinrich's society inthe near future. "It's possible that you won't find me in Vienna againwhen you come back. I shall probably go away this spring, you see." Andhe almost felt a desire to take Heinrich into his confidence.

"I suppose you are travelling south?" asked Heinrich.

"Yes, I think so. To enjoy my freedom once again, just for a fewmonths. Serious life begins next autumn, you see. I am looking out fora position in Germany at some theatre or other."

"Really?"

The waiter came to the table. They paid and went.

They met Rapp and Gleissner together in the doorway. They exchanged afew words of greeting.

"And what have you been doing all this time, Herr Rapp?" asked Georgecourteously.

Rapp took off his pince-nez. "Oh, my melancholy old job all the time. Iam engaged in demonstrating the vanity of vanities."

"You might make a change, Rapp," said Heinrich. "Try your luck for onceand praise the splendour of splendours."

"What is the point?" said Rapp, and put on his glasses.

"That will prove itself in the course of time. But as a rule rottenwork only keeps alive during its good fortune and its fame, and whenthe world at last realises the swindle, it has either been in the gravefor a long time or has taken refuge in its presumable immortality."

They were now in the street and all turned up their coat collars, sinceit had begun again to snow violently.

Gleissner, who had had his first great dramatic success a few weeksago, quickly told them that the seventh performance of his work, whichhad taken place to-day, had also been sold out.

Rapp used that as a peg on which to hang malicious observations on thestupidity of the public. Gleissner answered with gibes at the impotenceof the critic when confronted with true genius—and so they walked awaythrough the snow with turned-up collar, quite enveloped in the steaminghate of their old friendship.

"That Rapp has no luck," said Heinrich to George. "He'll never forgiveGleissner for not disappointing him."

"Do you consider him so jealous?"

"I wouldn't go as far as that. Matters are rarely sufficiently simpleto be disposed of in a single word. But just think what a fate it isto go about the world in the belief that you carry with you as deepa knowledge of it as Shakespeare had, and to feel at the same timethat you aren't able to express as much of it as, for instance, HerrGleissner, although perhaps one is quite as much good as he is—or evenmore."

They walked on together for a time in silence. The trees in the Ringwere standing motionless with their white branches. It struck threefrom the tower of the Rathaus. They walked over the empty streets andtook the way through the silent park. All around them the continuousfall of snow made everything shine almost brightly.

"By the way, I have not told you the latest news," started Heinrichsuddenly, looking in front of him and speaking in a dry tone.

"What is it?"

"That I have been receiving anonymous letters for some time."

"Anonymous letters? What are the contents?"

"Oh, you can guess."

"I see." It was clear to George that it could only be something aboutthe actress. Heinrich had returned in greater anguish than ever fromthe foreign town, where he had seen his mistress act the part of adepraved creature in a new play, with a truth and realism which hefound positively intolerable. George knew that he and she had sincethen been exchanging letters full of tenderness and scorn, full ofanger and forgiveness, full of broken anguish and laboured confidence.

"The delightful messages," explained Heinrich, "have been coming alongevery morning for eight days. Not very pleasant, I can assure you."

"Good gracious, what do they matter to you? You know yourself anonymousletters never contain the truth."

"On the contrary, my dear George, they always do, but letters likethat always contain a kind of higher truth, the great truth ofpossibilities. Men haven't usually got sufficient imagination to createthings out of nothing."

"That is a charming way of looking at things. Where should we all getto, then? It makes things a bit too easy for libellers of all kinds."

"Why do you say libellers? I regard it as highly improbable that thereare any libels contained in the anonymous letters which I have beenreceiving. No doubt exaggerations, embellishments, inaccuracies...."

"Lies."

"No, I am sure they are not lies; some, no doubt, but in a case likethis how is one to separate the truth from the lies?"

"There is a very simple way of dealing with that. You go there."

"Me go there?"

"Yes, of course that is what you ought to do. When you are on the spotyou are bound to get at once to the real truth."

"It would certainly be possible."

They were walking under arcades on the wet stone. Their voicesand steps echoed. George began again. "Instead of going on beingdemoralised with all this annoyance, I should try and convince myselfpersonally as to how matters stood."

"Yes, that would certainly be the soundest thing to do."

"Well, why don't you do it?"

Heinrich remained stationary and jerked out with clenched teeth: "Tellme, my dear George, have you not really noticed that I am a coward?"

"Nonsense, one doesn't call that being a coward."

"Call it whatever you like. Words never hit things off exactly. Themore precisely they pretend to do so the less they really do. I knowwhat I am. I would not go there for anything in the world. To make afool of myself once more, no, no, no...."

"Well, what will you do?"

Heinrich shook his shoulders as though the matter really did notconcern him.

Somewhat irritated, George went on questioning him. "If you will allowme to make a remark, what does the ... lady chiefly concerned have tosay?"

"The lady who is chiefly concerned, as you call her, with a wit, whichthough unconscious is positively infernal, does not know for the timebeing anything about my getting anonymous letters."

"Have you left off corresponding with her?"

"What an idea! We write daily to each other as we did before. Shethe most tender and lying letters, I the meanest you can possiblyimagine—disingenuous, reserved letters, that torture me to the quick."

"Look here, Heinrich, you are really not a very noble character."

Heinrich laughed out loud. "No, I am not noble. I clearly was not bornto be that."

"And when one thinks that after all these are sheer libels——"George for his part had of course no doubt that the anonymous letterscontained the truth. In spite of that he was honestly desirous thatHeinrich should travel to the actual spot, convince himself, dosomething definite, box somebody's ears or shoot somebody down. Heimagined Felician in a similar position, or Stanzides or Willy Eissler.All of them would have taken it better or in a different way, one forwhich he certainly could have felt more sympathy. Suddenly the questionran through his brain as to what he would probably do, if Anna were todeceive him. Anna deceive him ... was that really possible? He thoughtof her look that evening, that dark questioning look which she hadsent over to Demeter Stanzides. No, that did not signify anything, hewas sure of it, and the old episodes with Leo and the singing-master,they were harmless, almost childish. But he thought of something thatwas different and perhaps more significant—a strange question whichshe had put to him the other day when she had stayed unduly late inhis company and had had to hurry off home with an excuse. Was he notafraid, she had asked him, to have it on his conscience that he wasmaking her into a liar? It had rung half like a reproach and half likea warning, and if she herself was so little sure of herself couldhe trust her implicitly? Did he not love her? He ... and did he notdeceive her in spite of it, or was ready to do so at any moment, which,after all, came to the same thing?

Only an hour ago, in the fly, when he held her in his arms and kissedher, she had of course no idea that he had other thoughts than for her.And yet at a certain moment, with his lips on hers, he had longed forSissy. Why should it not happen that Anna should deceive him? Afterall, it might have already happened ... without his having an idea ofit.... But all these ideas had as it were no substance, they sweptthrough his mind, like fantastic almost amusing possibilities. He wasstanding with Heinrich in front of the closed door in the FlorianiGassi and shook hands with him.

"Well, God bless you," he said; "when we see each other again I hopeyou will be cured of your doubts."

"And would that be much good?" asked Heinrich. "Can one reassureoneself with certainties in matters of love? The most one can do isto reassure oneself with bad news, for that lasts, but being certainof something good is at the best an intoxication.... Well, goodbye,old chap. I hope we will see each other again in May. Then, whateverhappens, I shall come here for a time, and we can talk again about ourglorious opera."

"Yes, if I shall be back again in Vienna in May. It may be that I shallnot come back before the autumn."

"And then go off again on your new career?"

"It is quite possible that it will turn out like that," and he lookedHeinrich in the face with a kind of childlike defiant smile that seemedto say: "I'm not going to tell you."

Heinrich seemed surprised. "Look here, George, perhaps this is the verylast time we are standing together in front of this door. Oh, I am farfrom thrusting myself into your confidence. This somewhat one-sidedrelationship will no doubt have to go on on its present lines. Well, itdoesn't matter."

George looked straight in front of him.

"I hope things go all right," said Heinrich as the door opened, "anddrop me a line now and then."

"Certainly," answered George, and suddenly saw Heinrich's eyes restingupon him with an expression of real sympathy which he had neverexpected. "Certainly ... and you must write to me, too. At any rategive me news of how things are at home and what you are working at. Atall events," he added sincerely, "we must continue to keep in touchwith each other."

The porter stood there with dishevelled hair and an angry sleepyexpression, in a greenish-brown dressing-gown, with slippers on hisbare feet.

Heinrich shook hands with George for the last time. "Goodbye, mydear friend," he said, and then in a gentler voice, as he pointed tothe porter: "I cannot keep him waiting any longer. You will find noparticular difficulty in reading in his noble physiognomy, which isobviously the genuine native article, the names he is calling me tohimself at this particular moment. Adieu."

George could not help laughing. Heinrich disappeared. The door clangedand closed.

George did not feel the least bit sleepy and determined to go home onfoot. He was in an excited exalted mood. He was envisaging the dayswhich were now bound to come with a peculiar sense of tension. Hethought of to-morrow's meeting with Anna, the things they were going totalk over, the journey, the house that already stood somewhere in theworld, which his imagination had already roughly pictured like a houseout of a box of toys, light-green with a bright red roof and a blackchimney. His own form appeared before him like a picture thrown on awhite screen by a magic lantern: he saw himself sitting on a balcony inhappy solitude, in front of a table strewn with music paper. Branchesrocked in front of the railings. A clear sky hung above him, whilebelow at his feet lay the sea, with a dreamy blueness that was quiteabnormal.

[1] A reference to the Faro game.

V

George gently opened the door of Anna's room. She still lay asleep inbed and breathed deeply and peacefully. He went out of the slightlydarkened room, back again into his own and shut the door. Then hewent to the open window and looked out. Clouds bathed in sunshinewere sweeping over the water. The mountains opposite with theirclearly-defined lines were floating in the brilliancy of the heavens,while the brightest blue was glittering over the gardens and houses ofLugano.

George was quite delighted to breathe in once more the air of this Junemorning, which brought to him the moist freshness of the lake and theperfume of the plane-trees, magnolias and roses in the hotel park; tolook out upon this view, whose spring-like peace had welcomed him likea fresh happiness every morning for the last three weeks.

He drank his tea quickly, ran down the stairs as quickly andexpectantly as he had once, when a boy, hurried off to his play, andtook his accustomed way along the bank in the grey fragrance of theearly shade. Here he would think of his own lonely morning walksat Palermo and Taormina in the previous spring, walks which he hadfrequently continued for hours on end, since Grace was very fond oflying in bed with open eyes until noon.

That period of his life, over which a recent though no doubtmuch-desired farewell seemed to squat like a sinister cloud, usuallystruck him as more or less bathed in melancholy. But this time allpainful things seemed to lie in the far distance, and at any rate hehad it in his power to put off the end as long as he wanted, if it didnot come from fate itself.

He had left Vienna with Anna at the beginning of March, as it was nolonger possible to conceal her condition. In January, in fact, Georgehad decided to speak to her mother. He had more or less preparedhimself for it, and was consequently able to make his communicationquietly and in well-turned phraseology. The mother listened in silenceand her eyes grew large and moist. Anna sat on the sofa with anembarrassed smile and looked at George as he spoke, with a kind ofcuriosity. They sketched out the plan for the ensuing months. Georgewanted to stay abroad with Anna until the early summer. Then a housewas to be taken in the country in the neighbourhood of Vienna, sothat her mother should not be far away in the time of greatest need,and the child could without difficulty be given out to nurse inthe neighbourhood of the town. They also thought out an excuse forofficious inquisitive people for Anna's departure and absence.

As her voice had made substantial progress of late—which was perfectlytrue—she had gone off to a celebrated singing mistress in Dresden, tocomplete her training.

Frau Rosner nodded several times, as though she agreed with everything,but the features of her face became sadder and sadder. It was notso much that she was oppressed by what she had just learnt, asshe was by the realisation that she was bound to be so absolutelydefenceless, poor middle-class mother that she was, sitting oppositethe aristocratic seducer.

George, who noticed this with regret, endeavoured to assume a lighterand more sympathetic tone. He came closer to the good woman, he tookher hand and held it for some seconds in his own. Anna had scarcelycontributed a word to the whole discussion, but when George got readyto go she got up, and for the first time in front of her mother sheoffered him her lips to kiss, as though she were now celebrating herbetrothal to him.

George went downstairs in better spirits, as though the worst werenow really over. Henceforth he spent whole hours at the Rosners' morefrequently than before, practising music with Anna, whose voice had nowgrown noticeably in power and volume. The mother's demeanour to Georgebecame more friendly. Why, it often seemed to him as though she had tobe on her guard against a growing sympathy for him, and there was oneevening in the family circle when George stayed for supper, improvisedafterwards to the company from the Meistersingers and Lohengrin withhis cigar in his mouth, could not help enjoying the lively applause,particularly from Josef, and was almost shocked to notice as he wenthome that he had felt quite as comfortable, as though it had been ahome he had recently won for himself.

When he was sitting over his black coffee with Felician a few dayslater the servant brought in a card, the receipt of which made aslight blush mount to his cheek. Felician pretended not to notice hisbrother's embarrassment, said good-bye and left the room. He met oldRosner in the doorway, inclined his head slightly in answer to hisgreeting and took no further notice.

George invited Herr Rosner, who came in in his winter coat with his hatand umbrella, to sit down, and offered him a cigar. Old Rosner said:"I have just been smoking," a remark which somehow or other reassuredGeorge, and sat down, while George remained leaning on the table.

Then the old man began with his accustomed slowness: "You will probablybe able to imagine, Herr Baron, why I have taken the liberty oftroubling you. I really wanted to speak to you in the earlier part ofthe day, but unfortunately I could not get away from the office."

"You would not have found me at home in the morning, Herr Rosner,"answered George courteously.

"All the better then that I didn't have my journey for nothing. My wifehas told me this morning ... what has happened...." He looked at thefloor.

"Yes," said George, and gnawed at his upper lip. "I myself intended....But won't you take off your overcoat? It is very warm in the room."

"No thank you, thank you, it is not at all too warm for me. Well, I washorrified when my wife gave me this information. Indeed I was, HerrBaron.... I never would have thought it of Anna ... never thought itpossible ... it is ... really dreadful...." He spoke all the time inhis usual monotonous voice, though he shook his head more often thanusual.

George could not help looking all the time at his head with its thinyellow-grey hair, and felt nothing but a desolate boredom. "Really,Herr Rosner, the thing is not dreadful," he said at last. "If you knewhow much I ... and how sincere my affection for Anna is, you wouldcertainly be very far from thinking the thing dreadful. At any rate, Isuppose your wife has told you about our plans for the immediate future... or am I making a mistake...?"

"Not at all, Herr Baron, I have been informed of everything thismorning. But I must say that I have noticed for some weeks thatsomething was wrong in the house. It often struck me that my wife wasvery nervous and was often on the point of crying."

"On the point of crying! There is really no occasion for that, HerrRosner. Anna herself, who is more concerned than any one else, is verywell and is in her usual good spirits...."

"Yes, Anna at any rate takes it very well, and that, to speak frankly,is more or less my consolation. But I cannot describe to you, Baron,how hard hit ... how, I could almost say ... like a bolt from the blue... I could never, no, never have ... have believed it...." He couldnot say any more. His voice trembled.

"I am really very concerned," said George, "that you should take thematter like this, in spite of the fact that your wife is bound to haveexplained everything to you, and that the measures we have taken forthe near future presumably meet with your approval. I would prefer notto talk about a time which is further, though I hope not too far off,because phrases of all kinds are more or less distasteful to me, butyou may be sure, Herr Rosner, that I certainly shall not forget what Iowe to a person like Anna.... Yes, what I owe to myself." He gulped.

In all his memory there was no moment in his life in which he had feltless sympathy for himself. And now, as is necessarily the case in allpointless conversations, they repeated themselves several times, untilHerr Rosner finally apologised for having troubled him, and took hisleave of George, who accompanied him to the stairs.

George felt an unpleasant aftermath in his soul for some days afterthis visit. The brother would be the finishing touch, he thoughtirritably, and he could not help imagining a scene of explanationin the course of which the young man would endeavour to play theavenger of the family honour, while George put him in his place withextraordinarily trenchant expressions.

George nevertheless felt a sense of relief after the conversation withAnna's parents had taken place, and the hours which he spent with hisbeloved alone in the peaceful room opposite the church were full of apeculiar feeling of comfort and safety. It sometimes seemed to themboth as though time stood still.

It was all very well for George to bring guide-books, Burckhardt'sCicerone, and even maps to their meetings, and to plan out with Annaall kinds of routes; he did not as a matter of fact seriously thinkthat all this would ever be realised.

So far, however, as the house in which the child was to be born wasconcerned, they were both impressed with the necessity of its beingfound and taken before they left Vienna. Anna once saw an advertisem*ntin the paper which she was accustomed to read carefully for that veryobject, of a lodge near the forest, and not far from a railway station,which could be reached in one and a half hours from Vienna. One morningthey both took the train to the place in question and they had amemory of a snow-covered lonely wooden building with antlers over thedoor, an old drunken keeper, a young blonde girl, a swift sleigh-rideover a snowy winter street, an extraordinarily jolly dinner in anenormous room in the inn, and then home in a badly-lighted over-heatedcompartment. This was the only time that George tried to find with Annathe house that must be standing somewhere in the world and waiting tobe decided upon. Otherwise he usually went alone by train or tramwayto look round the summer resorts which were near Vienna. Once, on aspring day that had come straight into the middle of the winter, Georgewas walking through one of the small places situated quite near town,which he was particularly fond of, where village buildings, unassumingvillas and elegant country houses lay close upon each other. He hadcompletely forgotten, as often happened, why he had taken the journey,and was thinking with emotion of the fact that Beethoven and Schuberthad taken the same walk as he, many years ago, when he unexpectedly ranup against Nürnberger. They greeted each other, praised the fine day,which had enticed them so far out into the open, and expressed regretthat they so rarely saw each other since Bermann had left Vienna.

"Is it long since you heard anything of him?" asked George.

"I have only had a card from him," replied Nürnberger, "since he left.It is much more likely he would correspond regularly with you than withme."

"Why is it more likely?" inquired George, somewhat irritated byNürnberger's tone, as indeed be frequently was.

"Well, at any rate you have the advantage over me of being a newacquaintance, and consequently offering more exciting subject-matterfor his psychological interest than I can."

George detected in the accustomed flippancy of these words a certainsense of grievance which he more or less understood, for, as a matterof fact, Heinrich had bothered very little about Nürnberger of late,though he had previously seen a great deal of him, it being always hisway to draw men to him and then drop them with the greatest lack ofconsideration, according as their character did or did not fit in withhis own mood.

"In spite of that I am not much better off than you," said George. "Ihaven't had any news of him for some weeks either. His father, too,appears to be in a bad way according to the last letter."

"So I suppose it will soon be all up with the poor old man now."

"Who knows? According to what Bermann writes me, he can still last formonths."

Nürnberger shook his head seriously.

"Yes," said George lightly. "The doctors ought to be allowed in caseslike that ... to shorten the matter."

"You are perhaps right," answered Nürnberger, "but who knows whetherour friend Heinrich, however much the sight of his father's incurablemalady may put him off his work and perhaps many other things aswell—who knows whether he might not all the same refuse the suggestionof finishing off this hopeless matter by a morphia injection?"

George felt again repulsed by Nürnberger's bitter, ironic tone,and yet when he remembered the hour when he had seen Heinrich moreviolently upset by a few obscure words in the letter of a mistress thanby his father's madness, he could not drive out the impression thatNürnberger's opinion of their friend was correct. "Did you know oldBermann?" he asked.

"Not personally, but I still remember the time when his name was knownin the papers, and I remember, too, many extremely sound and excellentspeeches which he made in Parliament. But I am keeping you, my dearBaron. Goodbye. We will see each other no doubt one of these days inthe café, or at Ehrenbergs'."

"You are not keeping me at all," replied George with deliberatecourtesy. "I am quite at large, and I am availing myself of theopportunity of looking at houses for the summer."

"So you are going in the country, near Vienna this year?"

"Yes, for a time probably, and apart from that a family I know hasasked me if I should chance to run across...." He grew a little red,as he always did when he was not adhering strictly to the truth.Nürnberger noticed it and said innocently: "I have just passed by somevillas which are to let. Do you see, for instance, that white one withthe white terrace?"

"It looks very nice. We might have a look at it, if you won't find ittoo dull coming with me. Then we can go back together to town."

The garden which they entered sloped upwards and was very long andnarrow. It reminded Nürnberger of one in which he had played as achild. "Perhaps it is the same," he said. "We lived for years and yearsyou know in the country in Grinzing or Heiligenstadt."

This "we" affected George in quite a strange way. He could scarcelyrealise Nürnberger's ever having been quite young, ever having lived asa son with his father and mother, as a brother with his sisters, and hefelt all of a sudden that this man's whole life had something strangeand hard about it.

At the top of the garden an open arbour gave a wonderfully fine viewof the town, which they enjoyed for some time. They slowly went down,accompanied by the caretaker's wife, who carried a small child wrappedin a grey shawl in her arms. They then looked at the house—low mustyrooms with cheap battered carpets on the floor, narrow wooden beds,dull or broken mirrors.

"Everything will be done up again in the spring," explained thecaretaker, "then it will look very cheerful." The little child suddenlyheld out its tiny hand towards George, as if it wanted him to take itup in his arms. George was somewhat moved and smiled awkwardly.

As he rode with Nürnberger into the town on the platform of the tramwayand chatted to him he felt that he had never got so close to him onall the many previous occasions when they had been together, as duringthis hour of clear winter sunshine in the country. When they saidgoodbye it was quite a matter of course that they should arrange a newexcursion on a day in the immediate future. And so it came about thatGeorge was several times accompanied by Nürnberger, when he continuedhis househunting in the neighbourhood of Vienna. On these occasionsthe fiction was still kept up that George was looking for a house fora family whom he knew, that Nürnberger believed it and that Georgebelieved that Nürnberger believed it.

On these excursions Nürnberger frequently came to speak of hisyouth, to speak about the parents whom he had lost very early, of asister who had died young and of his elder brother, the only one ofhis relatives who was still alive. But he, an ageing bachelor likeEdmund himself, did not live in Vienna, but in a small town in LowerAustria, where he was a teacher in a public school, where he had beentransferred fifteen years ago as an assistant. He could easily havemanaged afterwards to have got an appointment again in the metropolis,but after a few years of bitterness, and even defiance, he had becomeso completely acclimatised to the quiet petty life of the place wherehe was staying that he came to regard a return to Vienna as more asacrifice than anything else, and he now lived on, passionately devotedto his profession and particularly to his studies in philology, farfrom the world, lonely, contented, a kind of philosopher in the littletown. When Nürnberger spoke of this distant brother George often feltas though he were hearing him speak about some one who had died, soabsolutely out of the question seemed every possibility of a permanentreunion in the future. It was in quite a different tone, almost asthough he were speaking of a being who could return once again, thathe would talk with a perpetual wistfulness of the sister who had beendead several years. It was on a misty February day, while they were atthe railway station waiting for the train to Vienna, and walking up anddown with each other on the platform, that Nürnberger told George thestory of this sister, who when a child of sixteen had become possessedas it were by a tremendous passion for the theatre, and had run awayfrom home without saying goodbye in a fit of childish romanticism. Shehad wandered from town to town, from stage to stage, for ten years,playing smaller and smaller parts, since neither her talent nor herbeauty appeared to be sufficient for the career which she had chosen,but always with the same enthusiasm, always with the same confidence inher future, in spite of the disillusions which she experienced and thesorrow which she saw. In the holidays she would come to the brothers,who were still living together, sometimes for weeks, sometimes only fordays, and tell them about the provincial halls in which she had actedas though they were great theatres; about her few successes as thoughthey were triumphs which she had won, about the wretched comedians atwhose side she worked as though they were great artists, tell themabout the petty intrigues that took place around her as though theywere powerful tragedies of passion. And instead of gradually realisingthe miserable world in which she was living a life which was as muchto be pitied as that of any one else, she spun every year the essenceof her soul into more and more golden dreams. This went on for a longtime, until at last she came home, feverish and ill. She lay in bedfor months on end with flushed cheeks, raving in her delirium of afame and happiness which she had never experienced, got up once againin apparent health, and went away once more, only to come back home,this time after a few weeks, in complete collapse with death writtenon her forehead. Her brother now travelled with her to the South; toArco, Meran, to the Italian Lakes, and it was only as she lay stretchedout in southern gardens beneath flowering trees, far away from thewhirl that had dazed and intoxicated her throughout the years thatshe realised at last that her life had been simply a racketing aboutbeneath a painted sky and between paper walls—that the whole essenceof her existence had been an illusion. But even the little everydayincidents, the apartments and inns of the foreign town, seemed to hermemory simply scenes which she had played in as an actress by thefootlights, and not scenes which she had really lived, and as sheapproached nearer and nearer to the grave, there awoke within her anawful yearning for that real life which she had missed, and the moresurely she knew that it was lost to her for ever, the clearer becamethe gaze with which she realised the fullness of the world. And thestrangest touch of all was the way in which, in the last weeks of herlife, that talent to which she had sacrificed her whole existencewithout ever really possessing it manifested itself with diabolicuncanniness.

"It seems to me, even to-day," said Nürnberger, "that I have neverheard verses so declaimed, never seen whole scenes so acted, evenby the greatest actress, as I did by my sister in the hotel room atCadenabbia, looking out on to the Lake of Como, a few days before shedied. Of course," he added, "it is possible, even probable, that mymemory is deceiving me."

"But why?" asked George, who was so pleased with this finale thathe did not want to have it spoiled. And he endeavoured to convinceNürnberger, who listened to him with a smile, that he could not havemade a mistake, and that the world had lost a great actress in thatstrange girl who lay buried in Cadenabbia.

George did not find on his excursions with Nürnberger the house in thecountry for which he was looking. In fact it seemed to become moredifficult to find every time he went out. Nürnberger made occasionaljokes about George's exacting requirements. He seemed to be lookingfor a villa which was to be faced in front by a well-kept road, whileit was to have at the back a garden door which led into the naturalforest. Eventually George himself did not seriously believe that hewould now succeed in finding the desired house, and relied on thepressure of necessity after his return from his travels.

It seemed more essential to get as soon as possible into touch with adoctor, but George put this off too from one day to another. But oneevening Anna informed him that she had been suddenly panic-stricken bya new attack of faintness, had visited Doctor Stauber and explainedher condition to him. He had been very nice, had not expressed anyastonishment, had thoroughly reassured her and only expressed the wishto speak to George before they went away.

A few days afterwards George went to see the doctor in accordance withhis invitation.

The consultation hours were over. Doctor Stauber received him withthe friendliness which he had anticipated, seemed to treat the wholematter as being as regular and as much a matter of course as it couldpossibly be, and spoke of Anna just as though she had been a youngwife, a method of procedure which affected George in a strange but notunpleasant way.

When the practical discussion was over the doctor inquired aboutthe destination of their journey. George had not yet mapped out anyprogramme, only this much was decided, that the spring was to be spentin the south, probably in Italy. Doctor Stauber took the opportunityto talk about his last stay in Rome, which was ten years back. He hadbeen in personal touch on this occasion, as he had been once before,with the director of the excavations and spoke to George in almostecstatic terms of the latest discoveries on the Palatine, about whichhe had written monographs as a young man, which he had published in theantiquarian journals. He then showed George, and not without pride,his library, which was divided into two sections, medicine and thehistory of art, and took out and offered to lend him a few rare books,one printed in the year 1834 on the Vatican collections and also ahistory of Sicily. George felt highly excited as he realised with suchvividness the rich days that lay in front of him. He was overcome bya kind of homesickness for places which he knew well and had missedfor a long time. Half-forgotten pictures floated up in his memory, thepyramids of Cestius stood on the horizon in sharp outlines, as theyhad appeared to him when he had ridden back as a boy into the town atevening with the prince of Macedon; the dim church, where he had seenhis first mistress step up to the altar as a bride, opened its doors;a bark under a dark sky with strange sulphur yellow sails drew near tothe coast.... He began to speak about the several towns and landscapesof the south which he had seen as a boy and as a youth, explained thelonging for those places which often seized on him like a genuinehomesickness, his joy at being able to take in with mature appreciationall the differing things which he had longed for, reserved for himselfand then forgotten, and many new things besides, and this time too inthe society of a being who was able to appreciate and enjoy everythingwith him, and whom he held dear.

Doctor Stauber, who was in the act of putting a book back on the shelf,turned round suddenly to George, looked gently at him and said: "I amvery glad of that." As George answered his look with some surprise headded: "It was the first tender allusion to your relationship to Annerlthat I have noticed in the course of the last hour. I know, I know thatyou are not the kind of man to take a comparative stranger into yourconfidence, but if only because I had no reason to expect it, it hasreally done me good. It came straight from your heart, one could seeit; and I should have been really sorry for Annerl—excuse me, I alwayscall her that—if I had been driven to think that you are not as fondof her as she deserves."

"I really don't know," replied George coolly, "what gave you cause todoubt it, doctor."

"Did I say anything about doubts?" replied Stauber good-humouredly."But, after all, it has happened before that a young man who has hadall kinds of experiences does not appreciate a sacrifice of this kindsufficiently, for it still is a sacrifice, my dear Baron. We can be assuperior to all prejudices as much as we like—but it is not a trifleeven to-day for a young girl of good family to make up her mind to do athing like that, and I won't conceal it from you—of course I did notlet Annerl notice anything—it gave even me a slight shock when shecame to me the other day and told me all about it."

"Excuse me, Herr Doctor," replied George, irritated but yet polite,"if it gave you a shock that is surely some proof against your beingsuperior to prejudices...."

"You are right," said Stauber with a smile, "but perhaps you willoverlook this lapse when you consider that I am somewhat older thanyou and belong to another age. Even a more or less independent man ...which I flatter myself I am ... cannot quite escape from the influenceof his age. It is a strange thing, but believe me, even among the youngpeople, who have grown up on Nietzsche and Ibsen, there are quite asmany Philistines as there were thirty years ago. They won't own up toit, but it does go against the grain with them, for instance, if someone goes and seduces their sister, or if one of their worthy wivessuddenly takes it into her head that she wants to live her own life....Many, of course, are consistent and carry their pose through ... butthat is more a matter of self-control than of their real views, andin the old days, you know, the age to which I belong, when ideas wereso immovably hide-bound, when every one for instance was quite sureof things like this: one has to honour one's parents or else one is aknave ... or ... one only loves really once in one's life ... or it'sa pleasure to die for one's fatherland ... in that time, mind you,when every decent man held up some flag or other, or at any rate hadsomething written on his banner ... believe me, the so-called modernideas had more adherents than you suspect. The only thing was thatthose adherents did not quite know it themselves, they did not trusttheir own ideas, they thought themselves, as it were, debauchees oreven criminals. Shall I tell you something, Herr Baron? There arereally no new ideas at all. People feel with a new intensity—that'swhat it is. But do you seriously think that Nietzsche discovered thesuperman, Ibsen the fraud of life and Anzengruber the truth that theparents who desire love and honour from their children ought to 'comeup to the scratch' themselves? Not a bit of it. All the ethical ideashave always been there, and one would really be surprised if one knewwhat absolute blockheads have thought of the so-called great newtruths, and have even frequently given them expression long beforethe geniuses to whom we owe these truths, or rather the courage toregard these truths as true. If I have gone rather too far forgiveme. I really only wanted to say ... and you will believe me, I amsure.... I know as well as you, Baron, that there is many a virgingirl who is a thousand times more corrupt than a so-called fallenwoman; and that there is many a young man who passes for respectablewho has worse things on his conscience than starting a liaison withan innocent girl. And yet ... it is just the curse of my period ..."he interpolated with a smile, "I could not help it, the first momentAnnerl told me her story certain unpleasant words which in their dayhad their own fixed meaning began to echo through my old head in theirold tones, silly out-of-date words like ... libertine ... seduction... leaving in the lurch ... and so on, and that is why I must askyou once more to forgive me, now that I have got to know you somewhatmore intimately ... that is why I felt that shock which a modern manwould certainly not own that he experienced. But to talk seriouslyonce again, just consider a minute how your poor father, who did notknow Anna, would have taken the matter. He was certainly one of theshrewdest and most unprejudiced men whom one can imagine ... and allthe same you have not the slightest doubt that the matter would nothave passed off without his feeling something of a shock as well."

George could not help holding out his hand to the doctor. Theunexpectedness of this sudden allusion caused so intense a longing tospring up within him that the only thing he could do to assuage it wasto begin to talk of him who had passed away. The doctor was able totell him of many meetings with the late baron, mostly chance casualencounters in the street, at the sessions of the scientific academy, atconcerts. There came another of those moments in which George thoughthimself strangely guilty in his attitude towards the dead man andregistered a mental vow to become worthy of his memory.

"Remember me kindly to Annerl," said the doctor as he said goodbye,"but I would rather you did not tell her anything about the shock. Sheis a very sensitive creature, that you know well enough, and now it isparticularly important to save her any excitement. Remember, my dearBaron, there is only one question before us now—to see that a healthychild comes into the world, everything else.... Well, give her my bestregards. I hope we shall all see each other again in the summer in thebest of health."

George went away with a heightened consciousness of hisresponsibilities towards the being who had given herself to him and tothat other who would wake up to existence in a few months. He thoughtfirst of making a will and leaving it behind with a lawyer. But onfurther consideration he thought it more proper to confide in hisbrother, who after all stood nearer to him in sentiment than any oneelse. But with that peculiar embarrassment which was characteristic ofthe really intimate relationship between the brothers he let day afterday go by, until at last Felician's departure on the hunting expeditionin Africa was quite imminent.

The night before, on the way home from the club, George informed hisbrother that he was thinking of taking a long journey in the nearfuture.

"Really! For how long shall you be away?" asked Felician.

George caught the note of a certain anxiety in these words and feltthat it was incumbent on him to add: "It will probably be the lastlong journey I shall take for some years. I hope to find myself in apermanent position in the autumn."

"So you have quite made up your mind?"

"Yes, of course."

"I am very glad, George, for different reasons, as you can imagine,that you want at last to do something serious. And besides, it's a verysound thing, that it is not a case of one of us going out into theworld while the other remains at home alone. That would really havebeen rather sad."

George knew quite well that Felician would get a foreign diplomaticpost in the following autumn, but he had never realised so clearly thatin a few months that brotherly life which had lasted for so many years,that common life in the old house opposite the park, yes, his wholeyouth so to speak, would be irrevocably over and done with. He saw lifelying in front of him, serious, almost menacing. "Have you any idea,"he asked, "where they will send you?"

"There is some chance of Athens."

"Would you like that?"

"Why not? The society ought to be fairly interesting. Bernburg wasthere for three years and was sorry to leave. And they have transferredhim to London, too, and that's certainly not to be sniffed at."

They walked in silence for a while and took their usual way through thepark. An atmosphere suggesting the approaching spring was around them,although small white flakes of snow still gleamed on the lawns.

"So you are going to Italy?" asked Felician.

"Yes."

"As far down South as last spring?"

"I don't know yet."

Again a short silence. Suddenly Felician's voice came out of thedarkness. "Have you heard anything of Grace since then?"

"Of Grace?" repeated George, somewhat surprised, for it had been a longtime since Felician had mentioned that name. "I have heard nothing moreof Grace. Besides, that is what we arranged. We took farewell of eachother for ever at Genoa. That is already more than a year ago...."

A gentleman was sitting on a seat quite in the darkness in a fur coatwith a top hat and white gloves. "Ah, Labinski," thought George for awhole minute; the next minute he of course remembered that he had shothimself. This was not the first time that he had thought he had seenhim. A man had sat in broad daylight in the botanical garden at Palermounder a Japanese ash-tree whom George had taken for a whole second forLabinski; and recently George had thought he had recognised the face ofhis dead father behind the shut windows of a fiacre.

The houses gleamed behind the leafless branches. One of them was thehouse in which the brothers lived. The time has come, thought George,for me to mention the matter at last. And to bring matters to a head,he observed lightly: "Besides, I am not going to Italy alone this year."

"Hm! Hm!" said Felician, and looked in front of him.

George felt at the same moment that he had not taken the right tone. Hewas apprehensive of Felician's thinking something like this: "Oh yes,he has got an adventure again with some shady person or other." And headded seriously: "I say, Felician, I have something serious I shouldlike to talk to you about."

"What! Serious!"

"Yes."

"Well, George," said Felician gently, and looked at him sideways, "whatis up, then? You are not thinking of marrying by any chance?"

"Oh no," replied George, and then felt irritated that he had repudiatedthat possibility with such definiteness. "No, it is not a question ofmarriage, but of something much more vital."

Felician remained standing for a moment. "You have a child?" he askedseriously.

"No, not yet. That's just it, that is why we are leaving."

"Indeed," said Felician.

They had got out of the park. Involuntarily both looked up to thewindow of their house, from which only a year ago their father hadso often nodded his welcome to them both. Both felt with sorrow thatsomehow since their father's death they had gradually slipped awayfrom each other—and felt at the same time a slight fear of how muchfurther from each other life could still take them.

"Come into my room," said George when they got upstairs. "That's themost comfortable place."

He sat down on his comfortable chair by his secretary. Felician loungedin the corner on a little green leather ottoman which was near thewriting-table and listened quietly.

George told him the name of his mistress, spoke of her with heartfeltsympathy, and asked Felician, in case anything should happen to him,George, in the near future to undertake to look after the mother andher child. He left so much of his fortune as was still available to thechild, of course. The mother was to have the usufruct until the childbecame of age.

When George had finished Felician said with a smile after a shortsilence: "Oh well, you've got every reason to hope that you will comeback as whole and sound from your journey as I will from Africa, and soour conversation has probably only an academic significance."

"I hope so too, of course. But at any rate it reassures me, Felician,that you know all about my secret, and that I can be free from anxietyin every way."

"Yes, of course you can." He shook hands with his brother. Then hegot up and walked up and down the room. Finally he said: "You have nothought of legitimising your relationship?"

"Not for the time being. One can never tell what the future may bringforth."

Felician remained standing. "Well...."

"Are you in favour of my marrying?" exclaimed George with someastonishment.

"Not at all."

"Felician, be frank, please."

"Look here, one should not advise any one in affairs like that. Noteven one's own brother."

"But if I ask you, Felician? It seems to me as though there issomething in the business you didn't quite like."

"Well, it is like this, George.... You won't misunderstand me.... Iknow of course that you are not thinking of leaving her in the lurch.On the contrary, I am convinced that you will behave all through farmore nobly than any ordinary man in your position. But the question isreally this, would you have let yourself go into the thing if you hadconsidered the consequences from every point of view?"

"That of course is very hard to answer," said George.

"I mean just this: Did you intend ... not to make her your companionfor life, but to have a child by her all the same?"

"Great heavens, who thinks of that? Of course if one had wanted to beso absolutely on the safe side——"

Felician interrupted him. "Does she know that you are not thinking ofmarrying her?"

"Why, you don't think, surely, I promised her marriage?"

"No. But you did not promise to leave her stranded either."

"It would have been equally mean if I had promised, Felician. The wholething came about as affairs like that always do, developed without anydefinite plan right up to the present time."

"Yes, that is all right. The only question is whether one is not moreor less under an obligation to have definite plans in really vitalmatters."

"Possibly.... But that was never my line, unfortunately."

Felician remained standing in front of George, looked at himaffectionately and nodded a few times.

"That is quite true, George. You are not angry with me.... But now thatwe are talking about it.... Of course I am not suggesting I have anyright to lecture you on your mode of life...."

"Go ahead, Felician.... I mean if.... It really does me good." Hestroked him lightly on the hand which lay on the back of the ottoman.

"Well, there is not much more to be said. I only mean that ineverything you do there is just ... the same lack of system. Look here,to talk of another important matter, I personally am quite convincedof your talent and many others are, too. But you really work damnedlittle, don't you? And fame doesn't come of itself, even when one...."

"Quite so. But I don't work as little as you think, Felician, itis only that work is such a peculiar business with people of mytemperament. Frequently when one is out for a walk or even asleep onegets all kinds of ideas.... And then in the autumn...."

"Yes, yes, we hope so, though I am afraid that you won't be able tolive on your salary at the commencement, and it is very questionablehow long your little money will hold out with your mode of life. I tellyou candidly, when you mentioned a few moments ago the sum which youwere able to leave to your child I had quite a shock."

"Be patient, Felician. In three or five years, when I have my operafinished...." He spoke in an ironical tone.

"Are you really writing an opera, George?"

"I am beginning one shortly."

"Who is doing the libretto for you?"

"Heinrich Bermann. Of course you scowl again."

"My dear George, I have always been very far from lecturing you in anyway about the people you associate with. It is quite natural that youwith your intellectual tastes should live in a different set and mixwith different people to those I do, people whom I should probably findrather less to my taste. But so long as Herr Bermann's libretto is goodyou have my blessing ... and Herr Bermann, of course, too."

"The libretto is not ready yet, only the scenario."

Felician could not help laughing. "So that's how your opera stands! Ionly hope the theatre is already built at which you are going to get apost as conductor."

"Come, come," said George, somewhat hurt.

"Forgive me," replied Felician, "I have not really any doubts aboutyour future. I should only like you yourself to do a bit more towardsit. I really should be so ... proud, George, if you were to do anythinggreat, and it, I'm sure, only depends on yourself. Willy Eissler, whois a man of genuine musical gifts, told me again only the other daythat he thinks more of you than of most of the young composers."

"On the strength of the few songs of mine which he knows? You're a goodfellow, Felician, but there is really no need for you to encourage me.I already know what I have got in me, only I must be more industrious,and my going away will do me quite a lot of good. It does one good toget out of one's usual surroundings for a time, like this. And thistime it is quite different from last. It is the first time, Felician,that I have had anything to do with a person who is absolutely myequal, who is more ... whom I can treat as a true friend as well, andthe consciousness that I am going to have a child, and by her, too, is,in spite of all the accompanying circ*mstances, rather pleasant."

"I can quite understand that," said Felician, and contemplated Georgeseriously and affectionately.

The clock on the writing-table struck two.

"What, so late already," cried Felician, "and I have got to pack earlyto-morrow. Well, we can talk over everything at breakfast to-morrow.Well, good-night, George."

"Good-night, Felician. Thank you," he added with emotion.

"What are you thanking me for, George? You really are funny!" Theyshook hands and then kissed each other, which they had not done forquite a long time, and George resolved to call his child Felician if itwas to be a boy, and he rejoiced at the good omen of a name which hadso happy a ring.

After his brother's departure George felt as deserted as though he hadnever had another friend. Living in the great lonely house, where heseemed to be weighed down by a mood like that which had followed thefirst weeks after his father's death, made him feel depressed.

He regarded the days which still had to elapse before the departure asa transition period, in which it was not worth while starting anything.The hours he spent with his mistress in the room opposite the churchbecame colourless and blank. A psychological change, too, seemed to benow taking place in Anna herself. She was frequently irritable, thentaciturn again, almost melancholy, and George was often overcome byso great a sense of ennui when he was with her that he felt quitenervous of the next month in which they would be thrown completely intoeach other's society. Of course the journey in itself promised changeenough, but how would it be in the subsequent months which would haveto be spent somewhere in the neighbourhood of Vienna? He must alsothink about a companion for Anna; but he was still putting off speakingto her about it, when Anna herself came to him with a piece of newswhich was calculated to remove that difficulty, and at the same time toraise another one, in the simplest way conceivable. Anna had recently,particularly since she had gradually given up her lessons, become moreand more intimate with Therese, and had confided everything to her, andso it soon came about that Therese's mother was also in the secret.This lady was much more congenial to Anna than her own mother, whoafter a slight glimmer of understanding had held aloof, aggrieved anddepressed, from her erring daughter.

Frau Golowski not only declared herself ready to live with Anna in thecountry, but even promised to discover the little house which Georgehad not been able to find, while the young couple were away. Howevermuch this willingness suited George's convenience, he found it nonethe less somewhat painful to be under an obligation to this old woman,who was a stranger to him, and in moments when he was out of temperit struck him as almost grotesque that it should be Leo's mother andBerthold's father, of all people, who should be fated to play soimportant a part in so momentous an event in Anna's life.

George paid his farewell visit at Ehrenbergs' on a fine May afternoonthree days before he went away.

He had only rarely shown himself there since that Christmas celebrationand his conversations with Else had remained on the most innocent offootings. She confessed to him, as though to a friend who could notnow misunderstand remarks of that character, that she felt more andmore unsettled at home. In particular the atmosphere of the house, asGeorge had frequently noticed before, seemed to be permanently overcastby the bad relations between father and son. When Oskar came in at thedoor with his nonchalant aristocratic swagger and began to talk in hisViennese aristocratic accent, his father would turn scornfully away, orwould be unable to suppress allusions to the fact that he could makean end this very day of all that aristocracy by stopping or loweringhis so-called allowance, which as a matter of fact was neither morenor less than pocket-money. If, on his side, his father began to talkYiddish, as he was most fond of doing in front of company, and withobvious malice, Oskar would bite his lips and make a point of leavingthe room. So it was only very rarely during the last few months thatfather and son stayed in Vienna or in Neuhaus at the same time. Theyboth found each other's presence almost intolerable.

When George came in to Ehrenbergs' the room was almost in darkness. Themarble Isis gleamed from behind the pianoforte, and the twilight of thelate afternoon was falling in the alcove where mother and daughter satopposite each other. For the first time the appearance of these twowomen struck George as somewhat strangely pathetic. A vague feelingfloated up in his mind that perhaps this was the last time he wouldsee this picture, and Else's smile shone towards him with such sweetmelancholy, that he thought for a whole minute: might I not have foundmy happiness here, after all?

He now sat next to Frau Ehrenberg (who was going on quietly knitting)opposite Else, smoked a cigarette and felt quite at home. He explainedthat, fascinated by the tempting spring weather, he was starting onhis projected journey earlier than he had intended, and that he wouldprobably prolong it until the summer.

"And we are going to Auhof as early as the middle of May this time,"said Frau Ehrenberg, "and we certainly count upon seeing you down therethis year."

"If you are not elsewhere engaged," added Else with a perfectlystraight face.

George promised to come in August, at any rate for some days. Theconversation then turned on Felician and Willy, who had started withtheir party a few days ago from Biskra on their hunting expedition inthe desert; on Demeter Stanzides, who announced his immediate intentionof resigning from the army and retiring to an estate in Hungary; andfinally on Heinrich Bermann of whom no one had had any news for someweeks.

"Who knows if he will ever come back to Vienna at all?" said Else.

"Why shouldn't he? What makes you think that, Fräulein Else?"

"Upon my word, perhaps he'll marry that actress and trot about theworld with her."

George shrugged his shoulders ... he didn't know personally of anyactress with whom Heinrich was mixed up, and he ventured to expressa doubt whether Heinrich would ever marry any one, whether she was aPrincess or a circus rider.

"It would be rather a pity if Bermann were to," said Frau Ehrenberg,without taking any notice of George's discretion. "I certainly thinkthat young people take these matters either too lightly or tooseriously."

Else followed up the idea: "Yes, it is strange, all you men are eithercleverer or much sillier in these matters than in any other, althoughreally it is just in such crucial moments of one's life, that one oughtas far as possible to be one's ordinary self."

"My dear Else," said George casually, "once one's passions are setgoing——"

"Yes, when they are set going," emphasised Frau Ehrenberg.

"Passions!" exclaimed Else. "I believe that like all other great thingsin the world, they are really something quite rare."

"What do you know, my child?" said Frau Ehrenberg.

"At any rate I've never so far seen anything of that kind in myimmediate environment," explained Else.

"Who knows if you would discover it," remarked George, "even though itdid come once in a way quite near you? Viewed from outside a flirtationand a life's tragedy may sometimes look quite the same."

"That is certainly not true," said Else. "Passion is something that isbound to betray itself."

"How do you manage to know that, Else?" objected Frau Ehrenberg."Passions can often conceal themselves deeper than any ordinarytrumpery little emotion, for the very reason that there is usually moreat stake."

"I think," replied George, "that it is a very personal matter. Thereare, of course, people who have everything written on their forehead,and others who are impenetrable; being impenetrable is quite as much atalent as anything else."

"It can be trained too, like anything else," said Else.

The conversation stuck for a moment, as is apt to occur when thepersonal application that lies behind some general observation flashesout only too palpably.

Frau Ehrenberg started a new topic. "Have you been composing anythingnice, George?" she asked.

"A few trifles for the piano. My quintette will soon be ready too."

"The quintette is beginning to grow mythical," said Else discontentedly.

"Else!" said her mother.

"Well, it really would be a good thing, if he were to be moreindustrious."

"You are perhaps right about that," replied George.

"I think artists used to work much more in former days than they donow."

"The great ones," qualified George.

"No, all," persisted Else.

"Perhaps it is a good thing that you are going to travel," said FrauEhrenberg, "for apparently you've too many distractions here."

"He'll let himself be distracted anywhere," asserted Else sternly."Even in Iglau, or wherever else he happens to be next year."

"That's why I've never yet thought of your going away," said FrauEhrenberg and shook her head; "and your brother will be in Sophia orAthens next year and Stanzides in Hungary ... it's really a great pityto think of all the nicest men being scattered like this to the fourcorners of the world."

"If I were a man," said Else, "I would scatter too."

George smiled. "You're dreaming of a journey round the world in a whiteyacht, Madeira, Ceylon, San Francisco."

"Oh no, I shouldn't like to be without a profession, but I shouldprobably have been an officer in the merchant service."

"Won't you be kind enough"—Frau Ehrenberg turned to George—"to playus one or two of your new things?"

"Delighted, I'm sure." He got up from the recess and walked towards thewindow into the darkness of the room. Else got up and turned on thelight on top. George opened the piano, sat down and played his ballads.

Else had sat down in an arm-chair and as she sat there, with her armresting on the side of the chair and her head resting on her arm inthe pose of a grande dame and with the melancholy expression of aprecocious child, George felt again strangely thrilled by her look. Hewas not feeling very satisfied with his ballad to-day, and was fullyconscious that he was endeavouring to help out its effect by puttingtoo much expression into his playing.

Hofrat Wilt stepped softly into the room and made a sign that theywere not to disturb themselves. He then remained standing by the doorleaning against the wall, tall, superior, good-natured, with hisclosely-cropped grey hair, until George ended his performance withsome emphatic harmonies. They greeted each other. Wilt congratulatedGeorge on being a free man and being now able to travel South. "I'msorry to say I can't do it," he added, "and all the same one has attimes a vague notion that even though one were not to visit one'soffice for a year on end, not the slightest change would take place inAustria." He talked with his usual irony about his profession and hisFatherland. Frau Ehrenberg retorted that there was not a man who wasmore patriotic, and took his calling more seriously than he himself.He agreed. But he regarded Austria as an infinitely complicatedinstrument, which only a master could handle properly, and said thatthe only reason for its sounding badly so often was that every muddlertried his art upon it. "They'll go on knocking it about," he saiddismally, "until all the strings break and the frame too."

When George went Else accompanied him into the empty room. She stillhad a few words to say to him about his ballads. She had particularlyliked the middle movement. It had had such an inner glow. Anyway, shehoped he would have a good time on his journey.

He thanked her.

"So," she said suddenly, when he already had his hat in his hand, "it'sreally a case now of saying a final farewell to certain dreams."

"What dreams?" he asked in surprise.

"Mine of course, which you are bound to have known about by this time."

George was very astonished. She had never been so specific. He smiledawkwardly and sought for an answer. "Who knows what the future willbring forth?" he said at last lightly.

She puckered her forehead. "Why aren't you at any rate as straight withme as I am with you? I know quite well that you are not travellingalone ... I also know who is going with you ... what is more I know thewhole thing. Good gracious, what haven't I known since we have knowneach other?"

And George heard grief and rage quivering below the surface of herwords. And he knew that if he ever did make her his wife, she wouldmake him feel that she had had to wait for him too long. He looked infront of him and maintained a silence that seemed at once guilty anddefiant.

Then Else smiled brightly, held out her hand and said once again: "Bonvoyage."

He pressed her hand as though he were bound to make some apology. Shetook it away from him, turned round and went back into the room. Hestill waited for a few seconds standing by the door and then hurriedinto the street. On the same evening George saw Leo Golowski again inthe café, for the first time for many weeks. He knew from Anna thatLeo had recently had to put up with a great deal of unpleasantnessas a volunteer and that that "fiend in human form" in particular hadpersecuted him with malice, with real hatred in fact. It occurred toGeorge to-day that Leo had greatly altered during the short time inwhich he had not seen him. He looked distinctly older.

"I'm very glad to get a chance of seeing you again before I leave,"said George and sat down opposite him at the café table.

"You are glad," replied Leo, "that you happened to run across meagain, while I positively needed to see you once again, that is thedifference." His voice had even a tenderer note than usual. He lookedGeorge in the face with a kind, almost fatherly expression.

At this moment George no longer had any doubt that Leo knew everything.He felt as embarrassed for a few seconds as though he were responsibleto him, was irritated at his own embarrassment and was grateful toLeo for not appearing to notice it. This evening they talked aboutpractically nothing except music. Leo inquired after the progress ofGeorge's work, and it came about during the course of the conversationthat George declared himself quite willing to play one of his newestcompositions to Leo on the following Sunday afternoon. But when theytook leave of each other, George suddenly had the unpleasant feelingof having passed with comparative success a theoretical examination,and of being faced to-morrow with a practical examination. What didthis young man, who was so mature for his years, really want of him?Was George to prove to him that his talent entitled him to be Anna'slover or her child's father? He waited for Leo's visit with genuinerepugnance. He thought for a minute of refusing to see him. But whenLeo appeared with all that innocent sincerity which he so frequentlyliked to affect, George's mood soon became less harsh. They drank teaand smoked cigarettes and George showed him his library, the pictureswhich were hanging in the house, the antiquities and the weapons, andthe examination feeling vanished. George sat down at the pianoforte,played a few of his earlier pieces and also his latest ones as well asthe ballads, which he rendered much better than he had done yesterdayat Ehrenbergs', and then some songs, while Leo followed the melody withhis fingers, but with sure musical feeling. Eventually he started toplay the quintette from the score. He did not succeed and Leo stationedhimself at the window with the music and read it attentively.

"One can't really tell at all so far," he said. "A great deal of itindicates a dilettante with a lot of taste, other parts an artistwithout proper discipline. It's rather in the songs that one feels ...but feels what?... talent ... I don't know. One feels at any rate thatyou have distinction, real musical distinction."

"Well, that's not so much."

"As a matter of fact it's pretty little, but it doesn't prove anythingagainst you either, since you have worked so little—worked very littleand felt little."

"You think ..." George forced a sarcastic laugh.

"Oh, you've probably lived a great deal but felt ... you know what Imean, George?"

"Yes, I can imagine well enough, but you're really making a mistake;why I rather think that I have a certain tendency to sentimentalism,which I ought to combat."

"Yes, that's just it. Sentimentalism, you know, is something whichis the direct antithesis to feeling, something by means of whichone reassures oneself about one's lack of feeling, one's essentialcoldness. Sentimentalism is feeling which one has obtained, so tospeak, below cost price. I hate sentimentalism."

"Hm, and yet I think that you yourself are not quite free from it."

"I am a Jew, it's a national disease with us. Our respectable membersare working to change it into rage or fury. It's a bad habit with theGermans, a kind of emotional slovenliness so to speak."

"So there is an excuse for you, not for us."

"There is no excuse for diseases either if, fully realising what one isdoing, one has missed one's opportunity of protecting oneself againstthem. But we are beginning to babble in aphorism and are consequentlyonly on the way to half or quarter truths. Let's go back to yourquintette. I like the theme of the adagio best."

George nodded. "I heard it once in Palermo."

"What," said Leo, "is it supposed to be a Sicilian melody?"

"No, it rippled to me out of the waves of the sea when I went for awalk one morning along the shore. Being alone is particularly good formy work, so is change of scene. That's why I promise myself all kindsof things from my trip." He told him about Heinrich Bermann's operaplot, which he found very stimulating. When Heinrich came back again,Leo was to make him seriously start on the libretto.

"Don't you know yet," said Leo, "his father is dead?"

"Really? When? How do you know?"

"It was in the paper this morning."

They spoke about Heinrich's relationship to the dead man and Leodeclared that the world would perhaps get on better if parents wouldmore frequently learn by the experiences of their children instead ofasking their children to adapt themselves to their own hoary wisdom.The conversation then turned on the relations between fathers and sons,on true and false kinds of gratefulness, on the dying of people oneheld dear, on the difference between mourning and grief, on the dangersof memory and the duty of forgetting. George felt that Leo was a veryserious thinker, was very solitary and knew how to be so. He feltalmost fond of him when the door closed behind him in the late twilighthour and the thought that this man had been Anna's first infatuationdid him good.

The remaining days passed more quickly than he anticipated, what withpurchases, arrangements and all kinds of preparations. And one eveningGeorge and Anna drove after each other to the station in two separatevehicles and jestingly greeted each other in the vestibule with greatpoliteness, as though they had been distant acquaintances who had metby accident.

"My dear Fräulein Rosner, what a fortunate coincidence! are you alsogoing to Munich by any chance?"

"Yes, Herr Baron."

"Hullo, that's excellent! and have you a sleeping-car, my dearFräulein?"

"Oh yes, Herr Baron, berth number five."

"How strange now, I have number six."

They then walked up and down on the platform. George was in a verygood temper, and he was glad that in her English dress, narrow-brimmedtravelling hat and blue veil Anna looked like an interesting foreigner.They went the length of the entire train until they came to theengine, which stood outside the station and was sending violent puffsof light-grey steam up to the dark sky. Outside green and red lampsglowed on the track with a faint light. Nervous whistles came fromsomewhere out of the distance and a train slowly struggled out of thedarkness into the station. A red light waved magically to and fro overthe ground, seemed to be miles away, stopped and was suddenly quitenear. And outside, shining and losing themselves in the invisible, thelines went their way to near and far, into night and morning, into themorrow, into the inscrutable.

Anna climbed into the compartment. George remained standing outsidefor a while and derived amusem*nt from watching the other travellers,those who were in an excited rush, those who preserved a dignifiedcalm, and those who posed as being calm—and all the various types ofpeople who were seeing their friends off: the depressed, the jolly, theindifferent.

Anna was leaning out of the window. George chatted with her, behavedas though he had not the slightest idea of leaving and then jumped inat the last minute. The train went away. People were standing on theplatform, incomprehensible people who were remaining behind in Vienna,and who on their side seemed to find all the others who were now reallyleaving Vienna equally incomprehensible. A few pocket-handkerchiefsfluttered. The station-master stood there impressively and gazedsternly after the train. A porter in a blue-and-white striped linenblouse held a yellow bag high up and looked inquisitively into everywindow. Strange, thought George casually, there are people whoare going away and yet leave their yellow bags behind in Vienna.Everything vanished, handkerchiefs, bags, station-master, station. Thebrightly-lighted signal-box, the Gloriette, the twinkling lights ofthe town, the little bare gardens along the embankment; and the trainwhizzed on through the night. George turned away from the window. Annasat in the corner. She had taken off her hat and veil. Gentle littletears were running down her cheeks.

"Come," said George, as he embraced her and kissed her on the eyes andmouth. "Come, Anna," he repeated even more tenderly, and kissed heragain. "What are you crying for, dear? It will be so nice."

"It's easy enough for you," she said, and the tears streamed on downher smiling face.

They had a beautiful time. They first stopped in Munich. They walkedabout in the lofty halls of the Pinakothek, stood fascinated in frontof the old darkening pictures, wandered into the Glyptothek betweenmarble gods, kings and heroes; and when Anna with a sudden feelingof exhaustion sat down on a settee she felt George's tender glancelingering over her head. They drove through the English garden, overbroad avenues beneath the still leafless trees, nestling close to eachother, young and happy, and were glad to think that people took themfor a honeymoon couple. And they had their seats next to each otherat the opera, Figaro, The Meistersingers, and Tristan, and theyfelt as though a resonant transparent veil were woven around themalone out of the notes they loved so well, which separated them fromall the rest of the audience. And they sat, unrecognised by any one atprettily-laid little restaurant tables, ate, drank and talked in thebest of spirits. And through streets that had the wondrous atmosphereof a foreign land, they wandered home to where the gentle night waitedfor them in the room they shared, slept peacefully cheek by cheek,and when they awoke there smiled to them from the window a friendlyday with which they could do whatever they liked. They found peace ineach other as they had never done before, and at last belonged to eachother absolutely. Then they travelled further to meet the call of thespring; through long valleys on which the snow shone and melted, then,as though traversing one last white winter dream, over the Brennerto Bozen, where they basked in the sunbeams at noon in the dazzlingmarket-place. On the weather-worn steps of the vast amphitheatre ofVerona, beneath the cool sky of an Easter evening, George found himselfat last in sight of that world of his heart's desire into which areal true love was now vouchsafed to accompany him. His own vanishedboyhood greeted him out of the pale reddish distance together with allthe eternal memories, in which other men and women had their shareas well. Why, even a breath of those bygone days when his motherhad still lived seemed to thrill already through this air with itsfamiliar and yet foreign atmosphere. He was glad to see Venice, but ithad lost its magic and was as well known as though he had only leftit yesterday. He was greeted in the Piazza St. Marco by some casualViennese acquaintances, and the veiled lady by his side in the whitedress earned many an inquisitive glance. Once only, late at evening, ona gondola journey through the narrow canals did the looming palaces,which in the daylight had gradually degenerated into artificialscenery, appear to him in all the massive splendour of the dark goldenglories of their past. Then came a few days in towns, which he scarcelyknew or did not know at all, in which he had only spent a few hoursas a boy, or had never been in at all. They walked into a dim churchout of a sultry Padua afternoon, and going slowly from altar to altarcontemplated the simple glorious pictures in which saints accomplishedtheir miracles and fulfilled their martyrdoms. On a dismal rainy daya jolty gloomy carriage took them past a brick-red fort, round whichlay greenish-grey water in a broad moat, through a market-square wherenegligently dressed citizens sat in front of the café; among silentmournful streets, where grass grew between the cobble-stones, and theyhad perforce to believe that this pitifully-dying petty town bore theresounding name of Ferrara. But they breathed again in Bologna, wherethe lively flourishing town does not simply content itself with amere pride in its bygone glories. But it was only when George gazedat the hills of Fiesole that he felt himself greeted as it were by asecond home. This was the town in which he had ceased to be a boy,the town in which the stream of life had begun to course through hisveins. At many places memories floated up in his mind which he keptto himself; and when in the cathedral, where the Florentine girl hadgiven him her final look from beneath her bridal veil, he only spoketo Anna about that hour in the Altlerchenfelder Church in that autumnevening, when they had both begun to talk with some dim presentimentabout this journey, which had now become realised with suchinconceivable rapidity. He showed Anna the house in which he had livednine years ago. The same shops in which coral-dealers, watch-makersand lace-dealers hawked their wares were still underneath. As thesecond story was to let George would have had no difficulty in seeingimmediately the room in which his mother had died. But he hesitatedfor a long time to set foot in the house again. It was only on the daybefore their departure, as though feeling that he should not put it offany more, that alone and without any previous word to Anna, he wentinto the house, up the stairs and into the room. The aged porter showedhim round and did not recognise him. The same furniture was still allthere.

His mother's bedroom looked exactly the same as it had done tenyears ago, and the same brown wooden bed with its dark-green silverembroidered velvet coverlet still stood in the same corner. But noneof the emotions which George had expected stirred within him. A tiredmemory which seemed flatter and duller than it had ever been before,ran through his soul. He stayed a long time in front of the bed withthe deliberate intention of conjuring up those emotions which he feltit was his duty to feel. He murmured the word "mother," he tried toimagine the way in which she had lain here in this bed for many daysand nights. He remembered the hours in which she had felt better, andhe had been able to read aloud to her or to play to her on the pianoin the adjoining room. He looked at the little round table standingin the corner over which his father and Felician had spoken in a softwhisper because his mother had just gone to sleep; and finally therearose up in his mind with all the sharp vividness of a theatrical scenethe picture of that dreadful evening, when his father and brotherhad gone out, and he himself had sat at his mother's bedside quitealone with her hand in his ... he saw and heard it all over again. Heremembered how she had suddenly felt ill after an extremely quiet day,how he had hurriedly opened the windows and the laughter and speechesof strange people had penetrated into the room with the warm Marchair, how she lay there at last with open eyes that were already blank,while her hair that only a few seconds ago had streamed in waves overher forehead and temple lay dry and dishevelled on the pillow, and herleft arm hung down naked over the edge of the bed with still fingersstretched far apart. This image arose in his mind with such terriblevividness that he saw again mentally his own boyish face and heard onceagain his own long sobbing ... but he felt no pain. It was far too longago—nearly ten years.

"E bellissima la vista di questa finestra," suddenly said the porterbehind him as he opened the window—and human voices at once ranginto the room from down below just as they had done on that long-pastevening. And at the same moment he heard his mother's voice in his ear,just as he had heard it then entreating, dying ... "George ... George"... and out of the dark corner in the place where the pillows had usedto lie he saw something pale shine out towards him. He went to thewindow and agreed: "Bellissima vista," but in front of the beautifulview there lay as it were a dark veil. "Mother," he murmured, and onceagain "Mother" ... but to his own amazement he did not mean the womanwho had borne him and had been buried long ago; the word was for thatother woman, who was not yet a mother but who was to be in a few months... the mother of a child of which he was the father. And the wordsuddenly rang out, as though some melody that had never been heard orunderstood before, were now sounding, as though bells with mysticchiming were swinging in the distant future. And George felt ashamedthat he had come here alone, had, as it were, almost stolen here. Itwas now quite out of the question to tell Anna that he had been here.

The next day they took the train to Rome. And while George feltfresher, more at home, more in the vein for enjoyment, with eachsucceeding day, Anna began to suffer seriously from a feeling ofexhaustion with increasing frequency. She would often remain behindalone in the hotel, while he strolled about the streets, wanderedthrough the Vatican, went to the Forum and the Palatine. She never kepthim back, but he nevertheless felt himself bound to cheer her up beforehe went out, and got into the habit of saying: "Well, you'll keep thatfor another time, I hope we shall soon be coming here again." Then shewould smile in her arch way, as though she did not doubt now that shewould one day be his wife; and he himself could not help owning that heno longer regarded that development as impossible. For it had graduallybecome almost impossible for him to realise that they were to saygoodbye for ever and to go their several ways this autumn. Yet duringthis period the words with which they spoke about a remote future werealways vague. He had fear of it, and she felt that she would be doingwell not to arouse that fear, and it was just during these Roman days,when he would often walk about alone in the foreign town for hours onend, that he felt as though he were at times slipping away from Anna ina manner that was not altogether unpleasant.

One evening he had wandered about amid the ruins of the Imperial Palaceuntil the approach of dusk and from the height of the Palatine Hillhe had seen the sun set in the Campagna with all the proud delight ofthe man who is alone. He had then gone driving for a while along theancient wall of the city to Monte Pincio, and when as he leant back inthe corner of his carriage he swept the roofs with his look till he sawthe cupola of St. Peter's, he felt with deep emotion that he was nowexperiencing the most sublime hour of the whole journey. He did not getback to the hotel till late, and found Anna standing by the window paleand in tears, with red spots on her swollen cheeks. She had been dyingof nervousness for the last two hours, had imagined that he had had anaccident, had been attacked, had been killed. He reassured her, but didnot find the words of affection which she wanted, for he felt in someunworthy way a sense of being tied and not free. She felt his coldnessand gave him to understand that he did not love her enough; he answeredwith an irritation that verged on despair. She called him callous andselfish. He bit his lip, made no further answer, and walked up and downthe room. Still unreconciled they went into the dining-room, where theytook their meal in silence, and went to bed without saying good-night.

The following days were under the shadow of this scene. It was onlyon the journey to Naples, when they were alone in the compartment,that in their joy over the new scenery to which they were flyingthey found each other again. From henceforward he scarcely left hera single minute, she seemed to him helpless and somewhat pathetic.He gave up visiting museums since she could not accompany him. Theydrove together to Posilippo and walked in the Villa Nationale. Inthe excursion through Pompeii he walked next to her sedan-chair likea patient affectionate husband, and while the guide was giving hisdescriptive account in bad French, George took Anna's hand, kissed itand endeavoured in enthusiastic words to make her share in the delightthat he himself felt once more in this mysterious roofless town, whichafter a burial of two thousand years had gradually returned street bystreet, house by house, to meet the unchanging light of that azuresky. And when they stopped at a place where some labourers were justengaged in extricating with careful movements of their shovels a brokenpillar out of the ashes he pointed it out to Anna with eyes which shoneas brightly as though he had been storing up this sight for her fora long time, and as though everything which had happened before hadsimply been leading up to the fulfilment of his purpose of taking herto this particular place at this particular minute and showing her thisparticular wonder.

On a dark blue May night they lay in two chairs covered with tarpaulinson the deck of the ship that was taking them to Genoa. An old Frenchmanwith clear eyes, who had sat opposite them at dinner, stood near themfor a while and drew their attention to the stars that hung in theinfinitude like heavy silver drops. He named some of them by name,politely and courteously, as though he felt it incumbent upon him tointroduce to each other the shining wanderers of heaven and the youngmarried couple. He then said good-night and went down into his cabin.But George thought of his lonely journey over the same route and underthe same sky in the previous spring after his farewell from Grace. Hehad told Anna about her, not so much from any emotional necessity, asin order to free his past from that atmosphere of sinister mysteryin which it often seemed to Anna to disappear, by the conjuring upinto life of a specific shape and the designation of a specific name.Anna knew of Labinski's death, of George's conversation with Grace atLabinski's grave, of George's stay with her in Sicily. He had evenshown her a picture of Grace; and yet he thought to himself with aslight shudder how little Anna herself knew of this very epoch of hislife, which he had described to her with an almost reckless lack ofreserve; and he felt how impossible it was to give any other person anyidea of a period which that person had not actually lived through, andof the contents of so many days and nights every minute of which hadbeen full of vivid life. He realised the comparative insignificance ofthe little lapses from truth of which he frequently allowed himself tobe guilty in his narrative, compared with that ineradicable taint offalseness to which every memory gives birth on its short journey fromthe lips of one person to the ear of another. And if Anna herself atsome later time wanted to describe to some friend, some new lover, ashonestly as she possibly could, the time which she spent with George,what after all could that friend really learn? Not much more than astory such as he had read hundreds of times over in books: a story ofa young creature who had loved a young man, had travelled about withhim, had felt ecstasy and at times tedium, had felt herself at one withhim, and yet had frequently felt lonely. And even if she should makean attempt to give a specific account of every minute ... there stillremained an irrevocable past, and for him who has not lived through ithimself the past can never be the truth.

The stars glistened above him. Anna's head had sunk slowly upon hisbreast and he supported it gently with his hands. Only the slightripple in the depths betrayed that the ship was sailing onward. But itstill went on towards the morning, towards home, towards the future.

The hour which had loomed over them so long in silence seemed nowabout to strike and to begin. George suddenly felt that he no longerhad his fate in his own hand. Everything was going its course. And henow felt in his whole body, even to the hairs of his head, that theship beneath his feet was relentlessly hurrying forward.

They only remained a day in Genoa. Both longed for rest, and George forhis work as well. They meant to stay only a few weeks at an Italianlake and to travel home in the middle of June. The house in which Annawas going to live would be bound to be ready by then. Frau Golowski hadfound out half-a-dozen suitable ones, sent specific details to Annaand was waiting for her decision, though she still continued lookingfor others in case of emergency. They travelled from Milan to Genoa,but they could not stand the noisy life of a town any longer and leftfor Lugano the very next day.

They had been staying here for a period of four weeks and every morningGeorge went along the road which took him, as it did to-day, alongthe cheerful shore of the lake, past Paradiso to the bend, wherethere was a view which every time he longed to see again. Only a fewdays of their stay were still before them. In spite of the excellentstate of Anna's health since the beginning of their stay the time hadarrived to return to the vicinity of Vienna, so as to be able to beready confidently for all emergencies. The days in Lugano struck Georgeas the best he had experienced since his departure from Vienna. Andhe asked himself during many a beautiful moment, if the time he wasspending here was not perhaps the best time of his whole life. He hadnever felt himself so free from desire, so serene both in anticipationand memory, and he saw with joy that Anna also was completely happy.Expectant gentleness shone in her forehead, her eyes gleamed with archmerriment, as at the time when George had wooed for their possession.Without anxiety, without impatience and lifted by the consciousnessof her budding motherhood far above the memory of home prejudices orany question of future complications, she anticipated with ecstasy thegreat hour when she was to give back to the waiting world as an animatecreature, that which her body had drunk in during a half-consciousmoment of ecstasy. George saw with joy the maturing in her of thecomrade that he had hoped to find in her from the beginning, but whohad so frequently escaped him in the course of the last few months. Intheir conversations about his works (all of which she had carefullygone through), about the theory of the song, about the more generalmusical questions, she revealed to him more knowledge and feelingthan he had ever suspected she had in her. And he himself, though hedid not actually compose much, felt as though he were making realstrides forward. Melodies resounded within him, harmonies heraldedtheir approach, and he remembered with deep understanding a remarkof Felician's, who had once said after he had not had a sword in hishand for months on end, that his arm had had some good ideas duringthis period. The future, too, occasioned him no anxiety. He knew thatserious work would begin as soon as he got back to Vienna, and then hisway would lie before him, clear and unencumbered.

George stood for a long time by the bend in the road which had been theobject of his walk. A short broad tongue of land, thickly overgrownwith low shrubs, stretched from here straight into the lake, while anarrow gently sloping path led in a few steps to a wooden seat whichwas invisible from the street and on which George was always accustomedto sit down a little before returning to the hotel.

"How many more times," he could not help thinking to-day. "Five or sixtimes perhaps and then back to Vienna again." And he asked himselfwhat would happen if they did not go back, if they settled down insome house somewhere in Italy or Switzerland, and began to build upwith their child a new life in the double peacefulness of Nature anddistance. What would happen?... Nothing. Scarcely any one would beparticularly surprised. And no one would miss either him or her, missthem with real grief. These reflections made his mood flippant ratherthan melancholy; the only thought that made him depressed was that hewas frequently overcome by a kind of homesickness, a kind of desirein fact to see certain specific persons. And even now, while he wasdrinking in the lake air, surrendering himself to the blue of this halfforeign, half familiar sky above him and enjoying all the pleasure ofsolitude and retirement, his heart would beat when he thought of thewoods and hills around Vienna, of the Ringstrasse, the club and his bigroom with the view of the Stadtpark. And he would have felt anxiousif his child had not been going to be born in Vienna. It suddenlyoccurred to him that another letter from Frau Golowski must havearrived to-day together with many other communications from Vienna, andhe therefore decided to take the road round by the post-office beforegoing back to the hotel. For following his habit during the whole triphe had his letters addressed there and not to the hotel, since he feltthat this would give him a freer hand in dealing with any outsideemergency. He did not, as a matter of fact, get many letters fromVienna. There was usually in spite of their brevity a certain elementin Heinrich's letters which, as George quite appreciated, was less dueto any particular need of sympathy on the part of the author than tothe circ*mstance that it was an integral part of his literary callingto breathe the breath of life into all the sentences which he wrote.Felician's letters were as cool as though he had completely forgottenthat last heartfelt talk in George's room and that brotherly kiss withwhich they had taken leave of each other.... He presumes, no doubt,thought George, that his letters will be read by Anna too, and does notfeel himself bound to give this stranger an insight into his privateaffairs and his private feelings. Nürnberger had sent a few shortanswers to George's picture-postcards, while in answer to a letter fromRome, in which George had referred to his sincere appreciation of thewalks they had had together in the early spring, Nürnberger expressedhis regret in ironically apologetic phrases that he had told Georgeon those excursions such a lot about his own family affairs whichcould not interest him in the slightest. A letter from old Eisslerhad reached him at Naples, informing him that there was no prospectof a vacancy for the following year at the Detmold Court Theatre,but that George had been invited through Count Malnitz to be presentat the rehearsals and performances as a "visitor by special request,"and that this was an opportunity which might perhaps pave the way tosomething more definite in the future. George had given the propositionhis polite consideration, but had little inclination for the time beingto stay in the foreign town for any length of time with such vagueprospects, and had decided to look out for a permanent appointment assoon as he arrived at Vienna.

Apart from this there was no personal note in any of the letters fromhome. The remembrances to him which Frau Rosner felt in duty boundto append to her letters to her daughter made no particular appeal,although recently they had been addressed not to the Herr Baron but toGeorge. He felt certain that Anna's parents were simply resigned towhat they could not alter, but that they felt it grievously all thesame, and had not shown themselves as broad-minded as would have beendesirable.

In accordance with his habit George did not go back along the bank.Passing through narrow streets between garden walls, then under arcadesand finally over a wide space from which there was another clear viewof the lake, he arrived in front of the post-office, whose brightyellow paint reflected the dazzling rays of the sun. A young ladywhom George had already seen in the distance walking up and down thepavement, remained standing as he approached. She was dressed in whiteand carried a white sunshade spread out over a broad straw hat with ared ribbon. When George was quite near she smiled, and he now suddenlysaw a well-known face beneath the white spotted tulle veil.

"Is it really you, Fräulein Therese?" he exclaimed as he took the handwhich she held out to him.

"How do you do, Baron?" she replied innocently, as though this meetingwere the most ordinary event imaginable. "How is Anna?"

"Very well, thanks. Of course you will come and see her?"

"If I may."

"But tell me now, what are you doing here? Can it be that you"—and hisglance swept her in amazement from top to toe—"are making a politicaltour?"

"I can't exactly say that," she replied, pushing out her chin, withoutthat movement having its usual effect of making her face appear ugly,"it's more of a holiday jaunt." And her face shone with a genuine smileas she saw George's glance turn towards the door, from which DemeterStanzides had just come out in a striped black-and-white flannel suit.He lifted his grey felt hat in salutation and shook hands with George.

"Good-morning, Baron. Glad to see you again."

"I am very glad, too, Herr Stanzides."

"No letter for me?" Therese turned to Demeter.

"No, Therese. Only a few cards for me," and he put them in his pocket.

"How long have you been here?" inquired George, endeavouring to exhibitas little surprise as possible.

"We arrived yesterday," replied Demeter.

"Straight from Vienna?" asked George.

"No, from Milan. We have been travelling for eight days. We were firstin Venice, that is the orthodox thing to do," added Therese, pulleddown her veil and took Demeter's arm.

"You been away much longer?" said Demeter. "I saw a card from you someweeks back at Ehrenbergs', the house of the Vettii, Pompeii."

"Yes, I've had a wonderful trip."

"Well, we'll have a look round the place a bit," said Therese, "andbesides, we don't want to detain the Baron any more. I am sure he wantsto go and fetch his letters."

"Oh, there is no hurry about that. Anyway, we'll see each other again."

"Will you give us the pleasure, Baron," said Demeter, "of lunching withus to-day at the Europe? That's where we put up."

"Thanks very much, but I'm afraid it's impossible. But ... but perhapsyou could manage to dine with ... with ... us at the Park Hotel, yes?At half-past seven if that's all right for you. I'll have it served inthe garden, under an awfully fine plane-tree, where we usually take ourmeals."

"Yes," said Therese, "we accept with thanks. Perhaps I'll come in anhour earlier and have a quiet chat with Anna."

"Good," replied George, "she will be very glad."

"Well, till the evening, Baron," said Demeter, shook hands with himheartily and added: "Please give my kind regards at home."

Therese flashed George an appreciative look, and then went on her waywith Demeter towards the bank of the lake.

George looked after them. If I hadn't known her, he thought, Demetercould have introduced her to me straight away as his wife, née PrincessX. How strange, those two.... He then went into the hall, had hiscorrespondence given to him at the counter and ran cursorily throughit. The first thing which caught his eye was a card from Leo Golowski.There was nothing on it except "Dear George, mind you have a goodtime." Then there was a card from the Waldsteingarten in the Prater,"We have just emptied our glasses to the health of our runaway friend.Guido Schönstein, Ralph Skelton, the Rattenmamsell."

George wanted to read the letters from Felician, Frau Rosner andHeinrich quietly at home with Anna. He was also in a hurry to informAnna of the news of the strange couple's arrival. He was not quitefree from anxiety, for Anna's conventional instincts had a knack ofwaking up occasionally in a quite unexpected manner. Anyway, Georgedecided to tell her of his invitation to Demeter and Therese as thoughit were an absolute matter of course and was quite ready, in case sheshould feel hurt or irritated or even have doubts about the matter, tooppose such an attitude firmly and resolutely. He himself was very gladof the evening which was before him after the many weeks that he hadspent exclusively in Anna's society. He almost felt a little enviousof Demeter, who was on an irresponsible pleasure-trip like he himselfwhen he had gone travelling with Grace in the previous year. Then itoccurred to him that he liked Therese better than ever. In spite of thenumerous pretty women whom he had met in the course of the last monthhe had never felt seriously tempted, even though Anna was losing moreand more of her womanly grace. To-day for the first time he felt adesire for new embraces.

He soon saw Anna's light-blue morning dress shining through therailings of the balcony. George whistled the first notes of Beethoven'sFifth Symphony, which was his usual method of announcing himself, andthe pale gentle face of his beloved immediately appeared over therailings and her big eyes greeted him with a smile. He held up thepacket of letters, she nodded with pleasure and he hurried quickly upto her room and on to the balcony. She was reclining in a cane chairin front of the little table with the green coverlet, on which someneedlework was lying, as was nearly always the case when George camehome from his morning walk. He kissed her on the forehead and on themouth. "Well, whom do you think I met?" he asked hurriedly.

"Else Ehrenberg," answered Anna, without considering.

"What an idea? How could she get here?"

"Well," said Anna slyly, "she might have travelled off to find you."

"She might, but she didn't. So guess again. I give you three guesses."

"Heinrich Bermann."

"Nowhere near it. Besides there is a letter from him. So guess again."

She reflected. "Demeter Stanzides," she then said.

"What, do you really know something?"

"What should I know? Is he really here?"

"By Jove, you are positively blushing. Ho ho!" He knew of her weaknessfor Demeter's melancholy cavalier beauty but did not feel the slightesttrace of jealousy.

"So it is Stanzides?" she asked.

"Yes, it is Stanzides right enough. But with all the will in the worldI can't find anything remarkable about that. It's not remarkable,either. But if you guess whom he is with...."

"With Sissy Wyner."

"But...."

"Well, I was thinking of marriage.... That happens too sometimes."

"No, not with Sissy, and not married, but with your friend Therese, andas unmarried as possible."

"Get along...."

"I tell you, with Therese. They've been travelling for eight days. Whathave you got to say to that? They have been in Venice and Milan. Hadyou any idea of it?"

"No."

"Really not?"

"Really not. You know of course that Therese only once wrote me a line,and you read her letter with your well-known interest."

"You're not astonished enough."

"Good gracious, I always knew that she had good taste."

"So has Demeter," exclaimed George with conviction.

"Elective affinities," remarked Anna, elevating her eyebrows, and wenton crocheting.

"And so this is the mother of my child," said George, with a merryshake of his head.

She looked at him with a smile. "When is she coming to see me, then?"

"In the afternoon about six, I think. And ... and Stanzides is comingtoo ... a bit later. They are going to dine with us. You don't mind?"

"Mind? I'm very glad," replied Anna simply.

George was agreeably surprised. If Anna in her present condition hadmet Stanzides in Vienna!... he thought. How being away from one'susual environment frees and purifies!

"What news did they tell you?" asked Anna.

"We stood chatting together at the post-office for scarcely threeminutes. He sends his regards to you, by the way."

Anna made no answer and it seemed to George as though her thoughts weretravelling again on extremely conventional lines.

"Have you been up long?" he asked quickly.

"Yes, I have been sitting here on the balcony for quite a long time. Ieven went to sleep a bit, the air is so enervating to-day somehow. AndI dreamed, too."

"What did you dream about?"

"Of the child," she said.

"Again?"

She nodded. "Just the same as the other day. I was sitting here on thebalcony in my dream, and had it in my arms at the breast...."

"But what was it, a boy or a girl?"

"I don't know. Just a child. So tiny and so sweet. And the joy wasso.... No I won't give it up," she said softly with closed eyes.

He stood leaning on the railing and felt the light noon wind stroke hishair. "If you don't want to give it out to nurse," he said, "well youmustn't." And the thought ran through his mind, "Wouldn't it be themost convenient thing to marry her?..." But something or other kept himback from saying so. They were both silent. He had laid the letters infront of him on the table. He now took them up and opened one. "Let'ssee, first, what your mother writes?" he said.

Frau Rosner's letter contained the news that all was well at home, thatthey would all be very glad to see Anna again, and that Josef had gota post on the staff of the Volksbote with a salary of fifty gulden amonth. Further, an inquiry had come from Frau Bittner as to when Annawas coming back from Dresden, and if it was really certain that shewould be back again next autumn, because otherwise they would of coursehave to look about for a new teacher.... Anna stood motionless andexpressed no opinion.

Then George read out Heinrich's letter. It ran as follows:

"Dear George,

"I am very glad that you will be back so soon, and preferto tell you so to-day, because once you are there I shallnever tell you how very glad I shall be to see you. Afew days ago, when I went for a lonely cycle ride alongthe Danube, I genuinely missed you. What an overwhelmingatmosphere of loneliness these banks have! I rememberhaving once felt like that five or six years ago ona Sunday, when I was in what is technically known as'jolly company,' and was sitting in the Kloster-neuburgerbeer-house in the large garden with its view of themountains and the fields. How it ascends from the depthsof the waters, loneliness I mean, which certainly is quitea different thing to what one usually thinks it is. It isvery far from being the opposite of society. Yet it isonly perhaps when one is with other people that one has aright to feel lonely. Just take this as an aphoristicalhumorously untrue special supplement, or treat it as suchand lay it aside. To come back to my ride along the banksof the Danube—it was on that same rather sultry eveningthat I had all kinds of good ideas, and I hope soon to beable to tell you a lot of startling news about Ägidius, forthat's the name that the murderous melancholy youth has gotat last, about the deep-thinking impenetrable prince, aboutthe humorous Duke Heliodorus, the name by which I have thehonour of introducing to you the Princess's betrothed, andespecially about the princess herself, who seems to be afar more remarkable person than I originally supposed."

"That's to do with the opera plot?" asked Anna, droppingher work.

"Of course," replied George, and went on reading.

"You must also know, my dear friend, that I have finishedduring the last week some verses for the first act, whichso far are not particularly immortal, verses which untilsome further development, so long I mean, as they arewithout your music, will hop about the world like winglessangels. The subject-matter appeals to me extraordinarily,and I myself am curious to know what I am really going tomake of it. I've begun all kinds of other things as well... sketched things out ... thought things over. And toput it shortly and with a certain amount of cheek I feelas though a new phase were heralding itself within me.This sounds of course greater cheek than it really is. Forchimney-sweeps, ice-cream vendors and colour-sergeants havetheir phases as well. People of our temperament alwaysrecognise it at once. What I regard as very probable isthat I shall soon leave the fantastic element in which Inow feel so much at home, and will either move up or movedown into something extremely real. What would you say,for example, if I were to go in for a political comedy?I feel already that the word 'real' is not quite theright one. For in my view politics is the most fantasticelement in which persons can possibly move, the only thingis they don't notice it.... This is the point I ought todrive home. This occurred to me the other day when I waspresent at a political meeting (untrue, I always get thesethoughts). Yes—a meeting of working men and women in theBrigittenau in which I found myself next to MademoiselleTherese Golowski, and at which I was compelled to hearseven speeches about universal suffrage. Each of thespeakers—Therese was one of them, too—spoke just asthough the solution of that question was the most importantthing in the world to him or her personally, and I don'tthink that any of them had an idea that the whole questionwas a matter of colossal indifference to them at the realbottom of their hearts. Therese was very indignant ofcourse when I enlightened her on the point, and declaredthat I had been infected by the poisonous scepticism ofNürnberger, of whom as a matter of fact I'm seeing far toomuch. She always makes a point of running him down, sincehe asked her some time ago in the café whether she wasgoing to have her hair done high or in plaits at her nexttrial for high treason. Anyway, I find it very nice seeinga lot of Nürnberger. When I'm having my bad days, there isno one who receives me with more kindness. Only there aremany days whose badness he doesn't suspect or doesn't wantto know of. There are various troubles which I feel that hefails to appreciate and which I've given up talking to himabout."

"What does he mean?" interrupted Anna.

"The affair with the actress, clearly," replied George, andwent on reading.

"On the other hand he is inclined to make up for thatby taking other troubles of mine too seriously. That isprobably my fault and not his. He manifested a sympathytowards me for the loss I sustained by my father's death,which I confess made me positively ashamed; for thoughit hit me dreadfully hard we had grown so aloof from oneanother quite a long time before his madness burst uponhim, that his death simply signified a further and moreghastly barrier rather than a new experience."

"Well?" asked Anna, as George stopped.

"I've just got an idea."

"What is it?"

"Nürnberger's sister lies buried in the Cadenabbia cemetery. I told youabout her. I'll run over one of these days."

Anna nodded. "Perhaps I'll go too, if I feel all right. From all Ihear of him I find Nürnberger much more sympathetic than that horribleegoist your friend Heinrich."

"You think so?"

"But really, the way he writes about his father. It is almostintolerable."

"Hang it all! if people who have grown so estranged as those two——"

"All the same, I haven't really very much in common with my own parentstemperamentally either, and yet.... If I.... No, no, I prefer not totalk about such things. Won't you go on reading?"

George read:

"There are more serious things than death, things whichare certainly sadder, because these other things lack thefinality which takes away the sadness of death, if viewedfrom the higher standpoint. For instance, there are livingghosts who walk about the streets in the clear daylightwith eyes that have died long ago and yet see, ghosts whosit down next to one and talk with a human voice that has afar more distant ring than if it came from a grave. And onemight go so far as to say that the essential awfulness ofdeath is revealed to a far greater extent in moments whenone has experiences like this, than at those times when onestands near and watches somebody being lowered into theearth ... however near that somebody was."

George involuntarily dropped the letter and Anna saidwith emphasis: "Well, you can certainly keep him toyourself—your friend Heinrich."

"Yes," replied George slowly. "He is often a bit affected,and yet ... hallo, there goes the first bell for lunch.Let's read quickly through to the end."

"But I must now tell you what happened yesterday: themost painful and yet ridiculous affair which I have comeacross for a long time, and I am sorry to say the personsconcerned are our good friends the Ehrenbergs, father andson."

"Oh," cried Anna involuntarily.

George had quickly run through the lines which followed andshook his head.

"What is it?" inquired Anna.

"It is.... Just listen," and he went on reading.

"You are no doubt aware of the growing acuteness of therelations between Oskar and the old man in the course ofthe last year. You also know the real reasons for it, sothat I can just inform you of what has taken place withoutgoing into the motives for it any further. Well, it'sjust like this. Yesterday Oskar passes by the Church ofSt. Michael about twelve o'clock midday and takes off hishat. You know that at the present time piety is about thesmartest craze going, and so perhaps it is unnecessary togo into any further explanation, as, for example, thata few young aristocrats happened just to be coming outof church and that Oskar wanted to behave as a Catholicfor their special benefit. God knows how often he haspreviously been guilty of this imposture without beingfound out, but as luck would have it, it happens yesterdaythat old Ehrenberg comes along the road at the same moment.He sees Oskar taking off his hat in front of the churchdoor ... and attacked by a fit of uncontrollable rage hegives his offspring a box on the ears then and there. Abox on the ears! Oskar the lieutenant in the reserve!Midday in the centre of the town! So it is not particularlyremarkable that the story was known all over the town thevery same evening. It is already in some of the papersto-day. The Jewish ones leave it severely alone, exceptfor a few scandal-mongering rags, the Anti-Semitic onesof course go for it hot and strong. The ChristlicheVolksbote is the best, and insists on both the Ehrenbergsbeing brought before a jury for sacrilege or blasphemy.Oskar is said to have travelled off, no one knows where,for the time being."

"A nice family!" said Anna with conviction.

George could not help laughing against his will. "My dear girl, Else isreally absolutely innocent of the whole business."

The bell rang for the second time. They went into the dining-room andtook their places at a little table by the window which was always laidfor them alone. Scarcely more than a dozen visitors were sitting at thelong table in the middle of the room, mostly Englishmen and Frenchmen,and also a man no longer in the first flush of youth, who had beenthere for two days and whom George took for an Austrian officer inmufti. Anyway he bothered about him as little as he did about theothers. George had put Heinrich's letter in his pocket. It occurred tohim that he had not yet read it through to the end, and he took it outagain over the coffee and perused the remainder.

"What more does he write?" asked Anna.

"Nothing special," answered George. "About people who probably wouldn'tinterest you particularly. He seems to have got in again with his caféset; more in fact than he likes and clearly more than he owns up to."

"He'll fit in all right," said Anna flippantly.

George smiled reflectively. "It is a funny set anyway."

"And what is the news with them?" asked Anna.

George had put the letter down by the cup and now looked at it. "LittleWinternitz ... you know ... the fellow who once recited his poems tome and Heinrich last winter ... is going to Berlin as reader to anewly-founded theatre. And Gleissner, the man who stared at us once soin the museum...."

"Oh yes, that abominable fellow with the eyeglass."

"Well, he declares that he is going to give up writing to devotehimself exclusively to sport...."

"To sport?"

"Yes, quite a sport of his own. He plays with human souls."

"What?"

"Just listen." He read:

"This buffoon is now asserting that he is simultaneously engaged in thesolution of the two following psychological problems, which supplementeach other in quite an ingenious way. The first is to bring a young andinnocent creature to the lowest depth of depravity, while the secondis to make a prostitute into a saint, as he puts it. He promises thathe will not rest until the first one finishes up in a brothel, and thesecond one in a cloister."

"A nice lot," remarked Anna and got up from the table.

"How the sound carries over here," said George and followed her intothe grounds.

A dark-blue day, heavy with the sun, was resting on the tops of thetrees. They stood for a while by the low balustrade which separatedthe garden from the street and looked over the lake to the mountainslooming behind silver-grey veils that fluttered in the sunlight. Theythen walked deeper into the grounds, where the shade was cooler anddarker, and as they walked arm-in-arm over the softly-crunching gravelalong the high brown ivy-grown walls, and looked in at the old houseswith their narrow windows, they chatted about the news that had arrivedthat day, and for the first time a slight anxiety rose up in theirminds at the thought that they would so soon have to leave the friendlysecrecy of foreign lands for home, where even the ordinary stereotypedday seemed full of hidden dangers. They sat down beneath the plane-treeat the white lacquered table. This place had always been kept freefor them, as though it had been reserved. The newly-arrived Austriangentleman, however, had sat there yesterday afternoon, but drivenaway by a disapproving glance of Anna's had gone away after a politesalutation.

George hurried up to his room and fetched a few books for Anna anda volume of Goethe's poems and the manuscript of his quintette forhimself. They both sat there, read, worked, looked up at times, smiledat each other, exchanged a few words, peered again into their books,looked over the balustrade into the open, and felt peace in theirsouls and summer in the air. They heard the fountain plashing quitenear them behind the bushes, while a few drops fell upon the surfaceof the water. Frequently the wheels of a carriage would crunch alongon the other side of the high wall, at times faint distant whistleswould sound from the lake, and less frequently human voices would ringinto the garden from the road along the bank. The day, drunken to thefull with sunlight, lay heavy on the tree-tops. Later on the noise andthe voices increased in volume and number with the gentle wind whichwas wafted from the lake every afternoon. The beat of the waves on theshore was more audible. The cries of the boatman resounded: on theother side of the wall there rang out the singing of young people.Tiny drops from the fountain were sprinkled around. The breath ofapproaching evening woke once more human beings, land and water.

Steps were heard on the gravel. Therese, still in white, came quicklythrough the avenue. George got up, went a few steps to meet her andshook hands. Anna wanted to get up, too, but Therese would not allowit, embraced her, gave her a kiss on the cheek and sat down by herside. "How beautiful it is here!" she exclaimed; "but haven't I cometoo early?"

"What an idea! I'm really awfully glad," replied Anna.

Therese considered her with a scrutinising smile and took hold of bothher hands. "Well, your appearance is reassuring," she said.

"I am very well, as a matter of fact," replied Anna, "and you look asif you were too," she joked good-humouredly.

George's eyes rested on Therese, who was again dressed in white, as shehad been in the morning, though now more smartly in English embroideredlinen, with a string of light pink corals round her bare throat.

While the two women were discussing the strange coincidence of theirmeeting George got up to give the orders for dinner. When he returnedto the garden the two others were no longer there. He saw Thereseon the balcony with her back leaning against the railing, talkingwith Anna, who was invisible and was presumably in the depths of theroom. He felt in good form and walked up and down the avenue, allowedmelodies to sing themselves within him, was conscious of his youth andhappiness, threw an occasional glance up to the balcony or towardsthe street, beyond the balustrade, and at last saw Demeter Stanzidesarriving. He went to meet him. "Glad to see you," he cried out inwelcome from the garden gate. "The ladies are upstairs in the room butwill be turning up soon. Would you like to have a look at the groundsin the meanwhile?"

"Delighted."

They went on walking together.

"Do you intend to stay much longer in Lugano?" asked George.

"No, we go to-morrow to Bellaggio, from there to Lake Maggiore, IsolaBella. A really good time never lasts. We have got to be home again ina fortnight."

"Such short leave?"

"Oh, it is not on my account, but Therese has got to go back. I amquite a free man. I have already sent in my papers."

"So you seriously mean to retire to your estate?"

"My estate?"

"Yes, I heard something to that effect at Ehrenbergs'."

"But I haven't got the estate yet, you see. It is simply in the stageof negotiations."

"And where are you going to buy one? if it is not a rude question."

"Where the foxes say good-night to each other. The last place youwould think of. On the Hungarian-Croatian frontier, very lonely andremote but very remarkable. I have a certain sympathy for the district.Youthful memories. I spent three years there as a lieutenant. Of courseI think I shall grow young again there. Well, who knows?"

"A fine property?"

"Not bad. I saw it again two months ago. I knew it of course in the olddays, it then belonged to Count Jaczewicz, finally to a manufacturer.Then his wife died. He now feels lonely down there and wants to get ridof it."

"I don't know," said George, "but I imagine the neighbourhood a littlemelancholy."

"Melancholy! Well, it seems to me that at a certain period of one'slife every neighbourhood acquires a melancholy appearance." And helooked round the balcony, as though to evolve from his surroundings anew proof of the truth of his words.

"At what period?"

"Well, when one begins to get old."

George smiled. Demeter struck him as so handsome and as still youngin spite of the grey hairs on his temple. "How old are you then, HerrStanzides? if it isn't a rude question."

"Thirty-seven. I don't say I am old, but I am getting old. Men usuallybegin to talk about getting old when they have been old for a longtime."

They sat down on the seat at the end of the garden, just where it runsinto the wall. They had a view of the hotel and of the great terraceon the garden. The upper storeys with their verandahs were hidden fromthem by the foliage of the trees. George offered Demeter a cigaretteand took one himself. And both were silent for a while.

"I heard that you, too, are leaving Vienna," said Demeter.

"Yes, that's very probable ... if of course I get a job in some opera.Well, even if it isn't this year it is bound to be next."

Demeter sat with legs crossed over each other, gripped one of themtightly by the knee, and nodded. "Yes, yes," he said, and blew thesmoke slowly through his lips in driblets. "It is really a fine thingto have a talent. In that case one is bound to feel a bit differentsometimes, even about beginning to grow old. That is really the onething I could envy a man for."

"You have no reason to at all. Anyway, people with talent are notreally to be envied. At any rate, only people with genius. And I envythem probably even more than you do. But I think that talents likeyours are something much more definite, something much sounder so tospeak. Of course one doesn't always happen to be in form.... But at anyrate, one always achieves something quite respectable if one can doanything at all, while people in my line, if they are not in form areno better than old age pensioners."

Demeter laughed. "Yes, but an artistic talent like yours lasts longerand develops more and more as the years go on. Take Beethoven, forinstance. The Ninth Symphony is really the finest thing he did. Don'tyou think so. And what about the second part of Faust?... While weare bound to go back as the years go on—we can't help it—even theBeethovens amongst us. And how early it begins, apart from quite rareexceptions! I was at my prime for instance at twenty-five. I've neverdone again what I had in me at twenty-five. Yes, my dear Baron, thosewere times."

"Come, I remember seeing you win a race two years ago against Buzgo,who was the favourite then.... Why, I even betted on him...."

"My dear Baron," interrupted Stanzides, "you take it from me, I knowthe reason why I left off improving. One can feel a thing like thatoneself. And that's why no one knows so well as the sportsman whenhe's beginning to grow old. And then no further training is any good.The whole thing then becomes purely artificial. And if any one tellsyou that that's not the case, then he's simply ... but here come theladies."

They both got up. Therese and Anna were approaching arm-in-arm, one allin white, the other in a black dress, which falling to the ground inwide folds completely hid her figure. The couples met by the fountain.

Demeter kissed Anna's hand. "What a beautiful spot I have the goodfortune to see you again in, my dear lady."

"It is a pleasant surprise to me, too," replied Anna, "quite apart fromthe scenery."

"Do you know," said George to Anna, "that these good people aretravelling off again to-morrow?"

"Yes, Therese has told me."

"We want to see as much as possible," explained Demeter, "and so faras my recollection goes the other lakes in upper Italy are even moremagnificent than the one here."

"I don't know anything about the others," said Anna. "We haven't donethem yet."

"Well, perhaps you will take the opportunity," said Demeter, "and makeup a party with us for a little tour: Bellaggio, Pallanza, Isola Bella."

Anna shook her head. "It would be very nice but unfortunately I can'tget about enough. Yes, I am incredibly lazy. There are whole days whenI never go out of the grounds. But if George fancies running away fromme for a day or two, I don't mind at all."

"I have no intention at all of running away from you," said George. Hethrew a quick glance at Therese, whose eyes were sparkling and laughing.

They all strolled slowly through the garden while it gradually becamedusk, and chatted about the places they had recently seen. When theycame back to the table under the plane-tree it was laid for dinner andthe fairy-lights were burning in the glass holders. The waiter was justbringing the Asti in a bucket. Anna sat down on the seat, which hadthe trunk of the plane-tree for its back. Therese sat opposite her andGeorge and Demeter on either side.

The meal was served and the wine poured out. George inquired aftertheir Viennese acquaintances. Demeter told them that Willy Eissler hadbrought back from his trip some brilliant caricatures both of huntersand of beasts. Old Ehrenberg had bought the pictures.

"Do you know about the Oskar affair yet?" said George.

"What affair?"

"Oh, the affair with his father in front of St. Michael's Church." Heremembered that he had thought of telling Demeter the story some timeback before the ladies had appeared, but that he had thought it rightto suppress it. It was the wine, no doubt, which now loosened histongue against his will. He told them briefly what Heinrich had writtenhim.

"But this is an extremely sad business," said Demeter, very much moved,and all the others immediately felt more serious.

"Why is it a sad business?" asked Therese. "I think it is enough tomake one laugh till one cried."

"My dear Therese, you don't consider the consequences it may have forthe young man."

"Good gracious, I know well enough. It will make him impossible in acertain set, but that won't do more than make him realise what a sillyass he has been up to the present."

"Well," said George, "if Oskar really is one of those people who can bemade to realise anything.... But I really don't think so."

"Apart from the fact, my dear Therese," added Demeter, "that what youcall realising doesn't necessarily mean seeing things in their properlight. All sets of people have their prejudices. Even you are not freefrom them."

"And what prejudices have we got, I should like to know?" criedTherese, and emptied her glass of wine angrily. "We only want to clearaway certain prejudices, particularly the prejudice that there is thisprivileged caste who regard it as a special honour...."

"Excuse, me, Therese dear, but you are not at a meeting now, and I amafraid that the applause at the conclusion of your speech will turnout much fainter than you are accustomed to."

"Look here," Therese turned to Anna, "this is how a cavalry officerargues."

"I beg your pardon," said George, "the whole business has scarcelyanything at all to do with prejudices. A box on the ears in the publicstreet, even though it is from one's own father.... I don't think onehas got to be an officer in the reserve or a student."

"That box on the ears," cried Therese, "gives me a real sense ofrelief. It represents the well-merited conclusion of a ridiculous andsuperfluous existence."

"Conclusion! We hope it's not that," said Demeter.

"My letter says," replied George, "that Oskar has travelled off, no oneknows where."

"If I am sorry for any one in the business," said Therese, "it iscertainly for the old man, who, good-hearted fellow that he is, isprobably regretting this very day the unpleasant position in which hehas placed his beastly snob of a son."

"Good-hearted!" exclaimed Demeter. "A millionaire! A factory owner!...My dear Therese...!"

"Yes, it does happen sometimes. He happens to be one of those peoplewho are at one with us at the bottom of their soul. You remember theevening, Demeter, when you had the pleasure of seeing me for the firsttime. Do you know why I was at Ehrenbergs' then?... And do you know theobject for which he gave me straight away a thousand gulden...? To...."She bit her lips. "I mustn't say, that was the condition."

Suddenly Demeter got up and bowed to somebody who had just passed. Itwas the Austrian gentleman who had arrived yesterday. He lifted his hatand vanished in the darkness of the garden.

"Do you know that man?" asked George, after a few seconds. "I also seemto know him, but who is it?"

"The Prince of Guastalla," said Demeter.

"Really!" exclaimed Therese involuntarily, and her eyes pierced intothe darkness.

"What are you looking at him for?" said Demeter. "He is just a man likeany one else."

"He is supposed to be banished from Court," said George, "isn't he?"

"I know nothing about that," replied Demeter, "but he is certainlynot a favourite there. He recently published a pamphlet about certainconditions in our army, particularly the life of the officers in theprovinces. It went very much against him, although as a matter of factthere is nothing really bad in it."

"He should have applied to me about that," said Therese. "I could havegiven him a tip or two."

"My dear child," said Demeter deprecatingly, "what you are probablyreferring to again is simply an exceptional case. You shouldn't jump atonce into generalities."

"I am not generalising, but a case like that is sufficient to damn thewhole...."

"Don't make a speech, Therese...."

"I am speaking about Leo." Therese turned to George. "It is reallyawful what he has been going through this year."

George suddenly remembered that Therese was Leo's sister, as though itwere a most remarkable thing which he had completely forgotten. Did heknow that she was here and whom she was with?

Demeter bit his lips somewhat nervously.

"There is an Anti-Semitic First-Lieutenant, you know," said Therese,"who rags him in a particularly mean way because he knows how Leodespises him."

George nodded. He knew all about it.

"My dear child," said Demeter, "I can't make it out, as I have alreadytold you several times. I happen to know First-Lieutenant Sefranek, andI assure you it is possible to get on with him. He is not particularlyclever, and it may be quite right to say that he has got no particularliking for the Israelites, but after all one must admit that there area lot of so-called opprobrious Anti-Semitic expressions which reallyhave no significance at all, and which, so far as my experience goes,are used by Jews quite as much as by Christians. And your worthybrother certainly suffers from a morbid sensitiveness."

"Sensitiveness is never morbid," retorted Therese. "It is only lackof sensitiveness which is a disease, and the most loathsome one Iknow as a matter of fact. It is notorious that I am as far apart aspossible from my brother in my political views. You know that bestof all, George. I hate Jewish bankers quite as much as feudal landedproprietors, and orthodox Rabbis quite as much as Catholic priests;but if a man feels himself superior to me because he belongs toanother creed or another race than I do, and being conscious of hisgreater power makes me feel that superiority, I would.... Well, Idon't know what I would do to a man like that. But anyway I shouldquite understand Leo if he were to take the next opportunity of goingtooth-and-nail for Herr Sefranek."

"My dear child," said Demeter, "if you have the slightest influencewith your brother you should try and stop this tooth-and-nail businessat any price. In my view by far the best thing to do in a case likethat is to go about things in the respectable, I mean the regulationway. It is really not at all true that that never does any good. Thesuperior officers are mostly quiet people, at any rate they are correctand...."

"But Leo did that long ago ... as far back as February. He went tothe Major, the Major was very nice to him, and as appears from manyindications gave the First-Lieutenant a good talking to; the only thingis it unfortunately wasn't the slightest use. On the contrary, the nextchance he had the First-Lieutenant made a special point of startinghis beastly tricks again, and he is continuing them with the mostrefined malice. I assure you, Baron, I am afraid every single day thatsome misfortune will happen."

Demeter shook his head. "We live in a mad age. I assure you"—he turnedto George—"First-Lieutenant Sefranek is no more of an Anti-Semite thanyou or I. He visits at Jewish houses. I even know that he was extremelyintimate for years with a Jewish regimental doctor. It really seems asthough everybody were going mad."

"You may be right in that," said Therese.

"Oh, well, Leo is so reasonable," said George. "He is so sensible inspite of all his temperament that I am convinced that he won't lethimself be swept away by any foolish impulse. After all he must knowthat it will all be over in a few months; one can manage to put up withit for that time."

"Do you know, by-the-by, Baron," said Therese, while following theexample of the men she took a cigarette out of a box which the waiterhad brought, "do you know that Leo was quite charmed with yourcompositions?"

"What, charmed?" said George, while he gave Therese a light. "I reallyhadn't noticed it at all."

"Well, he liked some things," qualified Therese, "and that'spractically the same as somebody else being delighted with them."

"Have you composed anything on your trip?" asked Demeter courteously.

"Only a few songs."

"I suppose we shall hear them in the autumn?" said Demeter.

"Good gracious, don't let's talk about the autumn," said Therese. "Wemay be dead or in prison before then."

"Well, if one really wants to one can manage to avoid the latteralternative," exclaimed Demeter.

Therese shrugged her shoulders. George was sitting near her andbelieved he could feel the warmth of her body. Lights were shining fromthe hotel windows and a long reddish strip reached the table at whichthe two couples were sitting.

"I suggest," said George, "that we make the best of the fine eveningand go for another walk along the shore."

"Or take a boat," exclaimed Therese.

They all agreed. George ran up to the room to fetch wraps. When he camedown again he found the others standing by the door of the groundsready to start. He helped Anna into her light-grey cloak, hung hisown long overcoat over Therese's shoulders and kept a dark-green rugover his arm. They went slowly through the avenue to the place wherethe boats were moored. Two boatmen took the party with quick strokesof their oars out of the darkness of the shore into the black shiningwater. The mountains towered up to the sky, monstrous and gigantic.The stars were not very numerous. Tiny bluish-grey clouds hung in theair. The rowers sat on two cross benches; in the middle of the boaton narrow seats the two couples sat opposite each other: George andAnna, Demeter and Therese. All were quite silent at first, it was onlyafter some minutes that George broke the silence. He told them the nameof the mountain which separated the lake from the South, drew theirattention to a village, which though it seemed infinitely far away asit nestled up to the slope of a cliff could nevertheless be reachedin a quarter of an hour; he recognised the white shining house on theheight above Lugano as the hotel in which Demeter and Therese werestaying and told them about a walk far into the country between sunnyvineyards which he had taken the other day.

While he spoke Anna kept hold of his hand underneath the rug. Demeterand Therese sat next to each other staidly and correctly, and not atall like lovers who had only found each other a short time ago. It wasonly now that George gradually recovered his fancy for Therese, whichhad almost vanished during her loud violent speechifying.

How long will this Demeter affair last? he thought. Will it be overwhen the autumn comes or will it after all last as long or longer thanmy affair with Anna? Will this row on the dark lake be some time inthe future just a memory of something that has completely vanished,just like my row on the Veldeser Lake with that peasant girl, whichnow comes into my mind again for the first time for years?... Or likemy voyage with Grace across the sea? How strange! Anna is holding myhand, I am pressing it, and who knows if she isn't feeling at this veryminute something similar with regard to Demeter to what I am feelingabout Therese? No, I am sure not.... She carries a child under herheart which has already quickened.... That's why.... Hang it all!...Why, it's my child as well.... Our child is now going for a row onthe lake of Lugano.... Shall I tell it one day that it went for a rowround the lake of Lugano before it was born? How will it all turn out?We shall be back in Vienna again in a few days. Does Vienna reallyexist? It will only slowly begin to come into existence again as wetrain back.... Yes, that's how it is.... As soon as I'm home work willstart seriously. I shall remain quietly at my home in Vienna and justvisit Anna from time to time; I won't live with her in the country....Or at all events only just before ... and the autumn.... Shall I bein Detmold? And where will Anna be? And the child?... With strangerssomewhere in the country. How improbable the whole thing seems!... Butit was also very improbable a year ago to-day that I and Stanzidesshould go for a row on the lake of Lugano with Fräulein Anna Rosnerand Fräulein Therese Golowski respectively. And now the whole thingcouldn't be more of a matter of course.... He suddenly heard withabnormal clearness, as though he had just woken up, Demeter's voicequite near him.

"When does our boat leave to-morrow?"

"Nine o'clock in the morning," replied Therese.

"She maps out the plan of campaign you know," said Demeter. "I don'tneed to bother about anything."

The moon suddenly shone out over the lake.

It seemed as though it had waited behind the mountains and were nowcoming out to say goodbye. That infinitely distant village by themountain-slope suddenly lay quite close in all its whiteness. The boatbeached. Therese got up. She was shrouded in the night and lookedstrikingly tall. George sprang out of the boat and helped her todisembark. He felt her cool fingers, which did not tremble, in hishand, but moved softly as though on purpose, and caught the breath fromher lips quite close. Demeter got out after her, then came Anna, tiredand awkward. The boatman thanked them for their generous tip and bothcouples started to walk homewards. The Prince was sitting on a seat ina long dark cloak in the avenue along the bank. He was smoking a cigar,seemed to be looking out on to the nocturnal lake and turned away hishead with the obvious intention of avoiding being saluted.

"A man like that could tell a tale," said Therese to George, with whomshe had fallen further and further behind, while Demeter and Anna wenton in front of them.

"So you are going back to Vienna as soon as all that?" asked George.

"A fortnight. Do you think that so soon? At any rate you will be homebefore us, won't you?"

"Yes, we shall leave in a few days. We can't put it off any longer.Besides, we shall have to break the journey a few times. Anna doesn'tstand travelling well."

"Do you know yet that I found the villa for Anna just before I left?"said Therese.

"Really, you? Did you go looking, too?"

"Yes, I went into the country a few times with my mother. It is a smallfairly old house in Salmansdorf with a beautiful garden, which leadsstraight out to the fields and forest, and the bit of ground in frontof the house is quite overgrown.... Anna will tell you more about it. Ibelieve it is the last house in the place. Then there comes an inn, buta fair distance away from it."

"I must have overlooked that house on my house-hunting expeditions inthe spring."

"Clearly, or you would have taken it. There is a little clay figurestanding on a lawn near the garden hedge."

"Can't remember. But do you know, Therese, it is really nice of you tohave taken all this trouble for us, as well as your mother. More thannice." He thought of adding "when one takes your strenuous life intoconsideration," but suppressed it.

"Why are you surprised?" asked Therese. "I am very fond of Anna."

"Do you know what I once heard some one say about you?" replied Georgeafter a short pause.

"Well, what?"

"That you would either finish up on the scaffold or as a princess."

"That's a phrase of Doctor Berthold Stauber. He once told it mehimself, you know. He is very proud of it, but it is sheer nonsense."

"The betting at present is certainly more on the princess."

"Who says so? The princess dream will soon be over!"

"Dream?"

"Yes, I am just beginning to wake up. It is rather like the morning airstreaming into a bedroom."

"And then I suppose the other dream will begin?"

"What do you mean, the other dream?"

"This is what I take to be the case with you. When you are in thepublic eye again, making speeches, sacrificing yourself for some causeor other, then at some moment or other the whole thing strikes you likea dream, doesn't it? And you think real life is somewhere else."

"There is really something in what you say."

At this moment Demeter and Anna, who were standing by the garden gate,turned round towards them both and immediately took the broad avenuetowards the entrance of the hotel. George and Therese also went onfurther, unseen outside the railing, into the darkest depths of theshade.

George suddenly seized hold of his companion's hand. As thoughastonished she turned towards him and both now stood opposite eachother, enveloped by the darkness and closer than they could understand.They did not know how ... they scarcely meant to, but their lips restedon each other for a short moment that was more charged with the dolefuljoy of deception than with any other emotion. They then went on,silent, unsatisfied, desirous, and stepped through the garden door.

The two others, who were in front of the hotel, now turned round andcame to meet them.

Therese quickly said to George: "Of course you don't come with us?"

George nodded slightly. They were now all standing in the broad quietlight of the arc-lamps.

"It was really a beautiful evening," said Demeter, kissing Anna's hand.

"Goodbye then till Vienna," said Therese and embraced Anna.

Demeter turned to George. "I hope we shall see each other to-morrowmorning on the boat."

"Possibly, but I won't promise."

"Goodbye," said Therese and shook hands with George.

She and Demeter then turned round to go away.

"Are you going with them?" asked Anna, as they went through the doorinto the lounge, where men and women were sitting, smoking, drinking,talking.

"What an idea?" replied George. "I never thought of it."

"Herr Baron," suddenly called some one behind him. It was the porter,who held a telegram in his hand.

"What is this?" asked George, somewhat alarmed, opening it quickly."Oh, how awful!" he exclaimed.

"What is it?" asked Anna.

He read it out while she looked at the piece of paper. "Oskar Ehrenbergtried to commit suicide early this morning in the forest at Neuhaus.Shot himself in the temples, little hope of saving his life, Heinrich."

Anna shook her head. They went up the stairs in silence and into Anna'sroom. The balcony door was wide open. George stepped into the open air.A heavy perfume of magnolias and roses streamed in out of the darkness.Not a trace of the lake was visible. The mountains towered up as thoughthey had grown out of the abyss. Anna came up to George. He laid hisarm on her shoulder and loved her very much. It was as though theserious event of which he had just had tidings, had compelled him torealise the true significance of his own experiences. He knew once morethat there was nothing more important for him in the whole world thanthe well-being of this beloved woman who was standing with him on thebalcony and who was to bear him a child.

VI

When George stepped on to the summer heat of the pavement out of thecool central restaurant where he had been accustomed to take his mealsfor some weeks, and started on his way to Heinrich's apartment, hismind was made up to start his trip into the mountains within the nextfew days. Anna was quite prepared for it, and appreciating that themonotonous life of the last few weeks was beginning to make him feelbored and mentally restless had even herself advised him to go away fora few days.

They had returned to Vienna six weeks ago on a rainy evening and Georgehad taken Anna straight from the station to the villa, where Anna'smother and Frau Golowski had been waiting for the overdue travellersfor the last two hours in a large but fairly empty room, with adilapidated yellowish carpet under the dismal light of a hanging lamp.The door on to the garden verandah stood open. Outside the patteringrain fell on to the wooden floor and the warm odour of moist leavesand grass swept in. George inspected the resources of the house by thelight of a candle which Frau Golowski carried in front of him, whileAnna reclined exhausted in the corner of the large sofa covered withfancy calico and was only able to give tired answers to her mother'squestions. George had soon taken leave of Anna with mingled emotion andrelief, stepped with her mother into the carriage which was waitingoutside, and while they rode over the dripping streets into the townhe had given the embarrassed woman a faithful if forced account ofthe unimportant events of the last days of their trip. He was at homean hour after midnight, refrained from waking up Felician, who wasalready asleep, and with an undreamt-of joy stretched himself out inhis long-lost bed for his first sleep at home after so many nights.

Since then he had gone out into the country to see Anna nearly everyday. If he did not feel tempted to make little trips round the summerresorts in the neighbourhood he could easily get to her in an houron his cycle. But he more frequently took the horse tram and wouldthen walk through the little villages till he came to the low greenpainted railings behind which stood the modest country house with itsthree-cornered wooden gable in the small slightly sloping garden.Frequently he would choose a way which ran above the village betweengarden and fields and would enjoy climbing up the green slope tillhe came to a seat on the border of the forest, from which he couldget a clear view of the straggling little place lying in the tinyvalley. He saw from here straight on to the roof beneath which Annalived, deliberately allowed his gentle longing for the love who was sonear him to grow gradually more and more vivid till he hurried down,opened the tiny door and stepped over the gravel straight through thegarden towards the house. Frequently, in the more sultry hours of theafternoon, when Anna was still asleep, he would sit in the coveredwooden verandah which ran along the back of the house in a comfortableeasy-chair covered with embroidered calico, take out of his pocket abook he had brought with him and read. Then Frau Golowski in her neatsimple dark dress would step out of the dark inner room and in hergentle somewhat melancholy voice, with a touch of motherly kindnessplaying around her mouth, would report to him about Anna's health,particularly whether she had had a good appetite and if she hadhad a proper walk up and down the garden. When she had finished shealways had something to see to in the kitchen or about the house anddisappeared. Then while George was going on with his reading a fineSt. Bernard dog which belonged to people in the neighbourhood wouldcome out, greet George with serious tearful eyes, allow him to strokeher short-haired skin and lie down gratefully at his feet. Later, whena certain stern whistle which the animal knew well rang out, it wouldget up with all the clumsiness of its condition, seem to apologise bymeans of a melancholy look for not being able to stay longer and slinkaway. Children laughed and shouted in the garden next door. Now andagain an indiarubber ball came over the wall. A pale nursemaid wouldthen appear at the bottom gate and shyly request to have the ballthrown back again. Finally, when it had grown cooler, Anna's face wouldshow itself at the window that opened on to the verandah, her quietblue eyes would greet George, and soon she would come out herself in alight house-dress. They would then walk up and down the garden alongthe faded lilac-bushes and the blooming currant-bushes, usually onthe left side, which was bounded by the open meadow, and they wouldtake their rest on the white seat close to the top end of the garden,underneath the pear-tree. It was only when supper was served that FrauGolowski would appear again, shyly take her place at the table and tellthem if asked all the news about her family; about Therese, who hadnow gone on to the staff of a Socialist journal; about Leo, who beingless occupied by his military duties than before was enthusiasticallypursuing his mathematical studies; and about her husband, who while helooked on with resignation from the corner of a smoky café at the chessbattles of the indefatigable players, always saw new vistas of regularemployment display themselves only to close again immediately. FrauRosner only paid an occasional visit and usually went away soon afterGeorge's appearance. On one occasion, on a Sunday afternoon, the fatherhad come as well and had a conversation with George about the weatherand scenery, just as though they had met by chance at the house of amutual acquaintance who happened to be ill. It was only to humour herparents that Anna kept herself in complete retirement in the villa. Forshe herself had grown to lose all consciousness of any false position,feeling just as though she had been George's wedded wife, and when thelatter, tired of the monotonous evenings, asked her for permissionto bring Heinrich along sometimes she had agreeably surprised him byimmediately expressing her agreement.

Heinrich was the only one of George's more intimate friends who stillremained in town in these oppressive July days. Felician, who had beenas affectionate with his brother since his return home as though thecomradeship of their boyhood had been kindled afresh, had just takenhis diplomatic examination and was staying with Ralph Skelton on theNorth Sea. Else Ehrenberg, who had spoken to George once soon after hisreturn by her brother's sick-bed in the sanatorium, had been for a longtime at Auhof am See with her mother. Oskar too, whom his unfortunateattempt at suicide had cost his right eye, though it was said to havesaved him his lieutenant's commission, had left Vienna with a blackshade over his blinded eye. Demeter Stanzides, Willy Eissler, GuidoSchönstein, Breitner, all were away, and even Nürnberger, who haddeclared so solemnly that he did not mean to leave the town this year,had suddenly vanished.

George had visited him before any one else after he came back, tobring him some flowers from his sister's grave in Cadenabbia. He hadread Nürnberger's novel on his journey. The scene was laid in a periodwhich was now almost past; the same period, so it seemed to George, asthat of which old Doctor Stauber had once spoken to him. Nürnbergerhad thrown a grim light over that sickly world of lies in which adultmen passed for mature, old men for experienced, and people who didnot offend against any written law for righteous; in which love offreedom, patriotism and humanitarianism passed ipso facto for virtue,even though they had grown out of the rotten soil of thoughtlessnessor cowardice. He had chosen for the hero of his book a sterling andenergetic man who, carried away by the hollow phrases of the period,saw things as they were from the height which he had reached and seizedwith horror at the realization of his own dizzy ascent, precipitatedhimself into the void out of which he had come. George was considerablyastonished that a man who had created this strong and resounding pieceof work should subsequently confine himself to casual cynical commentson the progress of the age, and it was only a phrase of Heinrich'sto the effect that wrath but not loathing was fated to be fertilethat made him understand why Nürnberger's work had been stopped forever. The lonely hour in the Cadenabbia cemetery on that dark bluelate afternoon had made as strange and deep an impression upon Georgeas though he had actually known and appreciated the being by whosegrave he stood. It had hurt him that the gold lettering on the greystone should have grown faint and that the beds of turf should havebeen overgrown with weeds, and after he had plucked a few yellow-bluepansies for his friend he had gone away with genuine emotion. He hadcast a glance from the other side of the cemetery door through the openwindow of the death-chamber, and saw a female body on a bier betweenhigh burning candles, covered with a black pall as far as her lips,while the daylight and candlelight ran into one another over its smallwaxen face.

Nürnberger had not been unmoved by this sympathetic attention onthe part of George and on that day they spoke to each other moreintimately than they had ever done before.

The house in which Nürnberger lived was in a narrow gloomy streetwhich led out of the centre of the town and mounted in terracestowards the Danube. It was ancient, narrow and high. Nürnberger'sapartment was on the fifth and top storey, which was reached by astaircase with numerous turns. In the low though spacious room intowhich George stepped out of a dark hall stood old but well-preservedfurniture, while an odour of camphor and lavender came insistently outof the alcove in the recess in front of which a pale green curtainhad been let down. Portraits of Nürnberger's parents in their youthhung on the wall together with brown engravings of landscapes afterthe Dutch masters. Numerous old photographs in wooden frames stood onthe sideboard. Nürnberger fetched a portrait of his dead sister outof a secretary-drawer where it lay beneath some letters that had beenyellowed by time. It showed her as a girl of eighteen in a child'scostume which seemed to have a kind of historical atmosphere, holdinga ball in her hand, and standing in front of a hedge, behind whichthere towered a background of cliffs. Nürnberger introduced all theseunknown faraway and dead persons to his friend to-day by means of theirportraits, and spoke of them in a tone which seemed to make the gulf oftime between the then and the now both wider and deeper.

George's glance often swept out over the narrow street towards thegrey masonry of ancient houses. He saw small cobwebbed panes with allkinds of household utensils behind them. Flower-pots with miserableplants stood on a window-ledge, while fragments of bottles, broken-upbarrels, scraps of paper, mouldy vegetables lay in a gutter betweentwo houses, a battered pipe ran down between all this rubbish anddisappeared behind a chimney. Other chimneys were visible to right andleft, the back of a yellowish stone gable could be seen, towers rearedup towards the pale blue heaven and a light grey spire with a brokenstone cupola which George knew very well, appeared unexpectedly near.Automatically his eyes tried to find the quarter where he might be ableto fix the position of the house in whose entrance the two stone giantsbore on their powerful shoulders the armorial bearings of a vanishedstock, and in which his child, which was to come into the world in afew weeks, had been begotten.

George gave an account of his trip. He felt the spirit of this hourso deeply that he would have thought himself petty if he had letthe matter rest at half-truths. But Nürnberger had known the story,and in its entirety too, long ago, and when George showed a littleastonishment at this he smiled mockingly.

"Don't you still remember," he asked, "that morning when we looked overa summer residence in Grinzing?"

"Of course."

"And don't you remember too that a woman with a little child in herarms took us round the house and garden?"

"Yes."

"Before we went away the child held out its arms towards you, and youlooked at it with a certain amount of emotion in your expression."

"And that's what made you conclude that I...."

"Oh well, you know, you're not the man to go in for thrills over thesight of small children, a bit unwashed, too, into the bargain, if theyare not linked on to associations of a personal character."

"One must beware of you," said George jestingly, but not without somesense of uneasiness.

The slight irritation, which he always felt again and again atNürnberger's superior manner, was far from preventing him fromcultivating his society more and more. He frequently fetched himfrom home to go for walks in the streets and parks, and he felt asense of satisfaction, a sense in fact of personal triumph, when hemanaged to draw him from the rarefied regions of bitter wisdom intothe gentler fields of affectionate intercourse. George's walks withhim had become such a pleasant habit that he felt as though his dailylife had been impoverished when he found one morning that Nürnberger'sapartment was closed. Some days afterwards came a card of apology fromSalzburg, which was also signed by a married couple, a manufacturerand his wife, good-natured cheery people, whom George had once got toknow slightly through Nürnberger in Graben. According to Heinrich'smalicious description the common friend of this married couple had beendragged down the stairs, of course after a desperate resistance, madeto sit down in a carriage and been transported to the station moreor less like a prisoner. According to Heinrich, too, Nürnberger hadseveral friends of this innocent kind who felt the need of getting thecelebrated cynic to let a few drops of his malice trickle into theirpalatable cup of life, while Nürnberger on his side liked to recuperatein their free-and-easy society from the strain of his acquaintances inliterary and psychological circles.

The meeting with Heinrich had meant a disillusionment to George.After the first words of greeting the author had as usual only spokenabout himself, and that, too, in tones of the deepest contempt. Hehad come at last to the conclusion that he did not really possess anytalent but only intelligence, though that of course to an enormousdegree. The thing about himself that he cursed the most violently wasthe lack of harmony in the various phases of his character, whichas he well knew not only occasioned suffering to himself but to allwho came near him. He was heartless and sentimental, flippant andmelancholic, sensitive and callous, an impossible companion and yetdrawn towards his fellow-beings ... at any rate at times. A person withsuch characteristics could only justify his existence by producingsomething immense, and if the masterpiece which he felt obliged tocreate did not appear on the scene very soon he would feel that asa decent man he would be obliged to shoot himself. But he was not adecent man.... There lay the rub. "Of course you won't shoot yourself,"thought George, "principally because you haven't got the pluck to doso." Of course he did not give expression to this thought but on thecontrary was very sympathetic. He talked of the moods to which afterall every artist is liable, and inquired kindly about the materialconditions of Heinrich's life. It soon transpired that he wasn't insuch a bad way by any means. He was even leading a life which as itappeared to George was freer from anxiety than it had ever been before.The maintenance of his mother and sisters for the ensuing years hadbeen assured by a small legacy. In spite of all the hostile influenceswhich were at work against him the fame of his name was increasing fromday to day. The miserable affair with the actress seemed to be finishedonce and for all, and a quite new relationship with a young ladywhich was as free and easy as could possibly be desired, was actuallybringing a certain amount of gaiety into his life. Even his work wasmaking good progress. The first act of the opera libretto was as goodas ready, and he had made numerous notes for his political comedy.He intended next year to visit the sittings of Parliament and attendmeetings, and coquetted with the admittedly childish fantastic planof posing as a member of the social democratic party, trying to tackhimself on to the leaders and getting himself taken on, if he could getthe chance, as an active member of some organisation or other, simplyso as to get a complete insight into the party machinery. Still, youknow, when he had been talking to any one for five minutes on end, whyhe had got him absolutely. He would find in some casual word, whosesignificance would completely escape any one else, a kind of whirlwindwhich tore the veil from off the souls of men. His dream was to provehimself a master of imagination in his opera poem and a master ofrealism in his comedy, and thus show the world that he was equally athome both in heaven and on earth. At a subsequent meeting George gothim to read as much of the first act of the opera as he had finished.He found the verses very singable and asked Heinrich to allow him totake the manuscript to Anna. Anna could not bring herself to fancy muchwhat George read out to her; but he asserted, though without any realconviction, that what she felt was just the very longing for theseverses to be set to music, and that that must necessarily strike her asa weakness.

When George came into Heinrich's room to-day the latter was sitting atthe big table in the middle of the room, which was covered over withpapers and letters. Written papers of all kinds lay about on the pianoand on the ottoman. Heinrich still had a sheet of faded yellow paper inhis hand when he got up and hailed George with the words, "Well, howgoes the country?"

This was the way in which he was accustomed to inquire after Anna'shealth, a way which George felt afresh every single time to be undulyfamiliar.

"Quite well, thanks," he replied. "I have just come to ask you ifperhaps you would care to come out there with me to-day."

"Oh yes, I should like to very much. The thing is, though, that I amjust in the middle of putting various papers in order. I can't comebefore the evening about seven or so. Will that suit you?"

"Quite," said George. "But I see I am disturbing you," he added as hepointed to the littered table.

"Not at all," replied Heinrich. "I am only tidying up, as I just toldyou. They're my father's posthumous papers. Those there are letters tohim and here are rough notes more or less like a diary, written forthe most part during his parliamentary period. Tragic, I tell you!How that man loved his country! And how did they thank him? You've noidea of the refinement with which they drove him out of his party. Acomplicated network of intrigue, bigotry, brutality.... ThoroughlyGerman, to put the matter in a nutshell."

George felt a sense of antagonism. "And he dares," he thought, "to holdforth about Anti-Semitism. Is he any better? any juster? Does he forgetthat I am a German myself...?"

Heinrich went on speaking. "But I will give this man a memorial.... Heand no other shall be the hero of my political drama. He is the trulytragi-comic central figure which I have always been wanting."

George's antagonism became intensified. He felt a great desire toprotect old Bermann against his son. "A tragi-comic figure," herepeated, almost aggressively.

"Yes," retorted Heinrich unhesitatingly, "a Jew who loves hiscountry.... I mean in the way my father did, with a real feeling ofsolidarity, with real enthusiasm for the dynasty, is without theslightest question a tragi-comic figure. I mean ... he belonged to thatLiberalising epoch of the seventies and eighties when even shrewd menwere overcome by the catch-words of the age. A man like that to-daywould certainly appear merely comic. Yes, even if he had finished up byhanging himself on the first nail he came across I could not regard hisfate as anything else."

"It is a mania of yours," replied George. "You really very often giveone the impression that you have quite lost the capacity of seeinganything else in the world except the Jewish question, you always seeit everywhere. If I were as discourteous as you happen to be at times,I would ... you'll forgive me of course, say that you were sufferingfrom persecution-mania."

"Persecution-mania ..." replied Heinrich dully, as he looked at thewall. "I see, so you call it persecution-mania, that.... Oh well." Andthen he continued suddenly with clenched teeth: "I say, George, I wantto ask you something on your conscience."

"I'm listening."

He placed himself straight in front of George, and with his eyespierced his forehead. "Do you think there's a single Christian inthe world, even taking the noblest, straightest and truest one youlike, one single Christian who has not in some moment or other ofspite, temper or rage, made at any rate mentally some contemptuousallusion to the Jewishness of even his best friend, his mistress orhis wife, if they were Jews or of Jewish descent?" And without waitingfor George's answer: "There isn't one, I assure you. You can tryanother test also if you like. Read for instance the letters of anycelebrated and otherwise perfectly shrewd and excellent man and observethe passages which contain hostile and ironic expressions about hiscontemporaries. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred it simply deals withan individual without taking any account of his descent or creed. Inthe hundredth case, where the miserable victim has the misfortune tobe a Jew, the writer will certainly not forget to mention that fact.That's just how the thing is, I can't help it. What you choose to callpersecution-mania, my dear George, is in reality simply an extremelyintense consciousness that has been kept continuously awake of acondition in which we Jews happen to find ourselves. And as for talkingabout persecution-mania, why it would be much more logical to talkabout a mania for being hidden, a mania for being left alone, a maniafor being safe; which though perhaps a less sensational form of diseaseis certainly a much more dangerous one for its victims. My fathersuffered from it, like many others of his generation. He at any ratemade such a radical cure that he went mad in the process."

Deep furrows appeared on Heinrich's forehead and he looked againtowards the wall, straight past George, who had sat down on the hardblack leather ottoman.

"If that's your way of looking at things," replied George, "why, youhave no other logical alternative but to join Leo Golowski...."

"And migrate to Palestine with him. Is that what you think? As a matterof symbolical politics or actually—what?" He laughed. "Have I eversaid that I want to get away from here? That I would prefer to liveanywhere else except here? Above all, have I ever said that I likedliving among Jews? So far as I at any rate am concerned that would be apurely objective solution of an essentially subjective problem."

"I really think so also. And that's why, to tell the truth, Iunderstand less than ever what you want, Heinrich. I had the impressionlast autumn, when you had your tussle with Golowski on the Sophienalp,that you looked at the matter far more hopefully."

"More hopefully?" repeated Heinrich in an injured tone.

"Yes. One felt bound to think then that you believed in the possibilityof a gradual assimilation."

Heinrich contemptuously contracted the corners of his mouth."Assimilation.... A phrase.... Yes, that'll come all right some timeor other ... in a very very long time. It won't come at all in theway many want it to—it won't come either in the way many are afraidit will.... Further, it won't be exactly assimilation ... but perhapssomething that beats in the heart of that particular word so tospeak. Do you know what it will probably look like in the end? Thatwe, we Jews I mean, have been a kind of ferment in the brewing ofhumanity—yes, perhaps that'll come out in anything from one to twothousand years from now. It is a consolation too. Don't you think so?"He laughed again.

"Who knows," said George reflectively, "if you won't be regarded asright—in a thousand years? But till then?"

"Why, my dear George, there won't be anything in the way of a solutionof the question before then. In our time there won't be any solution,that's absolutely positive. No universal solution at any rate. Itwill rather be a case of a million different solutions. For it'sjust a question which for the time being every one has got to settlefor himself as best he can. Every one must manage to find an escapefor himself out of his vexation or out of his despair or out ofhis loathing, to some place or other where he can breathe again infreedom. Perhaps there are really people who would like to go as faras Jerusalem to find it ... I only fear that many of them, once theyarrive at their official goal, would then begin to realise that theyhad made an utter mistake. I don't think for a minute that migrationslike that into the open should be gone in for in parties.... For theroads there do not run through the country outside but through our ownselves. Every one's life simply depends on whether or not he finds hismental way out. To do that of course it is necessary to see as clearlyas possible into oneself, to throw the searchlight into one's mosthidden crannies, to have the courage to be what one naturally is—notto be led into a mistake. Yes, that should be the daily prayer of everydecent man: to make no mistake."

Where is he getting to again now? thought George. He is quite as morbidin his way as his father was. And at the same time one can't say thathe has been personally through bad times. And he has asserted on oneoccasion that he felt there was no one with whom he had anything incommon. It is not a bit true. He feels he has something in common withall Jews and he stands nearer to the meanest of them than he does tome. While these thoughts were running through his mind his glance fellon a big envelope lying on the table, and he read the following wordswritten on it in large Roman capitals: "Don't forget. Never forget."

Heinrich noticed George's look and took the envelope up in his hand.Three strong grey seals could be seen on its back. He then threw itdown again on the table, drooped his underlip contemptuously and said:"I've tidied up that business as well, you know, to-day. There are dayslike this when one goes in for a great cleaning-up. Other people wouldhave burnt the stuff. What's the point? I shall perhaps read it againwith pleasure. The anonymous letters I once told you about are in thisenvelope, you know."

George was silent. Up to the present Heinrich had vouchsafed noinformation as to the circ*mstances under which his relations with theactress had come to an end. Only one passage in his letter to Luganohad hinted at the fact that it had not been without a certain deep-felthorror that he had seen his former mistress again. Almost against hisown will the following words came out of George's mouth: "You know, ofcourse, the story of Nürnberger's sister who lies buried in Cadenabbia?"

Heinrich answered in the affirmative. "What makes you think of that?"

"I visited her grave a few days before I came back." He hesitated.Heinrich was looking fixedly at him with a violently interrogativeexpression which compelled George to go on speaking. "Just thinknow, isn't it strange? since that time those two persons are alwaysassociated together in my memory, though I have never seen one of themand have only caught a glimpse of the other one at the theatre—as youknow. I mean Nürnberger's dead sister and ... this actress."

Heinrich grew pale to his very lips. "Are you superstitious?" he askedscornfully, but it sounded as though he were asking himself.

"Not at all," cried George. "Besides, what has superstition to do withthis matter?"

"I'll only tell you that everything that has any connection at all withmysticism goes radically against the grain with me. Lots of twaddle ispassed off in the world for science, but talking about things whichone can't know anything about, things whose very essence is that onecan never know anything about them, is in my view the most intolerabletwaddle of the whole lot."

"Can she have died, this actress?" thought George.

Suddenly Heinrich took up the envelope again in his hand, and said inthat dry tone which he liked to assume at those very moments when hewas most deeply harrowed: "Writing out these words here is childishtomfoolery or affectation if you like. I could also have added thewords Daudet put before his Sappho: 'To you, my son, when you aretwenty years of age....' Too silly, anyway. As though the experiencesof one man could be the slightest use to another man. The experiencesof one man can often be amusing for another, more often bewildering,but never instructive.... And do you know why it is that both thosefigures are associated in your brain? I'll tell you why. Simply becausein one of my letters I employed the expression 'Ghost' with referenceto my former mistress. So that clears up this mysterious embroglio."

"That's not impossible," replied George. From somewhere or other camethe indistinct sound of bad piano-playing. George looked out. The sunlay on the yellow wall opposite. Many windows were open. A boy satat one of them, his arms resting on the window-ledge, and read. Fromanother two young girls looked down into the garden courtyard. Theclattering of utensils was audible. George longed for the open air,for his seat on the border of the forest. Before he turned to go itoccurred to him to say: "I wanted to tell you, Heinrich, that Anna tooliked your verses very much. Have you written any more?"

"Not many."

"It would be nice if you brought along to-day all you have done of thelibretto and read it to us." He stood by the piano and struck a coupleof chords.

"What's that?" asked Heinrich.

"A theme," replied George "that's just occurred to me for the secondact. It is meant to accompany the moment in which the remarkablestranger appears on the ship."

Heinrich shut the window, George sat down and started to go on playing.There was a knock at the door, and Heinrich automatically cried: "Comein."

A young lady came in in a light cloth skirt with a red silk blouseand a white velvet ribbon with a little gold cross round her neck. AFlorentine hat trimmed with roses shaded with its broad brim the palelittle face from which two big black eyes peered out.

"Good afternoon," said the strange lady in a low voice, whichsounded at the same time both defiant and embarrassed. "Excuse me,Herr Bermann, I didn't know that you had visitors," and she lookedinquisitively at George, who had at once recognised her.

Heinrich grew paler and puckered his forehead. "I certainly had noidea," he began. He then introduced them and said to the lady: "Won'tyou sit down?"

"Thanks," she answered curtly and remained standing. "Perhaps I'll comeagain later."

"Please don't," cut in George. "I am just on the point of running off."

He watched the look of the actress roving round the room and felt astrange pity for her, such as one frequently feels in dreams for deadpeople who do not know that they have died. He then saw Heinrich'sglance rest on this pale little face with inconceivable hardness.He now remembered very clearly seeing her on the stage, with thereddish-blonde hair that fell over her forehead and her roving eyes."That's not how persons look," he thought, "who are fated to belongonly to one man. And to think of Heinrich, who plumes himself so muchon his knowledge of character, never having felt that! What did hereally want of her? It was vanity which burnt in his soul, nothing morethan vanity."

George walked along the street, which was like a dry oven. The wallsof the houses threw back into the air the summer heat which they hadabsorbed. George took the horse-tram to the hills and woods, andbreathed more freely when he was in the country. He walked slowly onbetween the gardens and villas, then passing the churchyard he tooka white road with a gradual incline called Sommerhaidenweg, which heregarded as a good omen, and which was used by practically nobodyduring this late hour of a sunny afternoon. No shade came from thewooded line of heights on his left, only a gentle purring of breezeswhich had gone to sleep in the leaves. On the right a green inclinesloped downwards towards the long stretch of valley where roofs weregleaming between the boughs and tree-tops. Further down vineyards andtilled fields struggled up behind garden fences towards meadows andquarries, over which shrubbery and bushes hung in the glittering sun.The path along which George was accustomed to wander was just a thinstraight line often lost among the fields, and his eye sought the placeon the border of the forest where his favourite seat was situated:meadows and wooded heights at the end of the valley with fresh valesand hills. George felt himself strangely wedded to this landscape andthe thought that his own career and his own will called him abroadoften wove farewell moods around his lonely walks even now.

But at the same time a presentiment of a richer life stirred withinhim. It was as though many things were coming to birth in his soulwhich he had no right to disturb by anxious reflection; and there was amurmur of the melodies of days to come in the lower depths of his soul,though it was not yet vouchsafed to him to hear them clearly. He hadnot been idle, either, in drafting out clearly the rough plan of hisfuture. He had written a letter of polite thanks to Detmold, in whichhe placed himself with reservation at the disposition of the managerfor the coming autumn. He had also looked up old Professor Viebiger,explained his plans to him and requested him if the opportunitypresented itself to remember his former pupil. But even though contraryto his expectations he failed to find a position in the autumn he wasdetermined to leave Vienna, to retire for the time being to a smalltown or into the country, and to go on working by himself amid thequietness. He had not clearly worked out how his relations to Annawould shape under these circ*mstances. He only knew that they mustnever end. He thought vaguely that he and Anna would visit each otherand go on journeys together at some convenient time; subsequently nodoubt she would move to the place where he lived and worked. But itstruck him as useless to go deeply into these matters before the actualhour arrived, since his own life had been definitely decided at anyrate for the coming year.

The Sommerhaidenweg ran into the forest, and George took the broadVillenweg, which crossed the valley at this point and curved downwards.In a few minutes he found himself in the street, at the end of whichstood the little villa in which Anna lived. It was close to the forest,near unpretentious yellow bungalows and only raised above their levelby its attic and balcony with its triangular wooden gable. He crossedthe plot of ground in front of the house where the little blue clayangel welcomed him on its square pedestal in the middle of the lawnbetween the flower-beds, and went through the narrow passage nearwhich the kitchen lay, and the cool middle room on whose floor therays of the sun were playing through the dilapidated green Venetianblinds and stepped on to the verandah. He turned towards the leftand cast a glance through the open window into Anna's room, which hefound empty. He then went into the garden and walking along the lilacand currant-bushes towards the bottom, soon saw Anna some way off,sitting on the white seat under the pear-tree in her loose blue dress.She did not see him coming, but seemed quite plunged in thought. Heslowly approached. She still did not look up. He loved her very much atmoments like this when she thought she was unobserved and the goodnessand peacefulness of her character floated serenely around her clearforehead. The grasshoppers chirruped on the gravel at their feet.Opposite them on the grass the strange St. Bernard dog lay sleeping.It was the animal which first noticed George's arrival as it woke up.It got up and jogged clumsily towards George. Anna now looked up and ahappy smile swept over her features. Why am I so seldom here? was thethought which ran through George's mind. Why don't I live out here andwork on top on the balcony under the gable, which has a beautiful viewon to the Sommerhaidenweg? His forehead had grown damp, for the lateafternoon sun was still blazing.

He stood in front of Anna, kissed her on the eyes and mouth and satdown at her side. The animal had slunk after him and stretched itselfout at his feet. "How are you, my darling?" he asked, while he put hisarm around her neck.

She was very well, as usual, and to-day was a particularly fine day.She had been left quite to herself since the morning, for Frau Golowskihad to go to town again to look after her family. It was really notso bad to be so completely alone with oneself. One could sink theninto one's dreams undisturbed. They were of course always the same,but they were so sweet that one did not get tired of them. She hadlet herself dream about her child. How much she loved it to-day, evenbefore it was born! She would never have considered it possible. DidGeorge understand it too?... And as he nodded absent-mindedly she shookher head. No, no ... a man could not understand that, even the verybest and kindest man. Why, she could feel the little being alreadymoving, could detect the beating of its tender heart, could feel thisnew incomprehensible soul breathe within her, just in the same way asshe felt the flowering and awakening within her of its fresh youngbody. And George looked in front of him as though ashamed that shewas facing the near future. It was true of course that a being wouldexist, begotten by himself, like himself and itself destined again togive life to new beings; it was true that within the blessed body ofthat woman, for which he had ceased for a long time now to feel anydesire, there was swelling, according to the eternal laws, a life thatonly a year ago had been undreamt-of, unwished-for, lost in infinity,but which now was forcing its way up to the light like somethingpredestined from time immemorial; it was true that he knew that he wasirresistibly drawn into that forged chain that stretched from primalancestor to future descendant and which he grasped as it were withboth hands ... but he did not feel that this miracle made so potent anappeal to him as it really ought.

And they spoke to-day more seriously than usual about what was tohappen after the child's birth. Anna, of course, would keep it withher during the first week, but then they would have to give it tostrangers; but at any rate it should live quite near, so that Annacould see it at any time without any difficulty.

"I say, dear," she said quite lightly and suddenly, "will you oftencome and visit us?"

He looked into her arch smiling face, took both her hands and kissedher. "Dearest, what am I to do? Tell me yourself. You can imagine howhard it will be for me. But what else is there for me to do? I've gotto make a beginning. I've already told you we've given notice to leavethe apartment," he added hastily, as though that cut off all retreat."Felician is probably going to Athens. Yes, it would of course be fineif I could take you with me. But I am afraid that isn't possible.There ought above all to be something more or less certain, I mean oneought—ought at least to be certain that I shall remain in the sameplace for a longish time."

She had listened with quiet seriousness. She then started to speakabout her latest idea. He must not believe, she said, that she wasthinking of putting the whole burden of responsibility upon him. Shewas determined as soon as it was feasible to found a music-school. Ifhe left her alone for a long time the school would be here in Vienna.If he soon came to fetch her it would be wherever she and he had theirhome. And when she was once in an independent position she meant totake and keep her child whether she was his wife or not. She was veryfar from being ashamed of it, he knew that quite well. She was ratherproud ... yes, proud of being a mother.

He took her hands in his and stroked them. It would all come rightenough, he said, feeling somewhat depressed. He suddenly saw himselfsitting at supper between wife and child, beneath the modest light of ahanging lamp in an extremely simple home. And this family scene of hisimagination wafted towards him, as it were, an atmosphere of troubledboredom. Come, it was still too early for that, he was still too young.Was it possible, then, that she was to be the last woman whom he wasto embrace? Of course it might come in years, even in months, but notto-day. As for bringing lies and deceit into a well-ordered home, hehad a horror of the idea. Yet the thought of rushing away from her toothers whom he desired, with the consciousness that he would find Annaagain just as he had left her, was at once tempting and reassuring.

The well-known whistle was heard from outside. The dog got up, madeGeorge stroke her yellow-spotted back once again and sadly slunk away.

"By Jove," said George, "I had almost forgotten all about it. Heinrichwill be here any minute." He told Anna about his visit and did notsuppress the fact that he had made the acquaintance of the faithlessactress.

"Did she succeed then?" exclaimed Anna, who did not fancy ladies withroving eyes.

"I don't think that she succeeded at all," replied George. "Heinrichwas rather annoyed at her turning up, so far as I could see."

"Well, perhaps he'll bring her along too," said Anna jestingly, "thenyou will have some one to flirt with again, as you did with theregicide at Lugano."

"Upon my word," said George innocently, and then added casually: "Butwhat's the matter with Therese? why doesn't she come to see you anymore? Demeter is no longer in Vienna. She would have plenty of time."

"She was here only a few days ago. Why, I told you so. Don't pretend."

"I'd really forgotten it," he answered honestly. "What did she tell youthen?"

"All there was to tell. The Demeter affair is over. Her heart isthrobbing once more only for the poor and the miserable—until it iscalled back." And Anna confided Therese's winter plans to him under theseal of a most rigid silence. Disguised as a poor woman she meant toundertake expeditions through shelters, soup- and tea-kitchens, refugesfor the homeless and workmen's dwellings, with a view to shedding alight into the most hidden corners for the benefit of the so-calledgolden heart of Vienna. She seemed quite ready for it and was perhaps alittle sanguine of discovering some horrors.

George looked in front of him. He remembered the stylish lady in thewhite dress who had stood in the sunshine in Lugano in front of thepost-office, far from all the cares of the world. "Strange creature,"he thought.

"Of course she'll make a book out of it," said Anna. "But mind youdon't tell any one, not even your friend Bermann."

"Shouldn't think of it! But I say, Anna, hadn't you better getsomething ready for this evening?"

She nodded. "Come, take me downstairs. I'll see what there is andconsult Marie too ... so far as is possible to do so."

They got up. The shadows had lengthened. The children were making anoise in the next garden. Anna took her lover's arm and walked slowlywith him. She told him the newest instances of the fantastic stupidityof the maid.

The idea of my being a husband, thought George, and listenedreflectively. When they got to the house he announced his intention ofgoing to meet Heinrich, left Anna and went into the street.

At this precise moment a one-horse carriage jogged up. Heinrich gotout and paid the driver. "Hallo!" he said to George, "have you reallywaited for me after all? It's not so late then?"

"Not at all. You're very punctual. We'll go for a short walk if itsuits you."

"Delighted."

They walked on into the forest past the yellow inn with the redterraces.

"It is wonderful here," said Heinrich, "and your villa too looksawfully nice. Why don't you live out here?"

"Yes, it's absurd not to," agreed George without further explanation.Then they were silent for a while.

Heinrich was in a light grey summer suit and carried his cloak overhis arm, letting it trail a little behind him. "Did you recognise heragain?" he asked suddenly, without looking up.

"Yes," replied George.

"She only came up for one day from her summer engagement. She goes backby train to-night. A surprise attack, so to speak. But it didn't comeoff." He laughed.

"Why are you so hard?" asked George, and thought of the big envelopewith the grey seals and the silly inscription. "There is really nooccasion for you to be so. It is only a fluke that she did not getanonymous letters just like you did, Heinrich. And who knows, if youhadn't left her alone for God knows what reasons...."

Heinrich shook his head and looked at George almost as though he pitiedhim. "Do you mean by any chance that it is my intention to punish heror avenge myself? Or do you think I'm one of those mugs who don'tknow what to make of the world because something has happened to themwhich they know has already happened to thousands before them and willhappen to thousands after them? Do you think I despise the 'faithlesswoman' or that I hate her? Not a bit of it. Of course I don't meanto say that I don't at times assume the pose of hatred and contempt,only of course to produce better results upon her. But as a matter offact I understand all that has happened far too well for me to...." Heshrugged his shoulders.

"Well, if you do understand it?..."

"But, my dear friend, understanding a thing is no earthly good at all.Understanding is a game like anything else. A very 'classy' game and avery expensive one. One can spend one's whole soul over it and finishup a poor devil. But understanding hasn't got the least thing in theworld to do with our feelings, almost as little as it has to do withour actions. It doesn't protect us from suffering, from revulsion,from ruin. It leads absolutely nowhere. It's a kind of cul-de-sac.Understanding always signifies the end."

As they walked slowly and silently up a side path with a moderateincline, each one engrossed in his own thoughts, they emerged outof the woods into open meadowland, which gave a clear view of thevalley. They looked out over the town and then further on towards thehaze-breathing plain through which the river ran shining; they lookedtowards the far line of the mountains, over which a thin haze wasspreading. Then in the peace of the evening sun they walked on furthertowards George's favourite seat on the border of the forest. The sunwas not visible. George watched the track of the Sommerhaidenweg on theother side of the valley run along the wooded hills; it looked pale andcooled. He then looked down and knew that in the garden at his feetthere was a pear-tree, beneath which he had sat a few hours before withsome one who was very dear to him, and who carried his child under herbosom, and he felt moved. He felt a slight contempt for the women whowere perhaps waiting for him somewhere, but that did not extinguish hisdesire for them. Summer visitors were walking about down below on thepath between the garden and the meadows. A young girl looked up andwhispered something to another.

"You are certainly a popular personality in the place here," remarkedHeinrich, contracting the corners of his mouth ironically.

"Not that I know of."

"Those pretty girls looked at you with great interest. People alwaysfind an inexhaustible source of excitement in other people not beingmarried. Those holiday-makers down there are bound to look upon you asa kind of Don Juan and ... your friend as a seduced maiden who has gonewrong, don't you think so?"

"I don't know," said George, anxious to cut short the conversation.

"And I wonder what I represented," continued Heinrich unperturbed, "tothe theatrical people in the little town. Clearly the deceived lover.Consequently an absolutely ridiculous character. And she? Well, one canimagine. Things are awfully simple for lookers-on. But when one getsto close quarters everything looks utterly different. But the questionis whether the complexion it has in the distance isn't the right one?Whether one does not persuade oneself into believing a lot of rot, ifone's got a part to play in the comedy oneself?"

He might quite as well have stayed at home, thought George. But as hecould not send him home, and with the object at any rate of changingthe conversation, he asked him quickly: "Do you hear anything from theEhrenbergs?"

"I had a rather sad letter from Fräulein Else a few days ago," repliedHeinrich.

"You correspond with her?"

"No, I don't correspond with her. At any rate I have not yet answeredher."

"She is taking the Oskar business much more to heart than she willown," said George. "I spoke to her once in the nursing-home. Weremained standing quite a time outside in the passage in front of thewhite varnished door behind which poor Oskar was lying. At that timethey were afraid of the other eye as well. It's really a tragic affair."

"Tragi-comic," corrected Heinrich with hardness.

"You see the tragi-comic in everything. I'll tell you why, too. Becauseyou're more or less callous. But in this case the comic element takes aback seat."

"You make a mistake," replied Heinrich. "Old Ehrenberg's box on theear was a piece of crudeness, Oskar's suicide a piece of stupidity,his making such a bad shot at himself a piece of bungling. Theseelements certainly can't produce anything really tragic. It is a ratherdisgusting business, that's all."

George shook his head angrily. He had felt genuine sympathy for Oskarsince his misfortune. He was also sorry for old Ehrenberg, who hadbeen staying in Neuhaus since then, was only living for his work andrefused to see any one. They had both paid their penalty, which washeavier than they had deserved. Couldn't Heinrich see that and feelit just as he did? They really got on one's nerves at times, thesepeople, with their exaggerated Jewish smartness and their relentlesspsychology—these Bermanns and Nürnbergers. Their principal object inlife was to be surprised by nothing whatsoever. What they lacked waskindness. It was only when they grew older that a certain gentlenesscame over them. George thought of old Doctor Stauber, of Frau Golowski,of old Eissler, but so long as they were young ... they always kepton the qui vive. Their one ideal was not to be scored off! Adisagreeable lot. He felt more and more that he missed Felician andSkelton, who as a matter of fact were really quite clever enough. Heeven missed Guido Schönstein.

"But in spite of all her melancholy," said Heinrich after a time,"Fräulein Else seems to be having a pretty good time of it. They arehaving people down again at Auhof. The Wyners were there the otherday, Sissy and James. James got his doctor's degree the other day atCambridge. Classy, eh?"

The word Sissy darted through George's heart like a flashing dagger. Herealised it all of a sudden. He would be with her in a few days. Hisdesire surged up so strongly that he himself scarcely understood it.

The dusk came down. George and Heinrich got up, went down the fieldsand entered the garden. They saw Anna come down the centre pathaccompanied by a gentleman.

"Old Doctor Stauber," said George. "You know him, I suppose?"

They exchanged greetings.

"I am very glad," said Anna to Heinrich, "that you should come and seeus at last."

"Us!" repeated George to himself, with a sense of surprise which heimmediately repudiated. He went in front with Doctor Stauber. Heinrichand Anna slowly followed.

"Are you satisfied with Anna?" George asked the doctor.

"Things couldn't be going on better," replied Stauber, "only she mustcontinue to take exercise regularly and properly."

It struck George, who had not seen the doctor before since his return,that he had not yet given him back the books which he had borrowed andhe made his apologies.

"There's time enough for that," replied Stauber. "I am only too glad ifthey came in handy." And he asked what impressions he had brought homefrom Rome.

George told him of his wanderings through the old imperial palaces,of his drives through the Campagna in the evening light, of a sultryhour in Hadrian's garden just before a storm. Doctor Stauber begged himto stop, otherwise he might be induced to leave all his patients herein the lurch so as to run away at once to the city he loved so much.Then George made polite inquiries after Doctor Berthold. Was there anyfoundation for the rumour that he would be engaged again in activepolitical life in the approaching winter?

Doctor Stauber shrugged his shoulders. "He comes back in September,that's the only thing certain so far. He has been very industrious atPasteur's and he wants to elaborate at the pathological institutehere a great piece of serum research work which he began in Paris.If he takes my advice he'll stick to it, for in my humble opinionwhat he is now doing is much more important for humanity than themost glorious revolution. Of course talents vary, and I've certainlynothing to say against revolutions now and again. But speaking betweenourselves, my son's talent is far more on the scientific side. It'srather his temperament which drives him in the other direction ...perhaps only his temper. Well, we shall see. But how about your plansfor the autumn?" he added suddenly, as he looked at George with hisgood-natured fatherly expression. "Where are you going to swing yourbâton?"

"I only wish I knew myself," replied George.

Doctor Stauber was walking by his side, his lids half closed and hiscigar in his mouth, and while George told him about his efforts andhis prospects with self-important emphasis he thought he felt thatDoctor Stauber simply regarded everything he said as nothing more thanan attempted justification of his putting off his marriage with Anna.A slight irritation against her arose within him; she seemed to bestanding behind them and perhaps was enjoying quietly that he was, asit were, being cross-examined by Doctor Stauber.

He deliberately assumed a lighter and lighter tone, as though his ownpersonal plans for the future had nothing at all to do with Anna, andfinished up by saying merrily: "Why, who knows where I shall be thistime next year? I may finish up in America."

"You might do worse," replied Doctor Stauber quietly. "I have a cousinwho is a violinist in Boston, a man named Schwarz, who earns there atleast six times as much as he gets here at the opera."

George did not like being compared with violinists of the name ofSchwarz and asserted with an emphasis which he himself thought ratherexaggerated that it was not at all a question of money-making, at anyrate at the beginning. Suddenly, he did not know where the thought camefrom, the idea ran through his mind: "Supposing Anna dies.... Supposingthe child were her death...." He felt deeply shocked, as though he hadcommitted a crime by the very thought, and he saw in his imaginationAnna lying there with the shroud drawn over her chin and he saw thecandlelight and daylight streaming over her wax-pale face. He turnedround almost anxiously, as though to assure himself that she was thereand alive. The features of her face were blurred in the darkness andthis frightened him. He remained standing with the doctor till Annaarrived with Heinrich. He was happy to have her so near him. "You mustbe quite tired now, dear," he said to her in his tenderest tone.

"I've certainly honestly performed my day's work," she replied."Besides," and she pointed to the verandah, where the lamp with thegreen paper shade was standing on the laid table, "supper will soon beready. It would be so nice, Doctor, if you could stay; won't you?"

"I'm afraid it's impossible, my dear child. I ought to have been backin town ages ago. Remember me kindly to Frau Golowski. See you againsoon. Good-bye, Herr Bermann. Come," he added, "is one going to getanother chance soon of seeing or reading one of your fine pieces ofwork?"

Heinrich shrugged his shoulders, vouchsafed a social smile and wassilent. Why, he thought, are even the best-bred men usually tactlesswhen they meet people like myself? Do I ask him about his affairs?

The doctor went on to express in a few words his sympathy with Heinrichover old Bermann's death. He remembered the dead man's celebratedspeech in opposition to the introduction of Tschech as the judiciallanguage in certain Bohemian districts. At that time the Jewishprovincial advocate had come within an ace of being Minister ofJustice. Yes, times had changed.

Heinrich started to listen. After all this could be made use of in thepolitical comedy.

Doctor Stauber took his leave. George accompanied him to the carriagewhich was waiting outside, and availed himself of the opportunity toask the doctor some medical questions. The latter was able to reassurehim in every respect.

"It's only a pity," he continued, "that circ*mstances do not allow Annato nurse the child herself."

George stood still meditatively. It could not hurt her, could it?... Atany rate, only the child? Or her as well?... He asked the doctor.

"Why talk about it, my dear Baron, if it's not practicable? That'sall right, don't you worry," he added, with one foot already in thecarriage. "One needn't be nervous about the child of people like youtwo."

George looked him straight in the eye and said: "I will at any ratetake care that he lives the first years of his life in healthy air."

"That's very nice," said Doctor Stauber gently. "But speaking generallythere is no healthier air in the world for children than their parents'home."

He shook hands with George and the carriage rolled away.

George remained standing for a moment and felt a lively irritationagainst the doctor. He vowed mentally that he would never allow theconversation with him to take a turn that would as it were entitle himto give unsolicited advice or make veiled reproaches. What did the oldman know? What did he really understand about the whole thing? George'santagonism became more and more violent. When I choose to, he said tohimself, I will marry her. Can't she have the child with her anyway?Hasn't she said herself that she will be proud of having a child? Iam not going to repudiate it either, and I will do everything in mypower. And later on sometime.... But I should be doing an injustice tomyself, to her, to the child if I were to make up my mind to-day to dosomething which at any rate is still premature.

He had slowly walked past the short side of the house into the garden.He saw Anna and Heinrich sitting on the verandah. Marie was just comingout of the house, very red in the face, and putting a warm dish on thetable, from which the steam mounted up. How quiet Anna sits there,thought George, and remained standing in the darkness. How serene, howfree from care, as though she could trust me implicitly, as thoughthere were no such things as death, poverty, treacherous desertion, asthough I loved her as much as she deserves. And again he felt alarmed.Do I love her less? Is she not right in trusting me? When I sit overthere on my seat on the edge of the forest so much tenderness oftenwells up in me that I can scarcely stand it. Why do I feel so little ofthat now? He was standing only a few paces away and watched her firstcarve and then stare into the darkness out of which he was to come,while her eyes began to shine as he stepped suddenly into the light. Myone true love, he thought.

When he sat down by the others Anna said to him: "You've had a verylong consultation with the doctor."

"It wasn't a consultation. We were chatting. He also told me about hisson who is coming back soon."

Heinrich inquired after Berthold. The young man interested him andhe hoped very much to make his acquaintance next winter. His speechlast year on the Therese Golowski case, together with his open letterto his constituents, in which he had explained the reasons for hisresignation, yes, they had been really first-class performances....Yes, and more than that—documents of the period.

A light almost proud smile flew over Anna's face. She looked down toher place and then quickly up to George. George also was smiling. Not atrace of jealousy stirred within him. Did Berthold have any idea...? Ofcourse. Did he suffer?... Probably. Could he forgive Anna? To think ofhaving to forgive at all! What nonsense.

A dish of mushrooms was served. On its appearance Heinrich could notrefrain from asking if it were at all poisonous.

George laughed.

"You needn't make fun of me," said Heinrich. "If I wanted to killmyself I wouldn't choose either poisoned mushrooms or decayed sausage,but a nobler and swifter poison. At times one is sick of life, butone is never sick of health, even in one's last quarter of an hour.And besides, nervousness is a perfectly legitimate, though usuallyshamefully repudiated, daughter of reason. What does nervousnessreally mean? considering all the possibilities that may result from anaction, the bad and good ones equally. And what is courage? I mean,of course, real courage, which is manifested far more rarely than onethinks. For the courage which is affected or the result of obedienceor simply a matter of suggestion doesn't count. True courage is oftenreally nothing else than the expression of an as it were metaphysicalconviction of one's own superfluity."

"Oh, you Jew!" thought George, though without malice, and then said tohimself, "Perhaps he isn't so far out after all."

They found the beer so good, although Anna did not drink any, that theysent Marie to the inn for a second jugful. Their mood became genial.George described his trip again. The days at Lugano in the broilingsun, the journey over the snowy Brenner, the wandering through theroofless city, which after a night of two thousand years had surgedup again to the light; he conjured up again the minute in whichthey had been present, he and Anna, when workmen were carefully andlaboriously excavating a pillar out of the ashes. Heinrich had not yetseen Italy. He meant to go there next spring. He explained that he wasfrequently torn by a desire for, if not exactly Italy, at any rateforeign lands, distance, the world. When he heard people talking abouttravels he often got heart palpitation like a child the evening beforeits birthday. He doubted whether he was destined to end his life in hishome. It might be, perhaps, that after wandering about for years on endhe would come back and find in a little house in the country the peaceof his later manhood. Who knew—life was so full of coincidences—if hewere not destined to finish his life in this very house in which he wasnow a guest and felt better than he had for a long time?

Anna thanked him with an air which indicated that she was not merelythe hostess of the country house but of the whole world itself with itsevening calm.

A soft light began to shine out of the darkness of the garden. A warmmoist odour came from the grass and flowers. The long fields which randown to the railing swept into view in the moonlight and the whiteseat under the pear-tree shimmered as though very far away. Annacomplimented Heinrich on the verses in the opera libretto which Georgehad read to her the other day.

"Quite right," remarked George, smoking a cigar with his legscomfortably crossed, "have you brought us anything fresh?"

Heinrich shook his head. "No, nothing."

"What a pity!" said Anna, and suggested that Heinrich should tell themthe plot consecutively and in detail. She had been wanting to knowabout it for a long time. She was unable to get any clear idea of itfrom George's account.

They looked at each other. There came up in their minds that sweetdark hour when they had lain in peace with breast close to breast ina dark room in front of whose windows, behind its floating curtain ofsnow, a grey church had loomed, and into which the notes of an organhad boomed heavily. Yes, they now knew where the house stood in whichthe child was to come into the world. Perhaps another house, too,thought George, stands somewhere or other in which the child that hasnot yet been born will end its life. Death! As a man—or as an old man,or.... Oh, what an idea, away with it ... away with it!

Heinrich declared his readiness to fulfil Anna's wish, and stood up. "Ishall perhaps find it useful myself," he said apologetically.

"But mind you don't suddenly switch off into your politicaltragi-comedy," remarked George. And then, turning to Anna: "He'swriting a piece, you know, with a National German corps student for itshero who poisons himself with mushrooms through despair of emancipationof the Jews."

Heinrich nodded dissent. "One glass of beer less and you'd never havemade that epigram."

"Jealousy!" replied George. He felt extraordinarily pleased with life,particularly now that he had firmly made up his mind to leave the dayafter to-morrow. He sat quite close to Anna, held her hand in hisand seemed to hear the melody of future days singing in the deepestrecesses of his soul.

Heinrich had suddenly gone into the garden outside the verandah,reached over the railing, took his cloak from the chair and threw itromantically around him. "I'm going to begin," he said. "Act I."

"First, an overture in D. minor," interrupted George. He whistled animpressive melody, then a few notes and finished with an "and so on."

"The curtain rises," said Heinrich. "Feast in the King's garden.Night. The princess is to be married to the Duke Heliodorus next day. Icall him Heliodorus for the time being, he will probably have anothername though. The king adores his daughter and can't stand Heliodorus,who is a kind of popinjay with the tastes of a mad Cæsar. The kinghas really given the feast to annoy Heliodorus, and not only are allthe nobles in the land invited but the youth of all classes, in sofar as they have won a right to be invited by their beauty. And onthis evening the princess is to dance with any one who pleases her.And there is some one in particular, his name is Ägidius, with whomshe seems quite infatuated. And no one is more pleased about it thanthe king. Jealousy on the part of Heliodorus. Increased pleasure onthe part of the king. Scene between Heliodorus and the king. Scorn.Enmity. Then something highly unexpected takes place. Ägidius draws hisdagger against the king. He wants to murder him. The motives for thisattempted murder of course would have to be very carefully worked inif you had not been kind enough, my dear George, to set the thing tomusic! So it will be enough to hint that the youth hates tyrants, isa member of a secret society, is perhaps a fool or a hero off his ownbat. I don't know yet, you see. The attempted murder fails. Ägidius isarrested. The king wishes to be left alone with him. Duet. The youth isproud, self-possessed, great. The king superior, cruel, inscrutable.That's about my idea of him. He had already sent many men to theirdeath and already seen many die, but his own inner consciousness isso awfully vivid and intense that all other men seem to him to beliving in a state of mere semi-consciousness, so that their death haspractically no other significance except the step from twilight intogloom. A death like that strikes him as too gentle or too banal for acase like this. He wishes to plunge this youth from a daylight such asno mortal has yet enjoyed into the most dreadful darkness. Yes, that'show his mind works. How much he says or sings about this I don't yetknow of course. Ägidius is taken away just like a prisoner condemned,so everybody thinks, to immediate death, and on the very same ship,too, as that on which Heliodorus was to have started on his journeywith the princess in the evening. The curtain falls. The second acttakes place on the deck. The ship under weigh. Chorus. Isolated figurescome up. Their significance is only revealed later. Dawn. Ägidius isled up from the hold below. To his death, as he is bound, of course,to think. But it turns out otherwise. His fetters are loosed. All bowdown to him. He is hailed as a prince. The sun rises. Ägidius has anopportunity of noticing that he is in the very best society—beautifulwomen, nobles. A sage, a singer, a fool, are intended for importantparts. But who should come out of the chorus of women but the princessherself; she belongs absolutely to Ägidius, like everything else on theship."

"What a splendid father and king!" said George.

"No price is too dear for him to pay!" explained Heinrich, "for areally ingenious idea. That's his line. There follows a splendid duetbetween Ägidius and the princess. Then they sit down to the meal. Afterthe meal dancing. High spirits. Ägidius naturally thinks he has beensaved. He is not inordinately surprised, because his hatred for theking was always to a great extent inspired by admiration. The twilightbegins to loom. Suddenly a stranger is at Ägidius' side. Perhaps he hasbeen there for a long time, one among the many, unnoticed, mute. He hasa word to say to Ägidius. The feasting and dancing proceed meanwhile.Ägidius and the stranger. 'All this is yours,' says the stranger. 'Youcan rule according to your humour. You can take possession and killjust as you wish. But to-morrow ... or in two or seven years or in oneyear or in ten, or still later, this ship will approach an island onwhose shore a marble hall towers aloft upon a cliff. And there deathwaits for you—death. Your murderer is with you on the ship. But onlythe one whose mission it is to be your murderer knows it. Nobody elseknows who he is. Nay, nobody else on this ship has any inkling thatyou are consecrated to death. Remember that. For when you let any onenotice that you yourself know your fate you are doomed to death thatvery hour.'"

Heinrich spoke these words with exaggerated pathos, as though toconceal his embarrassment. He went on more simply. "The strangervanishes. Perhaps I shall have him disembarked on the mainland by twosilent attendants who have accompanied him. Ägidius remains among thehundreds of men and women of which one or the other is his murderer.Which one? The sage or the fool? The star-gazer yonder? One of thoseyonder, ruminating in the darkness? Those men stealing up the stepsyonder? One of the dancers? The princess herself? She comes up to himagain, is very tender, nay, passionate. Hypocrite? Murderess? His love?Does she know? At any rate she is his. All this is to be his to-day.Night on the sea. Terror. Delight. The ship goes slowly on towards thatshore that lies hours or years away in the distance of the far-offmist. The princess is nestling at his feet. Ägidius stares into thenight and watches." Heinrich stopped as though personally affected.

Melodies rang in George's ear. He heard the music for the scene whenthe stranger disappears escorted by the mutes, and then gradually thenoise of the feast comes to the front of the stage. He did not feelit within him as a mere melody, but he already felt it with all itsfulness of instruments. Were there not flutes sounding and oboes andclarionets? Was not the 'cello singing and the violin? Was not a faintbeat of a drum droning out of a corner of the orchestra? Involuntarilyhe held up his right arm, as though he had his conductor's bâton inhis hand.

"And the third act?" asked Anna, as Heinrich remained silent.

"The third act," repeated Heinrich, and there was a touch of depressionin his voice. "The scene of the third act, of course, will be laid inthat hall on the cliff—don't you think so? It must, I think, beginwith a dialogue between the king and the stranger. Or with a chorus?There are no choruses on uninhabited islands. Anyway, the king is thereand the ship is in sight. But look here, why should the island beuninhabited?" He stopped.

"Well?" asked George impatiently.

Heinrich laid both his arms on the railing of the verandah. "I'll tellyou something. This isn't an opera at all...."

"What do you mean?"

"There are very good reasons for my not getting as far as this part ofit. It is a tragedy clearly. I just haven't got the courage to writeit. Do you know what would have to be described? The inner change inÄgidius would have to be described. That is clearly both the difficultyand the beauty of the subject-matter. In other words it is a thingwhich I daren't do. The opera idea is simply a way of getting out ofit, and I don't know if I ought to take on anything like that." He wassilent.

"But at any rate," said Anna, "you must tell us the end of the operaas you have got it in your mind. I must really admit that I'm quiteexcited."

Heinrich shrugged his shoulders and answered in a tired voice: "Well,the ship hoves to. Ägidius lands. He is to be hurled into the sea."

"By whom?" asked Anna.

"I've no idea at all," replied Heinrich unhappily. "From this point mymind is an absolute blank."

"I thought it would be the princess," said Anna, and waving her handthrough the air executed a death signal.

Heinrich smiled gently. "I thought of that, of course, also, but...."He broke off and suddenly looked up to the night sky in a state ofnervous tension.

"It was to finish with a kind of pardon, so far as your original draftwent," remarked George irritably. "But that, of course, is only goodenough for an opera. But now, as your Ägidius is the hero of a tragedy,of course he will have to be really hurled into the sea."

Heinrich raised his forefinger mysteriously and his features becameanimated again. "I think something is just dawning upon me. But don'tlet's talk about it for the time being, if you don't mind. It's perhapsreally been a sound thing that I told you the beginning."

"But if you think that I am going to do entr'acte music for you,"said George, without particular emphasis, "you are under a delusion."

Heinrich smiled, guiltily, indifferently and yet quite good-humouredly.Anna felt with concern that the whole business had fizzled out. Georgewas uncertain whether he ought to be irritated at his hopes beingdisappointed or be glad at being relieved of a kind of obligation. ButHeinrich felt as though the creations of his own mind were desertinghim in shadowy confusion, mockingly, without farewell and withoutpromising to come again.

He found himself alone and deserted in a melancholy garden, in thesociety of quite a nice man whom he knew very well, and a young ladywho meant nothing at all to him. He could not help thinking allof a sudden of a person who was travelling at this very hour in abadly-lighted compartment in despair and with eyes red with crying,towards dark mountains, worrying whether she would get there in timeto-morrow for her rehearsal. He now felt again that since that had cometo an end he was going downhill, for he had nothing left, he had noone left. The suffering of that wretched person, the victim of his ownagonizing hatred, was the only thing in the world. And who knew? Shemight be smiling at another the very next day, with those tearful eyesof hers, with her grief and longing still in her soul and a new joiede vivre already in her blood.

Frau Golowski appeared on the verandah. She was flurried and somewhatlate, and still carried her umbrella and had her hat on. Therese senther remembrances from town and wanted to arrange to come and see Annaagain the next day or so.

George, who was leaning up against a wooden pillar of the verandah,turned to Frau Golowski with that studious politeness which he alwaysostentatiously assumed when talking to her. "Won't you ask FräuleinTherese in both our names if she wouldn't care to stay out here fora day or two? The top room is quite at her service. I'm on the pointof going into the mountains for a short time, you know," he added, asthough he regularly slept in the little room at all other times.

Frau Golowski expressed her thanks. She would tell Therese. Georgelooked at his watch and saw that it was time to start for home. He andHeinrich then said good-bye. Anna accompanied both of them as far asthe garden door, remained standing a little while and watched them tillthey got on to the height where the Sommerhaidenweg began.

The little village at the bottom of the valley flowed past them inthe moonlight. The hills loomed pale like thin walls. The forestbreathed darkness. In the distance thousands of lights glittered outof the night mist of the summer town. Heinrich and George walked byeach other in silence and a sense of estrangement arose between them.George remembered that walk in the Prater in the previous autumn, whentheir first almost confidential talk had brought them near to eachother. How many talks had they not had since? But had they not all, asit were, gone into thin air? And to-day, too, George was unable towalk through the night with Heinrich without exchanging a word, as heused to do many a time with Guido or with Labinski without feeling anyloss of real sympathy. The silence became a strain. He began to talkof old Stauber, as that was the first subject to occur to him, andpraised his reliability and versatility. Heinrich was not very takenwith him and thought him somewhat intoxicated with the sense of his ownkindness, wisdom and excellence. That was another kind of Jew whichhe could not stand—the self-complacent kind. The conversation thenturned on young Stauber, whose vacillation between politics and sciencehad something extremely attractive about it for Heinrich. From thatthey turned into a conversation about the composition of parliament,about the squabbles between the Germans and the Tschechs and theattacks of the Clericals on the Minister of Education. They talkedwith that strained assiduousness with which one is accustomed to talkabout things which are absolutely indifferent to one in one's heart ofhearts. Finally they discussed the question whether the Minister oughtto remain in office or not after the dubious figure he had cut overthe civil marriage question, and had the vaguest ideas after they hadfinished as to which of them had been in favour of his resignation andwhich of them against it. They walked along the churchyard. Crossesand gravestones towered over the walls and floated in the moonlight.The path inclined downwards to the main road. They both hurried so asto catch the last tram, and standing on the platform in the sultryscented night air drove towards the town. George explained that hethought of doing the first part of his tour on his cycle. Obeying asudden impulse, he asked Heinrich if he wouldn't like to join him.Heinrich agreed and after a few minutes manifested great keenness. Theygot out at the Schottentor, found out a neighbouring café and after anexhaustive consultation managed, with the help of special maps whichthey found in encyclopædias, to decide on every possible route. Whenthey left each other their plan was not indeed quite definite, but theyalready knew that they would leave Vienna early, the day after thenext, and would mount their cycles at Lambach.

George stood quite a long time by the open window of his bedroom. Hefelt intensely awake. He thought of Anna, from whom he was to partto-morrow for a few days, and visualised her as sleeping at this hourout there in the country in the pale twilight between the moonlight andthe morning. But he felt dully as though this image had nothing at allto do with his own fate, but with the fate of some unknown man, whohimself knew nothing about it. And he was absolutely unable to realisethat within that slumbering being there slept another being in stilldeeper mystery, and that this other being was to be his own child. Nowthat the sober mood of the early dawn stole almost painfully throughhis senses the whole episode seemed more remote and improbable thanit had ever been before. A clearer and clearer light showed above theroofs of the town, but it would be a long time before the town woke up.The air was perfectly motionless. No breeze came from the trees in thepark opposite, no perfume from the withered flower-beds. And Georgestood by the window; unhappy and without comprehension.

VII

George slowly climbed up from the hold on narrow carpeted steps betweenlong oblique mirrors and wrapped in a long dark green rug which trailedbehind him, wandered up and down on the empty deck beneath the starrysky. Motionless as ever, Labinski stood in the stern and turned thewheel, while his gaze was directed towards the open sea. "What acareer!" thought George. "First a dead man, then a minister, then alittle boy with a muff and now a steersman. If he knew that I were onthis ship he would certainly hail me." "Look out!" cried behind Georgethe two blue girls, whom he had met on the sea-shore, but he rushedon, wrapped himself in his rug and listened to the flapping of whitegulls over his head. Immediately afterwards he was in the saloon, downbelow, sitting at the table, which was so long that the people at theend were quite small. A gentleman near him, who looked like the elderGrillparzer, remarked irritably: "This boat's always late. We ought tohave been in Boston a long time ago." George then felt very nervous;for if he could not show the three music scores in the green cover whenhe disembarked, he would certainly be arrested for high treason. Thatwas why the prince who had been rushing all over the deck with thewheel all day long often cast such strange side-glances at him. And tointensify his suspicions still more he was compelled to sit at table inhis shirtsleeves while all the other gentlemen wore generals' uniforms,as they always did on boats, and all the ladies wore red velvetdresses. "We shall soon be in America," said a raucous steward who wasserving asparagus. "Only one more station."

"The others can sit there quietly," thought George. "They havenothing to do, but I must swim to the theatre straight away." Thecoast appeared opposite him in the great mirror; nothing but houseswithout roofs, whose tiers of terraces towered higher and higher,and the orchestra was waiting impatiently up above in a quiet kioskwith a broken stone cupola. The bell on the deck pealed and Georgetumbled down the steps into the park with his green rug and two pockethandkerchiefs. But they had shipped the wrong one across; it wasthe Stadtpark, as a matter of fact; Felician was sitting on a seat,an old lady in a cloak close to him put her fingers on her lips,whistled very loudly and Felician said, with an unusually deep voice:"Kemmelbach—Ybs." "No," thought George, "Felician never uses a wordlike that ..." rubbed his eyes and woke up.

The train was just starting again. Two red lamps were shining in frontof the closed window of the compartment. The night ran past, silent andblack. George drew his travelling rug closer round him and stared atthe green shaded lamp in the ceiling. "What a good thing that I'm alonein the compartment," he thought. "I have been sound asleep for at leastfour or five hours. What a strange confused dream that was!" The whitegulls first came back into his memory. Did they have any significance?Then he thought of the old woman in the cloak, who of course was noother than Frau Oberberger. The lady would not feel particularlyflattered. But really, hadn't she looked quite like an old lady, whenhe had seen her a few days ago by the side of her beaming husband inthe box of the little red-and-white theatre of the watering-place?And Labinski, too, had appeared to him in his dream as a steersman,strangely enough. And the girls in blue dresses, also, who had lookedout of the hotel garden into the piano room through the window as soonas they heard him playing. But what was the really ghostly element inthat dream?

Not the girls in blue, not even Labinski, and not the Prince ofGuastalla, who had rushed like mad to the wheel over the deck. No, itwas his own figure which had appeared to him so ghostly as it had slunkalong by his side multiplied a hundred times over in the long obliquemirrors on both sides. He began to feel cold. The cool night airpenetrated into the compartment through the ventilator in the ceiling.The deep black darkness outside gradually changed into a heavy greyand there suddenly rang in George's ears in a sad whisper the words hehad heard only a few hours ago in a woman's low voice: How soon willit take you to forget me?... He did not wish to hear those words. Hewished they had already become true, and in desperation he plunged backinto the memory of his dream. It was quite clear that the steamer onwhich he had gone to America on his concert tour really meant the shipon which Ägidius had sailed towards his sinister fate. And the kioskwith the orchestra was the hall where Ägidius had waited for death. Thestarry sky which spread over the sea had been really wonderful. Theair had been bluer and the stars more silvery than he had ever seenthem in waking life, even on the night when he had sailed with Gracefrom Palermo to Naples. Suddenly the voice of the woman he loved rangthrough the darkness again, whispering and mournful: "How long will ittake you to forget me?"... And he now visualised her as he had seen hera few hours ago, pale and naked, with her dark hair streaming over thepillows. He did not want to think of it, conjured up other images fromthe depths of his memory and deliberately chased them past him. He sawhimself going round a cemetery in the thawing February snow with Grace;he saw himself riding with Marianne over a white country road towardsthe wintry forest. He saw himself walking with his father over theRingstrasse in the late evening; and finally a merry-go-round whirledpast him. Sissy with her laughing lips and eyes was rocking about ona brown wooden horse. Else, graceful and ladylike, was sitting in alittle red carriage, and Anna rode an Arab with the reins nonchalantlyin her hand. Anna! How young and graceful she looked! Was that reallythe same being whom he was to see again in a few hours? and had hereally only been away from her for ten days? And was he ever to seeagain all that he had left ten days ago? The little angel in blueclay between the flower-beds, the verandah with the wooden gable, thesilent garden with the currant- and the lilac-bushes? It all seemedabsolutely inconceivable. She will wait for me on the white seat underthe pear-tree, he thought, and I will kiss her hands as though nothinghad happened.

"How are you, George dear?" she will ask me. "Have you been true tome?" No.... That's not her way of asking, but she will feel withoutasking at all or my answering that I have not come back the same as Iwent away. If she only does feel it! If I am only saved from having tolie! But haven't I done so already? And he thought of the letters whichhe had written from the lake, letters full of tenderness and yearning,which had really been nothing but lies. And he thought of how he hadwaited at night with a beating heart, his ear glued to the door, tillall was quiet in the inn; of how he had then stolen over the passageto that other woman who lay there pale and naked, with her dark eyeswide open, enveloped in the perfume and bluish shimmer of her hair.And he thought of how he and she one night, half drunken with desireand audacity, had stepped out on to the verandah, beneath which thewater plashed so seductively. If any one had been out on the lake inthe deep darkness of this hour he would have seen their white bodiesshining through the night. George thrilled at the memory. We were outof our senses, he thought; how easily it might have happened that Ishould be lying to-day with a bullet through my heart six feet underthe ground. Of course there's still a chance of it. They all know.Else knew first, though she scarcely ever came down from Auhof intothe village. James Wyner, who saw me with the other woman one eveningstanding on the landing-stage is bound to have told her. Will Elsemarry him? I can understand her liking him so much. He is handsome,that chiselled face, those cold grey eyes which look shrewd andstraight into the world, a young Englishman. Who knows if he wouldn'thave turned into a kind of Oskar Ehrenberg in Vienna? And Georgeremembered what Else had told him about her brother. He had struckGeorge as so self-possessed, almost mature in fact, on his sick-bedin the nursing-home. And now he was said to be leading a wild life inOstend, to be gambling and gadding about with the most evil associates,as though he wanted to go thoroughly to the dogs. Did Heinrich stillfind the matter so tragi-comic? Frau Ehrenberg had grown quite whitewith grief. And Else had cried her eyes out in front of George onemorning in the grounds; but had she only been crying about Oskar?

The grey in front of the compartment window slowly cleared. Georgewatched the telegraph wires outside sweeping and shifting across eachother with swift movements and he thought of how, yesterday afternoon,his own lying words to Anna had travelled across one of these wires:"Shall be with you early to-morrow morning. Fondest love, your ownGeorge."... He had hurried back straight from the post-office to anardent and desperate final hour with the other woman, and he couldnot realise that even at this very minute, when he had already beenaway from her for a whole eternity, she should still be lying asleepand dreaming in that same room with the fast-closed windows. And shewill be home this evening with her husband and children. Home—justas he would be. He knew that it was so and he could not understandit. For the first time in his life he had been near doing somethingwhich people would probably have had to call madness. Only one wordfrom her ... and he would have gone out with her into the world,have left everything behind, friends, mistress and his unborn child.And was he not still ready to do so? If she called him would he notgo? And if he did do so would he not be right? Was he not far morecut out for adventures of that kind than for the quiet life full ofresponsibilities which he had chosen for himself? Was it not ratherhis real line to career boldly and unhesitatingly about the world thanto be stuck somewhere or other with his wife and child, with all thebothers about bread-and-butter, his career and at the best a littlefame? In the days from which he had just come he had felt that he wasliving, perhaps for the first time. Each moment had been so rich andso full, and not only those spent in her arms. He had suddenly grownyoung again. The country had flowered with a greater splendour, thearc of the sky had grown wider, the air which he drank had exhaleda finer spice and strength, and melodies had rippled within him asnever before. Had he ever composed anything better than that wordlesssong to be sung on the water with its sprightly rocking melody? Andthat fantasy had risen strangely by the shore of the lake one hourout of depths of his which he had never dreamt of, after he had seenthe wondrous woman for the first time. Well, Herr Hofrat Wilt wouldno longer have occasion to regard him as a dilettante. But why did hethink of him of all people? Did the others know what kind of a man hewas any better? Didn't it often seem to him as though even Heinrich,who had once wanted to write an opera libretto for him, had failed tojudge him any more accurately? And he heard again the words which theauthor had spoken to him that morning when they had cycled from Lambachto Gmunden through the dew-wet forest. "You need not do creative workin order to realise yourself ... you do not need work ... only theatmosphere of your art...." He suddenly remembered an evening in thekeeper's lodge on the Alamsee when a huntsman of seventy-three had sungsome jolly songs and Heinrich had wondered at any one of that age beingstill so jolly, since one would be bound to feel oneself so near one'sdeath. Then they had gone to bed in an enormous room which echoed alltheir words, philosophised about life and death for a long time, andsuddenly fallen asleep.

George was still motionless as he lay stretched out in his rug andconsidered whether he should tell Heinrich anything about his meetingwith his actress. How pale she had grown when she had suddenly seenhim. She had listened, with roving eyes, to his account of the cycletour with Heinrich and then begun to tell him straight away about hermother and her little brother who could draw so wonderfully finely.And the other members of the company had kept staring all the timefrom the stage door, particularly a man with a green tyrol hat, inwhich a chamois' beard was stuck. And George had seen her play the sameevening in a French farce, and asked himself if the pretty young personwho acted and pranced about so wildly down on the stage of the littleholiday theatre could really be so desperate as Heinrich imagined. Notonly he but James and Sissy as well had liked her very much. What ajolly evening it had been! And the supper after the theatre with James,Sissy, old mother Wyner and Willy Eissler! And next day the ride in thefour-in-hand of old Baron Löwenstein, who drove himself. In less thanan hour they had reached the lake. A boat was rowing near the bankin the early sunshine. And the woman he loved sat on the rowing-seatwith a green silk shawl over her shoulders. But how was it that Sissyalso had divined the relationship between him and her? And then themerry dinner at the Ehrenbergs' up at Auhof! George sat between Elseand Sissy, and Willy told one funny story after the other. And thenon the afternoon, George and Sissy had found each other without anyrendezvous in the dark green sultriness of the park amid the warm scentof the moss and the pines, while all the others were resting. It hadbeen a wonderful hour, which had floated through this day as lightlyas a dream, without vows of troth and without fear of fulfilment. HowI like thinking every single minute of it all over again, savouringit to the full, that golden day! I see both of us, Sissy and myself,going down over the fields to the tennis-court, hand in hand. I thinkI played better than I ever did in my life.... And I see Sissy againlounging in a cane chair, with a cigarette between her lips and oldBaron Löwenstein at her side, while her looks flamed towards Willy.What had become of me at that moment, so far as she was concerned? Andthe evening! How we swam out in the twilight into the lake, while thewarm water caressed me so deliciously. What a delight that was! Andthen the night ... the night....

The train stopped again. It was already quite light outside. Georgelay still, as before. He heard the name of the station called out;the voices of waiters, conductors and travellers; heard steps on theplatform, station-signals of all kinds, and he knew that in an hour hewould be in Vienna.... Supposing Anna had received information abouthim, just as Heinrich had about his mistress the previous winter? Hecould not imagine that a thing like that could make Anna lose controlof herself, even if she believed in it. Perhaps she would cry, butcertainly only to herself, quite quietly. He resolved firmly not tolet her notice anything. Was not that his plain duty? What was theimportant thing now? Only this, that Anna should spend the last weeksquietly and without excitement, and that a healthy child should comeinto the world. That was all that mattered. How long had it been sincehe had heard Doctor Stauber say those words? The child...! How nearthe hour was, the child.... He thought again; but he could think ofnothing except the mere word. He then endeavoured to imagine a tinyliving being. But as though to mock him figures of small children keptappearing, who looked as though they had stepped out of a picture-book,drawn grotesquely and in crude colours. Where will it spend its firstyears? he thought. With peasants in the country, in a house with alittle garden. But one day we will fetch it and take it home with us.It might, too, turn out differently. One gets a letter like this: YourExcellency, I have the honour to inform you that the child is seriouslyill.... Or.... What is the point of thinking about things like that?Even though we kept it with us it might fall ill and die.

Anyway, it must be given to people who are highly responsible. I'llsee about it myself.... He felt as though he were confronted with newduties which he had never properly considered and which he had not yetgrown able to cope with. The whole business was beginning, as it were,over again. He came out of a world in which he had not bothered aboutall these things, where other laws had prevailed than those to which hemust now submit.

And had it not been as though the other people, too, had felt thathe was not really one of them, as though they had been steeped ina kind of respect, as though they had been seized by a feeling ofveneration for the power and holiness of a great passion, whose swaythey witnessed in their own neighbourhood? He remembered an evening onwhich the hotel visitors had disappeared from the piano-room one afteranother, as though they had been conscious of their duty to leave himalone with her. He had sat down at the piano and begun to improvise.She had remained in her dark corner in a big arm-chair. First of allhe had seen her smile, then the dark shining of her eyes, then onlythe lines of her figure, then nothing more at all. But he had beenconscious the whole time "She is there!" Lights flashed out on theother bank opposite. The two girls in the blue dresses had peered inthrough the window and had quickly disappeared again. Then he stoppedplaying and remained sitting by the pianoforte in silence. Then shehad come slowly out of the corner like a shadow and had put her handupon his head. How ineffably beautiful that had been! And it all cameinto his mind again. How they had rested in the boat in the middle ofthe lake, with shipped oars, while his head was in her lap! And theyhad walked through the forest paths on the opposite bank until theycame to the seat under the oak. It had been there that he had told hereverything—everything as though to a friend. And she had understoodhim, as never another woman had understood him before. Was it notshe whom he had always been seeking? she who was at once mistressand comrade, with a serious outlook upon everything in the world,and yet made for every madness and for every bliss? And the farewellyesterday.... The dark brilliance of her eyes, the blue-black streamof her loosened hair, the perfume of her white naked body.... Was itreally possible that this was over for ever? that all this was never,never to come again?

George crumpled the rug between his fingers in his helpless longing andshut his eyes. He no longer saw the softly moving lines of the woodedhills, which swept by in the morning light, and as though for one lasthappiness he dreamed himself back again into the dark ecstasies ofthat farewell hour. Yet against his will he was overcome by fatigueafter the jar and racket of the night in the train, and he was sweptaway out of the images which he had himself called up, in a route ofwild dreams which it was not vouchsafed him to control. He walkedover the Sommerhaidenweg in a strange twilight that filled him with adeep sadness. Was it morning? Was it evening? Or just a dull day? Orwas it the mysterious light of some star over the world that had notyet shone for any one except him? He suddenly stood upon a great openmeadow where Heinrich Bermann ran up and down and asked him: Are youalso looking for the lady's castle? I have been expecting you for along time. They went up a spiral staircase, Heinrich in front, so thatGeorge could only see a tail of the overcoat which trailed behind.Above, on an enormous terrace which gave a view of the town and thelake, the whole party was assembled. Leo had started his dissertationon minor harmonies, stopped when George appeared, came down from hisdesk and himself escorted him to a vacant chair which was in the firstrow and next to Anna. Anna smiled ecstatically when George appeared.She looked young and brilliant in a splendid décolletée eveningdress. Just behind her sat a little boy with fair hair, in a sailorsuit with a broad white collar, and Anna said "That's he." George madeher a sign to be silent, for it was supposed to be a secret. In themeanwhile Leo played the C sharp minor Nocturne by Chopin in orderto prove his theory, and behind him old Bösendorfer leaned againstthe wall in his yellow overcoat, tall, gaunt and good-natured. Theyall left the concert-room in a great crush. Then George put Anna'sopera cloak round her shoulders and looked sternly at the people roundhim. He then sat in the carriage with her, kissed her, experienced agreat delight in doing so and thought: "If it could only be like thisalways." Suddenly they stopped in front of the house in Mariahilf.There were already many pupils waiting upstairs by the window andbeckoning. Anna got out, said good-bye to George with an archexpression and vanished behind the door, which slammed behind her.

"Excuse me, sir. Ten minutes more," some one said. George turned round.The conductor stood in the doorway and repeated: "We shall be in Viennain ten minutes."

"Thank you," said George and got up, with a more or less confusedhead. He opened the window and was glad it was fine weather outside inthe world. The fresh morning air quite cheered him up. Yellow walls,signal-boxes, little gardens, telegraph poles, streets, flew past him,and finally the train stood in the station. A few minutes later Georgewas driving in an open fiacre to his apartment, saw workmen, shop girlsand clerks going to their daily callings; heard the rattle of rollingshutters and in spite of all the anxiety which awaited him, in spite ofall the desire which drew him elsewhere, he experienced the deep joy ofonce more being at home.

When he went into his room he felt quite hidden. The old secretary,covered with green baize, the malachite letter-weight, the glassash-tray with its burnt-in cavalier, the slim lamp with the broad greenthick glass shade, the portrait of his father and mother in the narrowmahogany frames, the round little marble table in the corner with itssilver case for cigars, the Prince of the Electorate, after Vandyck onthe wall, the high bookcase with its olive-coloured curtains; they allgave him a hearty greeting. And how it did one good to have that goodhome look over the tree tops in the park, towards the spires and roofs.An almost undreamt-of happiness streamed towards him from everythingwhich he found again here, and he felt sore at heart that he wouldhave to leave it all in a few weeks. And how long would it last untilone had a home, a real home? He would have liked to have stopped for afew hours in his beloved room but he had no time. He had to be in thecountry before noon.

He had thrown off his clothes and let the warm water swirl round himdeliciously in his white bath. To avoid going to sleep in his bath hechose a means he had often employed before. He rehearsed in his mindnote by note a fugue of Bach's. He thought of a pianoforte that wouldhave to be diligently practised and music scores which would have tobe read. Wouldn't it really be more sensible to devote another year tostudy? Not to enter into negotiations straight away or to take a post,which he would turn out to be unable to fill? Rather to stay here andwork. Stay here? But where? Notice had been given. It occurred to himfor a moment to take the apartment in the old house opposite the greychurch, where he had spent such beautiful hours with Anna, and it wasas though he were remembering a long-past episode, an adventure of hisyouth, gay and yet a little mysterious, that had been over long ago....

He went back into his room, refreshed and wearing a brand-new suit,the first light one which he had put on since his father's death. Aletter lay on the secretary which had just arrived by the first post,from Anna. He read it. It was only a few words: "You are here again, mylove—I welcome you. I do long to see you. Don't keep me waiting toolong. Your Anna...."

George got up. He did not himself know what it was in the short letterthat touched him so strangely. Anna's letters had always retained, inspite of all their tenderness, a certain precise, almost conventionalelement, and he had frequently jokingly called them "proclamations."This was couched in a tone that reminded him of the passionate girlof by-gone days, of that love of his whom he had almost forgotten,and a strangely unexpected anxiety seized on his heart. He rusheddownstairs, took the nearest fiacre and drove to the country. He soonfelt agreeably distracted by the sight of the people in the streetswho meant nothing to him at all; and later, when he was near thewood, he felt soothed by the charm of the blue summer day. Suddenly,sooner than George had anticipated, the vehicle stopped in front ofthe country house. Involuntarily George first looked up to the balconyunder the gable. A little table was standing there with a white coverand a little basket on it. Oh yes, Therese had been staying here for afew days. He now remembered for the first time. Therese...! Where wasit now? He got out, paid the carriage and went into the front gardenwhere the blue angel stood on its unpretentious pedestal amid the fadedflower-beds. He stepped into the house. Marie was just laying the tablein the large centre room. "Madam's over there in the garden," she said.

The verandah door was open. The planks of its floor creaked underneathGeorge's feet. The garden with its perfume and its sultriness receivedhim. It was the old garden. During all the days in which George hadbeen far away it had lain there silently, just as it was lying at thisminute; in the dawn, in the sunshine, in the twilight, in the darknessof night; always the same.... The gravel path cut straight through thefield to the heights. There were children's voices on the other sideof the bushes from which red berries were hanging. And over there onthe white seat, with her elbow on its arm, very pale, in her flowingblue morning dress, yes, that was Anna. Yes, really she. She had seenhim now. She tried to get up. He saw it, and saw at the same time thatshe found it difficult. But why? Was she spell-bound by excitement? Orwas the hour of trial so near? He signed to her with his hand that shewas to remain seated, and she really did sit down again, and only juststretched out her arms lightly towards him. Her eyes were shining withbliss. George walked very quickly, with his grey felt hat in his hand,and now he was at her side.

"At last," she said, and it was a voice which came from as far back asthose words in her letter of this morning. He took her hands, shookthem in a strange clumsy way, felt a lump in his throat, but was stillunable to articulate anything and just nodded and smiled. And suddenlyhe knelt before her on the grass, with her hands in his and his head inher lap. He felt her lightly taking her hands away, and putting them onhis head; and then he heard himself crying quite softly. And he felt asthough he were in a sweet vague dream, a little boy again and lying athis mother's feet, and this moment were already a mere memory, painfuland far away, even while he was living it.

VIII

Frau Golowski came out of the house. George could see her from thetop end of the garden as she stepped on to the verandah. He hurriedexcitedly towards her, but as soon as she saw him in the distance sheshook her head.

"Not yet?" asked George.

"The Professor thinks," replied Frau Golowski, "some time before dark."

"Some time before dark," said George and looked at his watch. And nowit was only three.

She held out her hand sympathetically and George looked into her kindeyes, which were somewhat tired by her nocturnal vigils. The whitetransparent curtain in front of Anna's window had just been slightlydrawn back. Old Doctor Stauber appeared by the window, threw George afriendly reassuring glance, disappeared again and the curtains weredrawn. Frau Rosner was sitting in the large centre room by the roundtable. George could only see from the verandah the outlines of herfigure; her face was quite in the shade. Then a whimpering and then aloud groan forced their way from the room in which Anna lay. Georgestared up at the window, stood still for a while, then turned roundand walked for the hundredth time to-day up the path to the top of thegarden. It is clear that she is already too weak to shriek, he thought;and his heart pained him. She had lain in labour for two whole days andtwo whole nights. The third day was now approaching its end,—and nowit was still to last until evening came. On the evening of the firstday Doctor Stauber had called in the Professor, who had been theretwice yesterday and had remained in the house since noon to-day. WhileAnna had gone to sleep for a few minutes, and the nurse was watching byher bed, he had walked up and down in the garden with George and hadendeavoured to explain to him all the peculiar features of the case.For the time being there was no ground for anxiety. They could hear thechild's heart beating quite clearly. The Professor was a still fairlyyoung man with a long blonde beard, and his words trickled gently andkindly like drops of some anodyne drug. He spoke to the sick woman likea child, stroked her over the hair and forehead, caressed her hands andgave her pet names. George had learned from the nurse that this youngdoctor exhibited the same devotion and same patience at every sick-bed.What a profession! thought George, who had once, during these threebad days, fled to Vienna for a few hours, which enabled a man to havea sound dreamless sleep for six good hours up there in the attic thisvery night while Anna was writhing in pain.

He walked along by the faded lilac-bushes, tore off leaves,crunched them in his hand and threw them on the ground. A lady in ablack-and-white striped morning dress was walking in the next gardenon the other side of the low bushes. She looked at George seriouslyand almost sympathetically. Quite so! thought George. Of course sheheard Anna's screams the day before yesterday, yesterday and to-day.The whole place in fact knew of what was happening there; even theyoung girls in the outré Gothic villa, who had once taken him forthe interesting seducer; and there was real humour in the fact that astrange gentleman with a reddish pointed beard, who lived two housesaway, should have suddenly greeted him yesterday in the village withrespectful understanding.

Remarkable, thought George, how one can make oneself popular withpeople. But Frau Rosner let it be seen that even though she didnot regard George as mainly responsible for the seriousness of theposition she certainly regarded him as somewhat callous. He did notbear any grudge for this against the poor good woman. She could notof course have any idea how much he loved Anna. It was not longsince he had known it himself. She had not addressed any question tohim on that morning of his arrival when George had lifted his headoff her lap after a long silent fit of weeping, but he had read inthe painful surprise of her eyes that she guessed the truth, and hethought he understood why she did not question him. She must realisehow completely she possessed him again, how henceforth he belonged toher more than he had ever done before, and when he told her in thesubsequent hours and days of the time which he had spent far away fromher, and that now fateful name resounded casually but yet insistentlyout of the catalogue of the women whom he had met, she smiled, nodoubt, in her slightly mocking way, but scarcely differently than whenhe spoke of Else or Sissy, or the little girls in their blue dresseswho had peeped into the music-room when he was playing.

He had been living in the villa for two weeks, had been feeling welland in good form for serious work. He spread out every morning on thelittle table, where Therese's needlework had lain a short time ago,scores, works on musical theory, musical writing-paper, and occupiedhimself with solving problems in harmony and counterpoint. He often laydown in the meadow by the edge of the forest and read some favouritebook or other, let melodies ring within him, indulged in day-dreams andwas quite happy, with the rustling of the trees and the brilliance ofthe sun. In the afternoon, when Anna was resting, he would read aloudor talk to her. They often talked with affectionate anticipation aboutthe little creature that was soon to come into the world, but neverabout their own future, whether distant or immediate. But when hesat by her bed, or walked up and down the garden with her arm-in-arm,or sat by her side on the white seat under the pear-tree, where theshining stillness of the late summer day rested above them, he knewthey were tied fast to each other for all time, and that even thetemporary separation with which they were faced could have no power toaffect them in view of the certain feeling that they were all in all toeach other.

It was only since the pains had come upon her that she seemed removedfrom him to a sphere where he could not follow her. Yesterday he hadsat by her bed for hours and had held her hand in his. She had beenpatient, as always, had anxiously inquired if he were quite comfortablein the house, had begged him to work and go for walks as he had donebefore, since after all he could not help her, and had assured him thatsince she was suffering she loved him even more. And yet she was notthe same, George felt, as she had been during these days. Particularlywhen she screamed out—as she had this morning in her worst pains—hersoul was so far away from him that he felt frightened.

He was near the house again. No noise came from Anna's room, in frontof the window of which the curtains moved slightly. Old Doctor Stauberwas standing on the verandah. George hastened towards him with a drythroat. "What is it?" he asked hastily.

Doctor Stauber put his hand on his shoulder. "Going on nicely."

A groan came from within, grew louder, grew into a wild frenziedscream. George passed his hand over his damp forehead and said to thedoctor with a bitter smile: "Is that what you mean by going on nicely?"

Stauber shrugged his shoulders. "It is written, 'With pain shaltthou....'"

George felt a certain sense of resentment. He had never believed inthe God of the childishly pious, who was supposed to reveal himself asthe fulfiller of the wishes of wretched men and women, as the avengerand forgiver of miserable human sins. The Nameless One which he feltin the infinite beyond his senses, and transcending all understanding,could only regard prayer and blasphemy as poor words out of a humanmouth. Not even when his mother had died, after the senseless martyrdomof her suffering, not even when his father had died, passing awaypainlessly so far as he could understand, had he presumed to indulge inthe belief that his own personal misfortunes in the world's progresssignified more than the falling of a leaf. He had not bowed down incowardly humility to any inscrutable solution of the riddle, nor had hefoolishly murmured against an ungracious power of whose decrees he wasthe personal victim.

To-day he felt for the first time as though somewhere or other in theclouds an incomprehensible game was being played in which his ownfortunes were the stakes. The scream within had died away and onlygroans were audible.

"And the beating of the heart?" asked George.

Doctor Stauber looked at him. "It could still be heard clearly tenminutes ago."

George fought against a dreadful thought which had been hounded up outof the depths of his soul. He was healthy, she was healthy, two strongyoung people.... Could anything like that be really possible?

Doctor Stauber put his hand on his shoulder again. "Go for a walk," hesaid. "We'll call you as soon as it's time." And he turned away.

George remained standing on the verandah for another minute. He sawFrau Rosner sitting huddled up in solitary brooding on the sofa nearthe wall in the large room that was beginning to grow dim in the shadeof the late afternoon. He went away, walked round the house and wentup the wooden stairs into his attic. He threw himself on the bed andshut his eyes. After a few minutes he got up, walked up and down inthe room, but gave up doing so as the floor creaked. He went on to thebalcony. The score of Tristan lay open on the table. George lookedat the music. It was the prelude to the third act. The music rang inhis ears. The sea waves were beating heavily on a cliff shore, and outof the mournful distance rang the sad melody of an English horn. Helooked over the pages far away into the silver-white brilliance of thedaylight. There was sunshine everywhere—on the roofs, paths, gardens,hills and forests. The sky was spread out in its azure vastness and thesmell of the harvest floated up from the depths. How were things withme a year ago? thought George. I was in Vienna, quite alone. I had notan idea. I had sent her a song ... 'Deinem Blick mich zu bequemen'... but I scarcely gave her a thought ... and now she lies down theredying.... He gave a violent start. He had meant to say mentally ..."She is lying in labour," and the words "lies dying" had as it werestolen their way on to his lips. But why was he so frightened? Howchildish! As though there existed presentiments like that! And if therereally were danger, and the doctors had to decide, then of course theywould have to save the mother. Why, Doctor Stauber had only explainedthat to him a few days ago. What, after all, is a child that hasn'tyet lived? Nothing. He had begotten it at some moment or other withouthaving wished it, without having even thought of the possibility thathe might have become a father. How did he know either that in thatdark hour of ecstasy, behind closed blinds a few weeks ago he had not... also become a father without having wished it, without having eventhought of the possibility; and perhaps it might have happened withouthis ever knowing!

He heard voices and looked down; the Professor's coachman had caughthold of the arm of the housemaid, who was only slightly resisting.Perhaps the foundations are being laid here too of a new human life,thought George, and turned away in disgust. Then he went back into hisroom, carefully filled his cigarette-case out of the box that stoodon the table, and it suddenly seemed to him that his excitement wasbaseless and even childish, and it occurred to him: "My mother, too,once lay like that before I came into the world, just as Anna is doingnow. I wonder if my father walked about as nervously as I am doing? Iwonder if he would be here now if he were still alive? I wonder if Iwould have told him at all? I wonder if all this would have happenedif he had lived?" He thought of the beautiful serene summer days bythe Veldeser Lake. His comfortable room in his father's villa sweptup in his memory and in some vague way, almost dreamwise, the bareattic with the creaking floor in which he now found himself seemed totypify his whole present existence in contrast to that former lifewhich had been so free from care and responsibility. He remembered aserious talk about the future which he had had a few days ago withFelician. Immediately after this thought there came into his mind theconversation which he had had with a woman in the country, who hadintroduced herself with the offer to take charge of the child. She andher husband possessed a small property near the railway, only an houraway from Vienna, and her only daughter had died in the previous year.She had promised that the little one should be well looked after, aswell, in fact, as though it were not a stranger's at all, and as Georgethought of this he suddenly felt as though his heart were standingstill. It will be there before dark.... The child.... His child, but astrange woman was waiting somewhere to take it away with her. He wasso tired after the excitement of the last few days that his knees hurthim. He remembered having previously felt similar physical sensations,the evening after his "leaving-examination" and the time when he hadlearnt of Labinski's suicide. How different, how joyful, how full ofhope had been his mood three days ago, just before the pains began! Henow felt nothing except an unparalleled dejection, while he found themusty smell of the attic more and more unpleasant. He lit a cigaretteand stepped on to the balcony again. The warm silent air did him good.The sunshine still lay on the Sommerhaidenweg and a gilded cross shoneover the walls from the direction of the churchyard.

He heard a noise beneath him. Steps? Yes, steps and voices too. Heleft the balcony and the room and rushed down over the creaking woodenstaircase. A door opened, steps were hurrying over the floor. The nextmoment he was on the bottom step opposite Frau Golowski. His heartstood still. He opened his mouth without asking.

"Yes," she nodded, "a boy."

He gripped both her hands and felt, while he was beaming all over, astream of happiness was running through his soul with a potency andintense warmth that he had never anticipated. He suddenly noticed thatFrau Golowski's eyes were not shining as brightly as they certainlyought to have. The stream of happiness within him ebbed back. Somethingchoked his throat. "Well?" he said. Then he added, almost menacingly:"Does it live?"

"It just breathed once.... The Professor hopes...."

George pushed the woman on one side, reached the great centre room inthree strides and stood still as though spell-bound. The Professor, ina long white linen apron, held a small creature in his arms and rockedit hurriedly to and fro. George stood still. The Professor nodded tohim and went on undisturbed with what he was doing. He was examiningthe little creature in his arms with scrutinising eyes, he put it onthe table, over which a white linen cloth had been spread, made thechild's limbs execute violent exercises, rubbed its breast and face,then lifted it high up several times in succession, and George alwayssaw how the child's head drooped heavily on to its breast. Then thedoctor put it on to the linen cloth, listened with his ear on itsbosom, got up, put one hand on its little body and motioned gently withthe other to George to approach.

Involuntarily holding his breath George came quite near him. He lookedfirst at the doctor and then at the little creature which lay on thewhite linen. It had its eyes quite open, strangely big blue eyes, likethose of Anna. The face looked quite different from what George hadexpected, not wrinkled and ugly like that of an old dwarf, no; it wasreally a human face, a silent beautiful child-face, and George knewthat these features were the image of his own.

The Professor said gently: "I've not heard its heart beat for the lasthour."

George nodded. Then he asked hoarsely: "How is she?"

"Quite well, but you mustn't go in yet, Herr Baron."

"No," replied George and shook his head. He stared at the immobilelittle body with its bluish shimmer and knew that he was standing infront of the corpse of his own child. Nevertheless he looked at thedoctor again and asked: "Can nothing more be done?"

He shrugged his shoulders.

George breathed deeply and pointed to the closed bedroom door. "Doesshe know yet——" He asked the doctor.

"Not yet. Let's be thankful for the time being that it is over. She hasgone through a lot, poor girl. I only regret that it should turn out tohave been for nothing."

"You expected it, Herr Professor?"

"I feared it since this morning."

"And why ... why?"

The doctor answered softly and gently: "A very exceptional case, as Itold you before."

"You told me...?"

"Yes, I tried to explain to you that this possibility ... it wasstrangled, you see, by the umbilical cord. Scarcely one or two percent. of births end like that." He was silent.

George gazed at the child. Quite right, the Professor had prepared himin advance only he had not taken it seriously. Frau Rosner was standingby him with helpless eyes. George held out his hand to her and theylooked at each other like persons whom the sore stress of circ*mstanceshas made companions in misfortune. Then Frau Rosner sank down on achair by the wall.

The Professor said to George: "I will now go and just have a look atthe mother."

"Mother!" repeated George, and gazed at him.

The doctor looked away.

"You will tell her?" asked George.

"No, not at once. Anyway, she will be ready for it. She asked severaltimes in the course of the day if it was still alive. It will not haveso dreadful an effect upon her as you fear, Herr Baron ... at any rateduring the first hours, the first days. You mustn't forget what she hasgone through."

He pressed George's limply-hanging hand and went.

George stood there motionless. He was gazing continually at the littlecreature, and it seemed to him a picture of undreamt-of beauty. Hetouched its cheeks, shoulders, arms, hands, fingers. How mysteriouslycomplete it all was! And there it lay, having died without havinglived, destined to go from one darkness into another, through asenseless nothingness. There it lay, the sweet tiny body which wasready for life and yet was unable to move. There they shone, those bigblue eyes, as though with desire to drink in the light of heaven, andcompletely blind before they had seen a ray. And there was the smallround mouth which was open as though with thirst, but yet could neverdrink at a mother's breast. There it gazed, that white child-face withits perfect human features, which was never to receive or feel thekiss of a mother, the kiss of a father. How he loved this child! Howhe loved it, now that it was too late! A choking despair rose withinhis throat. He could not cry. He looked around him. No one was in theroom and it was quite still next door. He had no desire to go into thatother room, nor had he any fear. He only felt that it would have beenrather senseless. His eye returned to the dead child, and suddenly thepoignant question thrilled through him whether it was really bound tobe true. Could not every one make a mistake, a physician as much as alayman? He held his open palm before the child's open lips and it wasas though something cool was breathed towards him. And then he heldboth hands over the child's breast and again it seemed as though alight puff were playing over the tiny body. But it felt just the sameas in the other place: no breath of life had blown towards him. Henow bent down again and his lips touched the child's cool forehead.Something strange, something he scarcely felt tingled through his bodyto the very tips of his toes. He knew it now; he had lost the game upthere in the clouds, his child was dead. Then he slowly lifted hishead and turned away. The sight of the garden tempted him into theopen. He stepped on to the verandah and saw Doctor Stauber and FrauRosner sitting on the seat that was propped against the wall—bothsilent. They looked at him. He turned away as though he did not knowthem and went into the garden. The shadow of the house fell obliquelyover the lawn, there was still sunlight higher up but it was dulland as though without the strength to illumine the air. Why did hewant to think of that light which was sun and yet did not shine, thatblue in the heights which was heaven and yet did not bless him? Whatwas the point of the silence of this garden, which should consoleand comfort him, and yet received him to-day as though it were somestrange inhospitable place? It gradually occurred to him that justsuch a twilight had enveloped him in a dream a short time ago with adreariness of which he had previously had no idea, and had filled hissoul with incomprehensible melancholy. What now? he said to himselfaloud. He did not seek for any answer, and only knew that somethingunforeseen and unalterable had happened that must change the face ofthe world for him for all time. He thought of the day when his fatherhad died. A wild grief had overwhelmed him then; yet he had beenable to cry and the world had not suddenly become dark and void. Hisfather had really lived, had once been young, had worked, loved, hadchildren, experienced joys and sorrows. And the mother who had bornehim had not suffered in vain. And even if he himself should have to dieto-day, however early it might be, he had nevertheless a life behindhim, a life full of light and music, happiness and suffering, hope andanxiety, steeped in all the fulness of the world. And even if Anna hadpassed away to-day, in the hour when she gave life to a new being, shewould as it were have fulfilled her lot and her end would have had itsterrible but none the less deep significance. But what had happened tohis child was senseless, was revolting—a piece of irony from somewhereor other, whither one could send no question and no answer. What wasthe point of it all? What had been the significance of these pastmonths with all their dreams, their troubles and their hopes? For heknew, all in a flash, that the expectation of the wonderful hour inwhich his child was to be born had always lain in the depths of hissoul every single day, even those which were most matter-of-fact,those which were most vacant, or those which were most wanton. And hefelt ashamed, impoverished, miserable.

He stood by the garden fence at the top end and looked towards theedge of the forest, towards his seat on which he had rested so often,and he felt as though forest and field and seat had previously beenhis possessions, and that he must now surrender them too, like somuch else. In a corner of the garden stood a dark grey neglectedsummer-house with three little window-apertures and a narrow openingfor a door. He had always disliked it, and had only gone in once for afew moments. To-day he felt drawn inside. He sat down on the crackedseat and suddenly felt hidden and soothed, as though all that hadhappened were less true or could in some inconceivable way be undone.Yet this hallucination soon vanished, he left the inhospitable room andstepped into the open.

I must now go back into the house again, he thought with a sense ofexhaustion, and could not quite realise that the dead body of hischild must be resting in the dark room, which he could see from herestretching behind the verandah like an unfathomable darkness. He walkedslowly down the garden. Anna's mother was standing with a gentlemanon the verandah. George recognised old Rosner. He stood there in hisovercoat, he had laid his hat in front of him on the table. He passed apocket handkerchief over his forehead and his red-lidded eyes twitched.He went towards George and pressed his hand. "What a pity that itturned out differently," he said, "than we had all hoped and expected!"

George nodded. He then remembered that the old gentleman's heart hadnot been quite right during the past week and inquired after his health.

"It is kind of you to ask, Herr Baron. I am a little better, only Ifind going uphill rather troublesome."

George noticed that the glass door that led to the centre room wasclosed. "Excuse me," he said to old Rosner, strode straight to thedoor, opened it and quickly closed it behind him. Frau Golowski andDoctor Stauber were standing near the table and speaking to each other.He walked up to them and they suddenly stopped talking.

"Well?" he inquired.

Doctor Stauber said: "We have been speaking about the ... formalities.Frau Golowski will be kind enough to see to all that."

"Thank you," replied George and held out his hand to Frau Golowski.

"All that," he thought. A coffin, a funeral, a notification to thelocal registry; a son born of Anna Rosner, spinster, died on the sameday. Nothing about the father of course. Yes, his part was finished.Only to-day? Had it not been finished the very second when quite bychance he became a father?

He looked at the table. The cloth was spread over the tiny corpse. Oh,how quick! he thought bitterly. Am I never to see it again? I supposeI may be allowed to, once. He drew the cloth a little away from thebody and held it high up. He saw a pale child-face which was quitefamiliar to him, only since then some one had closed the eyes. The oldgrandfather's clock in the corner ticked. Six o'clock. Scarcely an hourhad passed since his child had been born and died: the fact was alreadyas indisputably certain as though it could never have been otherwise.

He felt a light touch on the shoulder.

"She took it quietly," said Doctor Stauber, standing behind him.

George dropped the cloth over the child's face and turned his headtowards the side. "She already knows, then...?"

Doctor Stauber nodded. Frau Golowski had turned away.

"Who told her?" asked George.

"It wasn't necessary to tell her," replied Doctor Stauber, "was it?" Heturned to Frau Golowski.

The latter explained: "When I went in to her she just looked at me, andthen I saw at once that she already knew."

"And what did she say?"

"Nothing—nothing at all. She turned her eyes towards the window andwas quite still. She asked where you had gone, Herr Baron, and what youwere doing."

George breathed deeply. The door of Anna's room opened. The Professorcame out in a black coat. "She is quite quiet," he said to George. "Youcan go in to her."

"Did she speak to you about it?" asked George.

The Professor shook his head. Then he said: "I am afraid I must go intotown now; you'll excuse me, won't you? I hope things will go on allright. I shall be here early to-morrow any way. Good-bye, dear HerrBaron." He pressed his hand sympathetically. "You'll drive in with me,Doctor Stauber, won't you?"

"Yes," said Doctor Stauber, "I only want to say good-bye to Anna." Hewent.

George turned to the Professor. "May I ask you something?"

"Please do."

"I should very much like to know, Herr Professor, whether this issimply imagination. It seems to me, you know"—and he again lifted upthe cloth from the tiny corpse—"as though this child did not look likea new-born one, more beautiful, so to speak. I feel as though the facesof new-born children were bound to be more wrinkled, more like old men.I can't tell you whether I have ever seen one or whether I've only readabout it."

"You are quite right," replied the Professor. "It is just in cases ofthis kind, and also of course when things turn out more fortunately,that the features of the children are not distorted, are frequently,in fact, quite beautiful." He contemplated the little face withprofessional sympathy, nodded a few times: "Pity, pity" ... let thecloth fall down again, and George knew that he had seen his child'sface for the last time. What name would it have had? Felician....Good-bye, little Felician!

Doctor Stauber came out of the next room and gently closed the door."Anna is expecting you," he said to George. The latter gave him hishand, shook hands with the Professor again, nodded to Frau Golowski andwent into the next room.

The nurse got up from Anna's side and disappeared out of the room.Opposite the door hung a mirror in which George saw an elegant younggentleman who was pale and was smiling. Anna lay in her bed, whichstood clear in the middle of the room, with big clear eyes, whichlooked straight at George.

"What kind of a figure do I cut?" he thought. He pushed the chair closeto her bed with some ceremoniousness, sat down, grasped her hand, putit to his forehead and then kissed her fingers long and almost ardently.

Anna was the first to speak. "You were in the garden?" she asked.

"Yes, I was in the garden."

"I saw you come down from the top some time ago."

"You had better not talk, Anna. Don't you feel it a strain?"

"These few words! Oh no. But you can tell me something...."

He was holding her hand in his all the time and looking at her fingers.Then he said: "Do you know that there is a little summer-house at thetop end of the garden? Yes, of course you know.... I only mean, we'dnever properly realised it."

"I was in there a few times during the first week," said Anna. "I don'tlike it."

"No, indeed!"

"Have you done any work this morning?" she then asked.

"What an idea, Anna!"

She shook her head quite gently. "And recently you have been getting onso well with it."

He smiled.

She remained serious. "You were in town yesterday?" she asked.

"You know I was."

"Did you find any letters? I mean important ones."

"You should really not talk so much, Anna. I'll tell you everythingright enough. Well then, I found no letters of any importance. Therewas nothing from Detmold either. Anyway, I'll go and see ProfessorViebiger one of these days. But we can talk about these things anothertime, don't you think? And so far as work goes ... I've been havinganother look at Tristan this morning. I even know it down to thesmallest detail. I could trust myself to conduct it to-day, if it cameto the point."

She was silent and looked at him.

He remembered the evening when he had sat by her side at the Munichopera, as though enveloped in a transparent veil of the notes he lovedso well. But he said nothing about it.

It grew dark. Anna's features began to grow dim. "Are you going to townto-day?" she asked.

He had not thought of doing so. But he now felt as though a kind ofrelief were beckoning to him. Yes, he would go in. What, after all,could he do out here? But he did not answer at once.

Anna began again: "I think you would perhaps like to speak to yourbrother."

"Yes, I should like to very much. I suppose you are going to sleepsoon?"

"I hope so."

"How tired you must be," he said as he stroked her arm.

"No, it is rather different. I feel so awake ... I can't tell you howawake I feel.... It seems as though I had never been so awake in mywhole life. And I know at the same time that I'm going to sleep moredeeply than I ever have ... as soon as I've once closed my eyes."

"Yes, of course you will. But may I stay a bit longer with you? I'dreally like to go on sitting here till you've fallen asleep."

"No, George, if you are here I can't go to sleep. But just stay a bitlonger. It's so nice."

He held her hand all the time and looked out on to the garden, whichwas now lying in the twilight.

"You weren't very much up at Auhof this year?" said Anna indifferently,as though simply making conversation.

"Oh yes, nearly every day. Didn't I tell you?—I think Else will marryJames Wyner and go with him to England."

He knew that she was not thinking of Else but of some one quitedifferent. And he asked himself: Does she perhaps mean ... that that isthe reason?

A warm puff blew in from outside. Children's voices rang in. Georgelooked out. He saw the white seat gleaming under the pear-tree andthought of how Anna had waited for him there in her flowing dress,beneath the fruit-laden branches, girdled by the gentle miracle ofher motherhood. And he asked himself: "Was it fated then that it mustend like this? Or was it after all so fated at the moment when weembraced each other for the first time?" The Professor's remark thatone to two per cent. of all births ended like that came into his mind.So it was a fact that since people had started being born one or twoin every hundred must perish in this senseless fashion at the verymoment when they were brought into the light! And so many must die intheir first years, and so many in the flower of their youth, and somany as men. And again a fated number put an end to their own lives,like Labinski. And so many were doomed to fail in their attempt, as inOskar Ehrenberg's case. Why search for reasons? Some law is at work,incomprehensible and inexorable, which we men cannot struggle against.Who is entitled to complain? why should I be the victim? If it doesn'thappen to one, it will happen to another ... whether innocent or guiltylike he was. One to two per cent. get hit, that is heavenly justice.The children who were laughing in the garden opposite, they wereallowed to live. Allowed? No, they must live, even as his own childhad had to die, after the first breath it drew, doomed to travel fromone darkness into another, through a senseless nothingness.

It was twilight outside and it was almost night in the room. Anna laystill and motionless. Her hand did not move in George's, but whenGeorge got up he saw that her eyes were open. He bent down, hesitateda moment, then put his arm round her neck and kissed her on her lips,which were hot and dry and did not answer his touch. Then he went.In the next room the hanging lamp was alight over the table on whichthe dead child had lain some while back. The green tablecloth was nowspread out as though nothing had happened. The door of Frau Golowski'sroom was open. The light of a candle shone in, and George knew that hischild was sleeping in there, its first and last sleep.

Frau Golowski and Frau Rosner sat next to each other on the sofa by thewall, dumb, and as though huddled together. George went up to them."Has Herr Rosner gone already?" He turned to Frau Rosner.

"Yes, he rode into the town with the doctors," she answered, and lookedat him questioningly.

"She is quiet." George answered her look. "I think she will sleepsoundly."

"Won't you take something?" asked Frau Golowski. "You haven't since oneo'clock had...."

"No thanks, I'm going into town now. I want to speak to my brother.I am also expecting important letters. I'll be here again earlyto-morrow." He took his leave, went up to his attic, fetched theTristan score from the balcony into the room, took his stick andovercoat, lit a cigarette and left the house. As soon as he was in thestreet he felt freer. An awful upheaval lay behind him. It had endedunhappily, but at any rate it had ended. And Anna was bound to be allright. Of course with mothers as well there was the fated percentage.But it was clear that the possibility of an unfortunate issue wasaccording to the law of probabilities necessarily much less than if thechild had remained alive.

He walked through the straggling village with swift strides, tried notto think of anything and looked with forced attention at every singlehouse by which he passed. They were all mean, most of them positivelydreary and squalid. Behind them little gardens sloped up to vineyards,cultivated fields and meadows in the evening mist. In an almost emptyinn garden a few musicians were sitting by a long table, playing amelancholy waltz on violins, guitars and a concertina. Later on hepassed more presentable houses, and he looked in through open windowsinto decently lighted rooms in which there were tables laid for dinner.He eventually took his seat in a cheerful inn garden, as far away aspossible from the other not very numerous customers. He took his mealand soon felt a salutary fatigue come over him. On the tram he almostdozed off in his corner. It was only when the conveyance was drivingthrough more lively streets that he thoroughly woke up and rememberedwhat had happened, with an agonising but arid precision. He got out andwalked home through the moist sultriness of the Stadtpark. Felician wasnot at home. He found a telegram lying on his secretary. It was fromDetmold and ran as follows: "We request you kindly to inform us if youcan possibly come to us within the next three days. This offer is to beconsidered for the time being as binding on neither party; travellingexpenses paid in any event.—Faithfully, Manager of the Hoftheater."Next to it lay the red form for the answer.

George was in a state of nervous tension. What should he answer now?The telegram clearly indicated that there was a vacancy for the postof conductor. Should he ask for a postponement? After eight days itwould be quite easy to go there for an interview and then come backat once. He found thinking about it a strain. At any rate the mattercould wait till to-morrow, and if that was too late then there wouldbe no essential change in the position after all. He would always bewelcomed as a special visitor, he knew that already. It was perhapsbetter not to bind himself ... to go on working at his trainingsomewhere, without yet taking obligations or responsibilities uponhimself, and then to be ready and equipped for the following year. Butwhat paltry considerations these were, when compared with the terribleevent of his life which had occurred to-day! He took up the malachitepaper-weight and put it on the telegram. What now...? he asked himself.Go to the club and rout out Felician? Yet that was not quite the placeto tell him about the matter. It would really be best to stay at homeand wait for him. It was in fact a little tempting to undress at onceand lie down. But he certainly would not be able to sleep. So he cameto think of tidying up his papers a little once again. He opened thedrawer in his secretary, sorted bills and letters and made notes in hisnote-book. The noise of the street came in through the open windowsas though from a distance. He thought of how he had read the lettersof his dead parents in the same place in the previous summer afterhis father's death, and how the same noise of the town and the sameperfume from the park had streamed in to him just like to-day. Theyear that had elapsed since then seemed in his tired mind to extendinto eternities, then contracted again into a short span of time, andsomething kept whispering in his soul: What for ... what for? His childwas dead. It would be buried in the churchyard by the Sommerhaidenweg.It would rest there in consecrated ground, from the toilsome journeywhich it was fated to take from one darkness into another through asenseless nothingness. It would lie under a little cross, as though ithad lived and suffered a whole human life.... As though it had lived!It had really lived from the moment when its heart had already begunto beat in its mother's body. No, even earlier.... It had belonged tothe realm of the living from the very moment when its mother's body hadreceived it. And George thought of how many children of men and womenwere fated to perish even earlier than his own child, how many, wishedand unwished, were fated to die in the first days of their life withouttheir own mothers even having an idea. And while he dozed with shuteyes, half asleep and half awake, in front of his secretary, he sawnothing but shining crosses standing up on tiny mounds, as though itwere a toy cemetery and a reddish yellow toy sun were shining over it.But suddenly the image represented the Cadenabbia cemetery. George wassitting like a little boy on the stone wall which surrounded it, andsuddenly turned his gaze down towards the lake. And then there rode ina very long narrow boat, beneath dull yellow sails, with a green shawlon her shoulders, a woman, sitting motionless on the rowing bench, awoman whose face he tried to recognise with vague and almost painfulefforts.

The bell rang. George got up. What was it? Oh, of course, there was noone there to open. The servant had been discharged since the first dayof the month, and the porter's wife, who now looked after the brothers,was not in the apartment at this hour. George went into the hall andopened the door. Heinrich Bermann was standing in the hall.

"I saw a light in your room from down below," he said. "It was a goodidea my first going past your house. I was going, as a matter of fact,to drive out to your place in the country."

Is his manner really so excited? thought George, or do I only think itis? He asked him to come in and sit down.

"Thanks, thanks, I prefer to walk up and down. No, don't light the highlamp. The table lamp's quite enough.... Anyway—how are you getting onout there?"

"A child was born this morning," replied George quietly. "Butunfortunately it was dead."

"Still-born?"

"I don't know if one can say that," replied George with a bitter smile;"for it is supposed to have drawn one breath according to the doctor.The pains lasted for three days on end. It was ghastly. Now it's allover."

"Dead! I'm very sorry—I really am." He held out his hand to George.

"It was a boy," said George, "and strangely enough, very beautiful.Quite different from what new-born children usually look like." Hethen told him, too, how he had stayed quite a time in an inhospitablesummer-house which he had never gone into before, and the strange wayin which the lighting of the country had suddenly altered. "It wasa light," said George, "that places in one's dreams sometimes have.Quite indefinite ... like twilight ... but rather mournful." While hesaid this, he knew that he would have described the whole matter quitedifferently to Felician.

Heinrich sat in the corner of the ottoman and let the other speak. Hethen began: "It is strange. All this affects me very much, of course,and yet ... it calms me at the same time."

"Calms you?"

"Yes. As though certain things which I unhappily had to fear hadsuddenly grown less probable."

"What kind of things?"

Without listening to him Heinrich went on speaking with set teeth. "Oris it only because I am in the presence of another man's grief? Or isit because I am somewhere else, in a strange flat? That would be quitepossible. Haven't you noticed that even one's own death strikes oneas something highly improbable, when one is travelling for instance;frequently in fact when one is out for a walk. Man is subject toincomprehensible illusions like that."

Heinrich turned round after a few seconds, as though he had regainedhis self-control, but remained standing by the window with both handsresting on the sill behind him, and said laconically in a hard voice:"There's the possibility, you see, of the girl whose acquaintance youcasually made the other day at my place having committed suicide.Please don't look so startled. As you know, many of her letters hintedthat she would do it."

"Well?" said George.

Heinrich lifted his hand deprecatingly. "I never took it seriously atall. But I got a letter this morning which, I don't quite know how toexpress it, had an uncanny ring of truth about it. As a matter of factthere is nothing in it which she hasn't already written to me ten ortwenty times over; but the tone ... the tone.... To come to the point,I am as good as convinced that it has happened this time. Perhaps atthis very minute!" He stopped and stared in front of him.

"No, Heinrich." George stepped up to him and put his hand on hisshoulder. "No!" he added, more firmly, "I don't believe it at all.I spoke to her a few weeks ago. You know about that. And then shecertainly did not give me the impression ... I also saw her playingcomedy.... If you had seen her acting in that impudent farce, youwouldn't believe it either, Heinrich. She only wants to revenge herselfon you for your cruelty. Unconsciously, perhaps. Probably she hasconvinced herself on many occasions that she cannot go on living, butthe fact that she has stuck it out till to-day.... Of course, if shehad done it at once...."

Heinrich shook his head impatiently. "Just listen, George. Itelegraphed to the Summer Theatre. I inquired if she were still there,suggesting that it was a question of a new part for her, rehearsal of anew piece of mine, or something like that. I have been waiting at home... till now ... but there is no answer. If I don't get one, or not asatisfactory one, I'll certainly go there."

"Yes, but why didn't you simply ask if she...."

"If she has killed herself? One doesn't want to make oneselfridiculous, George. I might have asked for news on that point everyother day or so, of course.... It would certainly have had a kind ofgrotesque humour right enough."

"Look here now—you don't believe it yourself?"

"I'll go home now to see if there's a telegram there. Good-bye, George.Forgive me. I couldn't stand it any more at home, you see.... I amreally sorry to have bothered you with my own affairs at a time likethis. Once more, I ask you to forgive me."

"You had no idea.... And even if you had known.... In my case,it's quite—a finished chapter, so to speak. In my case, there isunfortunately nothing more to do."

He looked excitedly out of the window, over the tops of the trees,towards the red spires and roofs which towered up out of the faintred light of the evening town. Then he said: "I'll come with you,Heinrich. I can't start anything at home. I mean.... If you don't mindmy society."

"Mind!... My dear George!..." He pressed his hand.

They went. At first they walked along the park in silence. Georgeremembered his walk with Heinrich through the Prater Allee last autumn,and immediately after that he remembered the May evening when AnnaRosner had appeared in the Waldsteingarten later than the others, andFrau Ehrenberg had whispered to him, "I have asked her specially foryou." Yes, for him. If it had not been for that evening Anna wouldnever have become his mistress, and none of all the events which layheavy on him to-day would ever have happened. Was there some law atwork in this? Of course! So many children had to come into the worldevery year, and a certain number of those out of wedlock, and good FrauEhrenberg had imagined that inviting Fräulein Anna Rosner for Baron vonWergenthin had been a matter of her own personal fancy.

"Is Anna quite out of danger?" asked Heinrich.

"I hope so," replied George. Then he spoke about the pain which shehad suffered, her patience, and her goodness. He felt the need ofdescribing her as a perfect angel, as though he could thereby atone alittle for the wrong he had done her.

Heinrich nodded. "She really seems to be one of the few women who aremade to be mothers. It isn't true, you know, that there are many ofthat kind. Having children—that's what they're all there for; butbeing mothers! And to think of her, of all people, having to sufferlike that! I really never had an idea that anything like that couldhappen."

George shrugged his shoulders. Then he said: "I had been expecting tosee you out there again. I think you even made some promise to thateffect when you dined with us and Therese a week ago."

"Oh yes. Didn't we squabble dreadfully, Therese and I? It got evenmore violent on the way home. Really quite funny. We walked, you know,right into the town. The people who met us are absolutely bound to havetaken us for a couple of lovers, we quarrelled so dreadfully."

"And who won in the end?"

"Won? Does it ever happen that any one wins? One only argues toconvince oneself, never to convince the other person. Just imagineTherese eventually realising that a rational person can never becomea member of any party! Or if I had been driven to confess that myindependence of party betokened a lack of philosophy of life, as shecontended! Why, we could both have shut up shop straight away. But whatdo you think of all this talk about a philosophy of life? As though aphilosophy of life were anything else than the will and the capacityto see life as it really is. I mean, to envisage it without being ledastray by any preconceived idea, without having the impulse to deducea new law straight away from our particular experience, or to fit ourexperience into some existing law. But people mean nothing more by theexpression 'philosophy of life' than a higher kind of devotion to a pettheory, devotion to a pet theory within the sphere of the infinite, soto speak. Or they go on talking about a gloomy or cheerful philosophyaccording to the colours in which their individual temperament and theaccidents of their personal life happen to paint the world for them.People in the full possession of their senses have a philosophy oflife and narrow-minded people haven't. That's how the matter stands.As a matter of fact, one doesn't need to be a metaphysician to have aphilosophy of life.... Perhaps in fact one shouldn't be one at all. Atany rate, metaphysics have nothing at all to do with the philosophyof life. Each of the philosophers really knew in his heart of heartsthat he simply represented a kind of poet. Kant believed in the ThingIn Itself, and Schopenhauer in the World as Will and Representation,just like Shakespeare believed in Hamlet, and Beethoven in the NinthSymphony. They knew that another work of art had come into the world,but they never imagined for a single minute that they had discovereda final 'truth.' Every philosophical system, if it has any rhythm ordepth, represents another possession for the world. But why should italter a man's relationship to the world if he himself has all his witsand senses about him?" He went on speaking with increasing excitementand fell, as it seemed to George, into a feverish maze. George thenremembered that Heinrich had once invented a merry-go-round that turnedin spirals higher and higher above the earth, to end finally in the topof a tower.

They chose a way through suburban streets, with few people and onlymoderate lighting. George felt as though he were walking about in astrange town. Suddenly a house appeared that was strangely familiarto him, and he now noticed for the first time that they were passingthe house of the Rosner family. There were lights in the dining-room.Probably the old man was sitting there alone, or in the company of hisson. Is it possible, thought George, that in a few weeks Anna will besitting there again at the same table as her mother and father andbrother as though nothing had happened? That she will sleep again nightafter night behind that window with its closed blinds and leave thathouse day after day to give her wretched lessons.... That she will takeup that miserable life again as though nothing at all had changed? No.She should not go back to her family. It would be quite senseless. Shemust come to him, live with him, the man she belonged to. The Detmoldtelegram! He had almost forgotten it, but he must talk it over withher. It showed hope and prospects. Living was cheap in a little townlike that. Besides, George's own fortune was a long way from beingeaten up. One would be justified in chancing it. Besides, this postsimply represented the beginning. Perhaps he would get another one soonin a larger town. In a single night one might be a success withoutexpecting it—that was always the way—and one would have a name, notonly as a conductor, but also as a composer, and it need only be two orthree years before they could have the child with them.... The child... how the thought raged through his brain!... To think of one beingable to forget a thing like that even for a minute.

Heinrich went on speaking all the time. It was quite obvious that hewanted to stupefy himself. He continued to annihilate philosophers.He had just degraded them from poets to jugglers. Every system, yes,every philosophic system and every moral system was nothing but ajuggle of words, a flight from the animated fulness of phenomena intothe marionette fixity of categories. But that was the very thing whichmankind desired. Hence all the philosophies, all the religions, all themoral laws. They were all taking part in that identical flight.

A few, a very few, were given the awful inner faculty of being ready tofeel every experience as new and individual—were given the strengthto endure standing in a new world as it were, every single minute. Andthe truth was this: only the man who conquered the cowardly impulseof imprisoning all experiences in words was shown life—that manifoldunity, that wondrous thing, in its own true shape.

George had the feeling that Heinrich, with all his talk, was simplytrying to succeed in shaking off any sense of responsibility towardsa higher law by refusing to recognise any. And with a kind of growingantagonism to Heinrich's silly and extraordinary behaviour he felt thatthe scheme of the world that had threatened some hours ago to fall topieces was gradually beginning to put itself together again within hisown soul. He had only recently rebelled against the senselessness ofthe fate which had struck him, and yet he already began to feel vaguelythat even what had appeared to him as a grievous misfortune had notbeen precipitated upon his head out of the void, but that it had cometo him along a way which, though darker, was quite as preordained asthat which approached him along a far more visible road and which hewas accustomed to call necessity.

They were in front of the house in which Heinrich lived. The conciergestood at the door and informed them that he had put a telegram inHeinrich's room a short time ago.

"Oh," said Heinrich indifferently, and slowly went up the stairs.George followed. Heinrich lit a candle in the hall. The telegram lay onthe little table. Heinrich opened it, held it near to the flickeringlight, read it himself and then turned to George. "She's expected forthe rehearsal to-morrow, and has not yet turned up." He took the lightin his hand and followed by George went into the next room, put thelight on the secretary, and walked up and down. George heard throughthe open window the strumming of a piano resounding over the darkcourtyard.

"Is there nothing else in the telegram?" he asked.

"No. But it's obvious that not only has she been absent from therehearsal, but that she wasn't to be found in her lodgings either.Otherwise, they would certainly have telegraphed that she was ill, orgiven some explanation or other. Yes, my dear George," he breatheddeeply, "it has happened this time."

"Why? There is no proof of it. Scarcely anything to go on."

Heinrich cut short the other's remarks with a curt gesture. He thenlooked at his watch and said: "There are no more trains to-day....Yes.... What should one do first?" He stopped, remained standing, andsuddenly said: "I'll go to her mother's. Yes. That's the best....Perhaps—perhaps...."

They left the apartment. They took a conveyance at the next corner.

"Did the mother know anything?" asked George.

"Damn it all," said Heinrich, "about as much as mothers usually know.It is incredible the small amount of thought people give to what istaking place under their very noses, if they are not compelled to doso by some actual occasion. And most people have no idea how much theyreally know at the bottom of their hearts without owning up to it. Thegood woman is bound of course to be somewhat surprised at my springingup so suddenly.... I haven't seen her for a long time."

"What will you say to her?"

"Yes, what will I say to her?" repeated Heinrich, and bit at his cigar."I say, I've got a splendid idea. You'll come with me, George. I'llintroduce you as a manager, eh? You are travelling through, have got tocatch a special train for St. Petersburg at eleven o'clock this veryday. You've heard somewhere or other that the young lady is staying inVienna, and I as an old friend of the family have been kind enough tointroduce you."

"Do you feel in the mood for comedies like that?" asked George.

"Please forgive me, George, it's really not at all necessary. I'lljust ask the old woman if she has any news.... What do you say?... Howsultry it is to-night!"

They drove over the Ring, through the echoing Burghof, through thestreets of the town. George felt in a strange state of tension.Supposing the actress were now really sitting quietly at home with hermother? He felt that it would mean a kind of disillusionment for him.And then he felt ashamed of that emotion. Do I look upon the wholething as simply a distraction? he thought. What happens to other people... is rarely more than that, Nürnberger would say.... A strange wayof distracting oneself in order to forget the death of one's child....But what is one to do?... I can't alter things. I shall be going awayin a few days, thank heaven.

The vehicle stopped in front of a house in the neighbourhood of thePraterstern. A train was growling over the viaduct opposite; underneaththe avenues of the Prater ran into the darkness. Heinrich dismissed theconveyance. "Thank you very much," he said to George. "Good-bye."

"I'll wait for you here."

"Will you really? Well, I should be awfully grateful if you would."

He disappeared through the door. George walked up and down.

In spite of the lateness of the hour it was still fairly lively in thestreet. The strains of a military band in the Prater carried to theplace where he was. A man and a woman went past him; the man carriedin his arms a sleeping child, which had slung its hands round itsfather's neck. George thought of the garden in Grinzinger, of theunwashed little thing which had stretched out its tiny hands to himfrom its mother's arms. Had he been really touched then, as Nürnbergerhad asserted? No, it was certainly not emotion. Something else perhaps.The vague consciousness of standing with both hands linked in thatriveted chain which stretches from ancestors to descendants, ofparticipating in the universal human destiny. Now, he stood suddenlyreleased again, alone ... as though spurned by a miracle whose call hehad heard without sufficient veneration. It struck ten o'clock from aneighbouring church tower. Only five hours, thought George, and how faraway it all seemed! Now he was at liberty to knock about the world ashe had done before.... Was he really at liberty?

Heinrich came out of the doorway. The door closed behind him."Nothing," he said. "The mother has no idea. I asked her for theaddress, as though I had something important to communicate to her.I had just come from the Prater, and it had occurred to me ... andso on. A nice old woman. The brother sits at a table and copies ona drawing-board out of an illustrated paper a mediæval castle withinnumerable turrets."

"Be candid, for once in a way," said George. "If you could save her bydoing so, wouldn't you forgive her now?"

"My dear George, don't you see yet that it is not a question of whetherI want to forgive her or not? Just remember this, I could just havestopped loving her, which can frequently happen without one's beingdeceived at all. Imagine this—a woman who loves you pursuing you, awoman whose contact for some reason or other makes you shudder swearingto you that she'll kill herself if you reject her. Would it be yourduty to give in? Could you reproach yourself the slightest bit if shereally went to her death, through the so-called pangs of despised love?Would you regard yourself as her murderer? It is sheer nonsense, isn'tit? But if you think that it's what other people call conscience whichis now torturing me, you are making a mistake. It is simply anxietyabout what has happened to a person who was once very dear to me, andis I suppose still very dear to me. The uncertainty...." He suddenlystared fixedly in one direction.

"What is the matter with you?" asked George.

"Don't you see? A telegraph messenger is coming towards the door of thehouse." Before the man had time to ring Heinrich was at his side, andsaid a few words which George could not understand.

The messenger seemed to be making objections. Heinrich was answeringand George, who had come nearer, could hear him.

"I have been waiting for you here in front of the door because thedoctor gave me stringent orders to do so. This telegram contains ...perhaps ... bad news ... and it might be the death of my mother. If youdon't believe me, you just ring and I'll go into the house with you."But he already had the telegram in his hands, opened it hurriedly andstarted to read it by the light of the street lamp. His face remainedabsolutely immobile. Then he folded the telegram together again, handedit to the messenger, pressed a few silver coins into his hand. "Youmust now take it in yourself."

The messenger was surprised, but the tip put him in a better temper.

Heinrich rang and turned away. "Come!" he said to George. They wentsilently down the street. After a few minutes Heinrich said: "It hashappened."

George felt more violently shocked than he had anticipated. "Is itpossible...?" he exclaimed.

"Yes," said Heinrich. "She drowned herself in the lake—where you spenta few days this summer," he added in a tone which seemed to imply thatGeorge too was somehow partly responsible for what had happened.

"What's in the telegram?" inquired George.

"It's from the manager. It contains the news that she has had a fatalaccident while out boating. Requests her mother to give furtherdirections."

He spoke in a cool hard voice, as though he were reading anannouncement out of a paper.

"That poor woman! I say, Heinrich, oughtn't you to...."

"What!... Go to her? What should I be doing there?"

"Who is there, except you, who can at a time like this stand by her ...ought to, in fact?"

"Who except me?" He remained standing. "You think that because ithappened more or less on my account? I tell you positively that I feelabsolutely innocent. The boat out of which she let herself drop, andthe waves which received her could not feel more innocent than I do. Ijust want to settle that point.... But that I should go in and see themother.... Yes, you are quite right about it." And he turned again inthe direction of the house.

"I will remain with you if you like," said George.

"What an idea, George! Just go quietly home. What more am I to ask youto do? And remember me to Anna, and tell her how sorry I am.... Well,you know that.... Ah, here we are. You don't mind my keeping you afew seconds more before I...." He stood silently there. He then beganagain, and his features became distorted. "I'll tell you something,George. It's like this. It's a great happiness that at certain timesone doesn't know what has really happened to one. If one immediatelyrealised the awfulness of moments like this, you know, to the extentone realises them afterwards in one's memory, or realises them beforein anticipation—one would go mad. Even you, George—yes, even you.And many do really go mad. Those are probably the people who aregranted the gift of realising straight away.... My mistress has drownedherself, do you see? That's all one can say. Has the same kind of thingreally happened to any one else before? Oh no. Of course you thinkthat you have read or heard of something similar. It is not true.To-day is the first time—the first time since the world's been inexistence—that anything like this has ever happened."

The door opened and closed again. George was alone in the street. Hishead was dazed, his heart oppressed. He went a few steps, then tooka fly and drove home. He saw the dead woman in front of him, just asshe had stood in front of the stage door on that bright summer day inher red blouse and short white skirt, with the roving eyes beneath thereddish hair. He would have sworn at the time that she had a liaisonwith the comedy actor who looked like Guido. Perhaps that really wasthe case. That might be one kind of love and what she felt forHeinrich another. Really there were far too few words. You go to yourdeath for one man, you go to bed with another—perhaps the very nightbefore you drown yourself for the first. And what, after all, does asuicide really mean? Only perhaps that at some moment or other one hasfailed to appreciate death. How many tried again if they had failedonce? The conversation with Grace came into his mind, that hot-and-coldconversation by Labinski's grave on the sunny February day in thethawing snow.

She had confessed to him then that she had not felt any fear or horrorwhen she had found Labinski shot in front of the door of her flat.And when her little sister had died many years ago she had watchedthe whole night by the death-bed without feeling even a trace of whatother people called horror. But, so she told George, she had learnedto feel in men's embraces something that might be rather like thatfeeling. At first the thing had puzzled her acutely, subsequently shethought she could understand it, but according to what the doctors saidshe was doomed to barrenness, and that must be the reason why it cameabout that the moment of supreme delight, which was rendered as itwere pointless by this fate, plunged her in terror and apprehension.This had struck George at the time as a piece of affectation. To-dayhe felt a breath of truth in it for the first time. She had been astrange creature. Would he ever meet again a person of a similar type?Why not? Quite soon, as a matter of fact. A new epoch in his lifewas now beginning and the next adventure was perhaps waiting for himsomewhere or other. Adventure...? Had he a right still to think aboutsuch things?... Were not, from to-day onwards, his responsibilitiesmore serious than they had ever been? Did he not love Anna more thanhe had ever done before? The child was dead, but the next one wouldlive.... Heinrich had spoken the truth: Anna was simply cut out to bea mother. A mother.... But he thought with a shiver: Was she cut outat the same time to be the mother of my children? The fly stopped.George got out and went up the two storeys to his apartment. Felicianwas not yet home. Who knows when he will come? thought George. I can'twait for him, I'm too tired. He undressed quickly, sank into bed, and adeep sleep enveloped him.

When he woke up his eyes tried to find through the window a whiteline between field and forest, the Sommerhaidenweg which he had beenaccustomed to look at for some days. But he only saw the bluish emptysky which a tower was piercing, and suddenly realised that he was athome, and all that he had lived through yesterday came into his mind.Yet he felt fresh and alert in mind and body, and it seemed to himas though apart from the calamity which had befallen him there was apiece of good fortune which he had to remember. Oh yes, the Detmoldtelegram.... Was it really so lucky? He had not thought so yesterdayevening.

There was a knock at his door. Felician came into the room with hishat and stick in his hand. "I didn't know that you slept at home lastnight," he said. "Glad to see you. Well, what's the news out there?"

George rested his arm on the pillow and looked up towards his brother."It's over," he said; "a boy, but dead," and he looked straight infront of him.

"Not really," said Felician with emotion, came up to him andinstinctively put his hand upon his brother's head. He then put hatand stick on one side and sat down on the bed by him, and George couldnot help thinking of the morning hours of the years of his childhood,when he had often seen his father sitting like that on the edge of thebed when he woke up. He explained to Felician how it had all happened,laying especial stress on Anna's patience and gentleness; but he feltwith a certain sense of misgiving that he had to force himself a bitto keep the tone of seriousness and depression which was appropriateto his news. Felician listened sympathetically, then got up and walkedup and down the room. Then George got up, began to dress and told hisbrother of the remarkable developments of the rest of the evening.He spoke about his walks and drives with Heinrich Bermann and of thestrange way in which they had learned at last of the actress's suicide.

"Oh, that's the one," said Felician. "It's already in the papers, youknow."

"Well, what happened?" asked George curiously.

"She rowed out into the lake and slipped into the water out of theboat.... Well, you can read it.... I suppose you're now going straightout into the country again?" he added.

"Of course," replied George, "but I have still got something to tellyou, Felician, something which may interest you." And he told hisbrother about the Detmold telegram.

Felician seemed surprised. "This is getting serious," he exclaimed.

"Yes, it's getting serious," replied George.

"You have not yet answered?"

"No, how could I?"

"And what do you mean to do?"

"Frankly, I don't know. You understand I can't go straight away,particularly under circ*mstances like this."

Felician looked reflective. "A little delay probably wouldn't hurt," hesaid then.

"I agree. I must first find out how they're getting on out there. Ofcourse I should also like to talk it over with Anna."

"Where have you put the telegram? Can I read it?"

"It's lying on the secretary," said George, who was at the momentengaged in tying up his shoes.

Felician went into the next room, took the telegram in his hand andread it. "It is much more urgent," he observed, "than I thought."

"It seems to me, Felician, that it still strikes you as strange that Iam shortly going to have a real profession."

Felician stood at his brother's side again and stroked his hair. "Itis perhaps rather providential that the telegram should have comeyesterday."

"Providential! How so?"

"I mean that after such a sad business the prospect of practicaloccupation ought to do you twice as much good.... But I am afraid Imust leave you now. I've still got quite a lot to do. Farewell visitsamong other things."

"When are you going then, Felician?"

"A week to-day. I say, George, I suppose you are probably coming backfrom the country to-day?"

"Certainly, if everything is all right out there."

"Perhaps we might see each other again in the evening."

"I should like to very much, Felician."

"Well then, if it suits you I'll be at home at seven. We might go andhave supper together—but alone, not at the club."

"Yes, with pleasure."

"And you might do me a favour," began Felician again after a shortsilence. "Remember me out there very very kindly ... tell her that Isympathise most sincerely."

"Thank you, Felician. I will tell her."

"Really, George, I can't tell you how much it touched me," continuedFelician with warmth. "I only hope that she'll soon get over it.... Andyou, too."

George nodded. "Do you know," he said gently, "what it was going to becalled?"

Felician looked at his brother's eyes very seriously, then he pressedhis hand. "Next time," he said with a kindly smile. He shook handswith his brother again and went.

George looked after him, torn by varying emotions. Yet he's notaltogether sorry, he thought, that it should have turned out like that.

He got ready quickly and decided to cycle into the country againto-day. It was only when he had got past most of the traffic that hereally became conscious of himself. The sky had grown a little dulland a cool wind blew from the hills towards George, like an autumngreeting. He did not want to meet any one in the little village whereyesterday's events were bound to be already known, and took the upperroad between the meadows and the garden to the approach from theback. The nearer the moment came when he was to see Anna again, theheavier his heart grew. At the railing he dismounted from his cycle andhesitated a little. The garden was empty. At the bottom lay the housesunk in silence. George breathed deeply and painfully. How different itmight have been! he thought, walked down and heard the gravel crunchbeneath his feet. He went on to the verandah, leaned his cycle againstthe railing and looked into the room through the open window. Anna laythere with open eyes. "Good morning," he cried, as cheerfully as hecould.

Frau Golowski, who was sitting by Anna's bed, got up and said at once:"We've had a good sleep, a good sound sleep."

"That's right," said George, and vaulted over the railing into the room.

"You're very enterprising to-day," said Anna with her arch smile, whichreminded George of long-past times. Frau Golowski informed him thatthe Professor had been early in the morning, had expressed himselfcompletely satisfied and taken Frau Rosner with him in his carriageinto the town. She then went away with a kindly glance.

George bent down over Anna, kissed her with real feeling on theeyes and mouth, pushed the chair nearer, sat down and said: "Mybrother—sends you his sincere wishes."

Her lips quivered imperceptibly. "Thank you," she replied gently, andthen remarked: "So you came out on your cycle?"

"Yes," he replied. "One has to keep a look-out you know on the way, andthere are times when it's rather a sound thing one has to do so." Hethen told her how last evening had finished up. He related the wholething as an exciting story, and it was only in the orthodox way at theend that Anna was allowed to find out how Heinrich's mistress had endedher life. He expected to see her moved, but she kept a strangely hardexpression about her mouth. "It's really dreadful," said George. "Don'tyou think so?"

"Yes," replied Anna shortly, and George felt that her kindnesscompletely failed her here. He saw the loathing flowing out of hersoul, not tepidly, as though from one person to another, but strong anddeep like a stream of hate from world to world.

He dropped the subject and began again. "Now for something important,my child." He was smiling but his heart beat a little.

"Well?" she asked tensely.

He took the Detmold telegram out of his breast pocket and read it toher. "What do you think of that?" he asked with affected pride.

"And what did you answer?"

"Nothing so far," he replied casually, as though he had never thoughtof taking the matter seriously. "Of course I wanted first to talk itover with you."

"Well, what do you think?" she asked imperturbably.

"I ... shall refuse of course. I'll wire that I ... at any rate, can'tcome yet awhile." And he seriously explained to her that nothing wouldbe lost by a postponement, that he would at any rate be welcomed asa special visitor, and that this pressing request was only due to anaccident that one had no right to expect.

She let him go on speaking for a while, then she said: "There you gobeing casual again. I think you should have made a special point ofanswering at once and...."

"Well, and...."

"Perhaps have even taken the train there straight away this morning."

"Instead of coming out to see you—eh?" he jested.

She remained serious. "Why not?" she said, and noticing him jerk hishead up in surprise, "I'm getting on very well, thank heaven, George.And even if I were a bit worse you couldn't do any good, so...."

"Yes, my child," he interrupted, "it seems to me you don't appreciatewhat it really means! Going there, of course, is a fairly simplematter—but—staying there! Staying there at least till Easter! Theseason lasts till then."

"Well, George, I think it quite right that you haven't gone awaywithout first saying goodbye to me. But look here, you've got to goanyway, haven't you? Even though we didn't actually speak about itduring the last weeks we were both quite well aware of it. For whetheryou go away in a month's time or the day after to-morrow—or to-day...."

George now began to argue seriously. It was not at all the same thingwhether he went away in a month's time or to-day. One could manage toget used to certain thoughts in the course of a month, and besides,talk over everything properly—with regard to the future.

"What is there so much to talk over?" she replied in a tired voice."Why, in a month's time you'll be.... You'll have as little chance oftaking me with you as you have to-day. I even think that there won'tbe any point in our talking seriously about anything until after yourreturn. A great deal will be bound to be cleared up by then.... At anyrate, with regard to your prospects...." She looked out of the windowinto the garden.

George showed mild indignation at her matter-of-fact coolness, whichnever deserted her, even at a moment like that. "Yes, indeed," he said,"when one considers—what it means for you to stay here, and me...."

She looked at him. "I know what it means," she said.

Instinctively he avoided her look, took her hands and kissed them.He felt inwardly harrowed. When he looked up again he saw her eyesresting on him quite maternally, and she spoke to him like a mother.She explained to him that it was just because of the future—andthere swept around that word a gentle suggestion of actual hope—thathe should not miss an opportunity like that. In two or three weeks hecould come back from Detmold to Vienna for a few days, for the peoplethere would certainly appreciate that he must put his affairs over herein order. But above all it was necessary to give them a proof of hisseriousness. And if he set any store by her advice there was only onething to do: take the train that very evening. He need have no anxietyabout her. She felt that she was quite out of danger. She felt thatquite unmistakably. Of course he would hear from her every day, twice aday if he liked, morning and evening.

He did not yield at once, coming back again to the point that theunexpectedness of this separation would occasion a relapse. Sheanswered that she would much prefer a quick separation like this tothe prospect of another four weeks spent in anxiety, emotion and thefear of losing him. And the essential point remained that it was nota question of more than half the year, so they had half the year forthemselves, and if everything went all right there would not be manyperiods of separation for the—the future.

He now began again: "And what will you do in this half-year, while I'maway? It is really...."

She interrupted him. "For the time being it will go on just as it hasbeen going on for years; but I have been thinking this morning about alot of things."

"The school for singing?"

"That, too. Although of course that is neither so easy nor so simple.And besides," she added, with her arch expression, "it would be a pityif one had to shut it up again too soon. But we'll talk about all thatlater on. You go now and telegraph."

"Yes, but what!" he exclaimed in such desperation that she could nothelp laughing.

Then she said: "Quite simple, 'Shall have the honour to present myselfat your office to-morrow noon. Yours very obediently or faithfully ...or very proudly....'"

He looked at her. Then he kissed her hand and said: "You're certainlythe cleverer of us two."

His tone seemed to hint "the cooler too." But a gentle, tender andsomewhat mocking look from her turned away the innuendo.

"Well, I'll be back again in ten minutes." He left her with a cheerfulface, went into the next room and shut the door. Opposite, in thatother room, it now occurred to him again forcibly—his dead child layin its coffin.... For the necessary steps, to use Doctor Stauber'sexpression of yesterday, were bound to have been already taken. He felta paroxysm of grievous yearning.

Frau Golowski came out of the hall. She came up to him and spoke withadmiration of Anna's resignation and calmness.

George listened somewhat absent-mindedly. His looks kept alwaysglancing through the doorway and at last he said gently: "I should liketo see it once more."

She looked at him, at first slightly shocked and then sympathetically.

"Nailed down already?" he asked anxiously.

"Sent away already," replied Frau Golowski slowly.

"Sent away!" His face became convulsed with such agony that the oldwoman laid her hands on his arm as though to calm him.

"I went to notify it quite early," she said, "and then the other mattertook place very quickly. They took it away an hour ago to the mortuary."

"To the mortuary ..." George shuddered. He was silent for a long timeas though unnerved from having just learned a terrible and completelyunexpected piece of news. When he recovered himself again he stillfelt Frau Golowski's friendly hand upon his arm and saw her kind eyeswith their tired lines resting on his face. "So it's all finished," hesaid, with an indignant look upwards, as though his last hope had beenmaliciously stolen from him. He then shook hands with Frau Golowski."And you've undertaken all this, dear lady.... I really don't know ...how I can ever...."

A gesture from the old woman deprecated any further thanks.

George left the house, threw a contemptuous glance at the little blueangel, which seemed to look anxiously down at the faded flower-beds,and went into the street. On his way to the post-office he worried overthe wording of the telegram that was to announce his arrival at theplace of his new profession and his new prospects.

IX

Old Doctor Stauber and his son sat over their coffee. The old man helda paper in his hand and seemed to be trying to find something. "Thehearing of the case," he said, "is not yet fixed."

"Really!" replied Berthold, "Leo Golowski thinks that it will takeplace in the middle of November, that is to say in about three weeks.Therese, you know, visited her brother a few days ago in prison. Theysay he is perfectly calm and in quite good spirits."

"Well, who knows? perhaps he will be acquitted," said the old man.

"That's highly improbable, father. He ought to be glad, on the otherhand, that he isn't being prosecuted for ordinary murder. An attemptwas certainly made to get him prosecuted for it."

"You certainly can't call it a serious attempt, Berthold. You seethe Treasury didn't bother about the silly libel to which you arereferring."

"But if they had regarded it as a libel," retorted Berthold sharply,"they would have been under an obligation to prosecute the libellers.Beside, it is common knowledge that we are living in a state where noJew is safe from being convicted to death for ritual murder; so whyshould the authorities shrink from taking official cognisance of thetheory that Jews when they fight duels with pistols with Christiansmanage—perhaps for religious reasons—to ensure for themselves acriminal advantage? That the Court didn't lack the good-will to takeanother opportunity of doing a service to the party in power is bestseen by the fact that he still remains under arrest pending the trial,in spite of the fact that the high bail was tendered."

"I don't believe the story about the bail," said the old doctor."Where's Leo Golowski to get fifty thousand gulden from?"

"It wasn't fifty thousand, father, but a hundred thousand, and so farLeo Golowski knows nothing about it. I can tell you in confidence,father, that Salomon Ehrenberg put up the money."

"Indeed! Well, I'll tell you something in confidence too, Berthold."

"Well?"

"It's possible that it won't go to trial at all. Golowski's advocatehas presented a petition to quash the proceedings."

Berthold burst out laughing. "On those grounds! And do you think,father, that that can have the slightest prospect of success? Yes, ifLeo had fallen and the First-Lieutenant had survived ... then perhaps."

The old man shook his head impatiently. "You must always makeopposition speeches, my boy, at any price."

"Forgive me, father," said Berthold, twitching his brows. "Every onehasn't got the enviable gift of being able to ignore certain tendenciesin public life when they don't concern him personally."

"Is that what I am in the habit of doing, then?" retorted the old manvehemently, and the half-shut eyes beneath the high forehead openedalmost bitterly. "But it is you, Berthold, much more than I, whor*fuse to look where you don't want to see. I think you're beginningto brood over your ideas. You're getting morbid. I had hoped that astay in another city, in another country, would cure you of certainpetty narrow ideas, but they have grown worse instead. I notice it. Ican neither understand nor approve any one starting fighting like LeoGolowski did. But to go on standing with your clenched fist in yourpocket, so to speak—what's the point of it? Pull yourself together,man. Character and industry always pull through in the end. What'sthe worst that can happen to you? That you get your professorship afew years later than any one else. I don't think it is so great amisfortune. They won't be able to ignore your work if it is worthanything...."

"It is not only a question of myself," objected Berthold.

"But it is mostly a matter of second-class interests of that kind. Andto come back to our previous topic, it is really very questionablewhether if it had been the First-Lieutenant who had shot down LeoGolowski and Ehrenberg, or Ehrenmann[1] for that matter, would haveturned up with a hundred thousand gulden for him. Yes, to be sure, andnow you are quite at liberty to take me for an Anti-Semite too, if itamuses you, although I am driving straight into the Rembrandtstrasseto see old Golowski. Well, good-bye, try and come to reason at last."He held out his hand to his son. The latter took it without changingcountenance. The old man turned to go. At the door he said: "I supposewe shall see each other this evening at the Medical Society?"

Berthold shook his head. "No, father, I am spending this evening ina less edifying place—the 'Silberne Weintraube,' where there is ameeting of the Social Political Union."

"Which you can't miss?"

"Impossible."

"Well, I wish you would tell me straight out. Are you going to standfor the Landtag?"

"I ... am going to stand."

"Indeed! You think you're capable now of being able to face the ...unpleasantness which you ran away from last year?"

Berthold looked through the window at the autumn rain. "You know,father," he replied, twitching his brows, "that I wasn't in the rightframe of mind then. I now feel strong and armed, in spite of yourprevious remarks, which have really touched the actual point. And aboveall I know precisely what I want."

The old man shrugged his shoulders. "I can't understand how any one cangive up a definite work ... and you will certainly have to give it up,for a man can't serve two masters ... to think of dropping somethingdefinite to ... to make speeches to people whose profession, so tospeak, it is to have preconceived opinions—to fight for opinions whichare usually not even believed in by the man who puts you forward torepresent them."

Berthold shook his head. "I assure you, father, I'm not tempted thistime by any oratorical or dialectical ambition. This time I havediscovered the sphere in which I hope it will be possible for me to doquite as definite work as in the laboratory. I intend, you know, if Ido any good at all, to bother about nothing else except questions ofpublic health. Perhaps I can count on your blessing, father, for thiskind of political activity."

"On mine ... yes. But how about your own?"

"What do you mean?"

"The blessing to which one might give the name of the inner call."

"You doubt even that," replied Berthold, really hurt.

The servant came in and gave the old doctor a visiting card. He readit. "Tell him I'll be glad to see him in a minute."

The servant went away.

Berthold went on speaking in a state of some excitement. "I feeljustified in saying that my training, my knowledge...."

His father interrupted him as he played with the card. "I don't doubtyour knowledge or your energy or your industry, but it seems to methat to be able to do any particular good in the sphere of publichealth you need as well as those excellent qualities another one too,which in my view you only have to a very small extent: kindness, mydear Berthold, love of mankind."

Berthold shook his head vehemently. "I regard the love of humanitywhich you mean, father, as absolutely superfluous and rather injurious.Pity—and what else can loving people whom one doesn't personally knowreally be?—necessarily leads to sentimentalism, to weakness. And whenone wants to help whole groups of men then, above all, you must beable to be hard at times, hard to individuals—yes, be ready in factto sacrifice them if the common good demands it. You only need toconsider, father, that the most honest and consistent social hygienewould have the direct result of annihilating diseased people, or at anyrate excluding them from all enjoyment of life, and I don't deny that Ihave all kinds of ideas tending in that way which may seem cruel at thefirst glance. But the future, I think, belongs to ideas. You needn'tbe afraid, father, that I shall begin straight away to preach themurder of the unhealthy and the superfluous. But theoretically that'scertainly what my programme leads to. Do you know, by the way, whom Ihad a very interesting conversation with the other day on this verysubject?"

"What subject do you mean?"

"To put it precisely, a conversation on the right to kill. WithHeinrich Bermann the author, the son of the late Deputy."

"But where did you get the opportunity of seeing him then?"

"The other day at a meeting. Therese Golowski brought him along. Youknow him, too, don't you, father?"

"Yes," replied the old man, "I've known him for quite a long time."And he added: "I met him again this year in the summer at AnnaRosner's."

Berthold's eyebrows again twitched violently. Then he saidsarcastically: "I thought it was something like that. Bermannmentioned, you know, that he had seen you some time ago, but hewouldn't remember exactly where. I concluded that it must have beena case of—discretion. I see. So the Herr Baron thought he wouldintroduce his friends into her house."

"My dear Berthold, your tone seems to suggest that you have not gotover a certain matter as completely as you previously hinted."

Berthold shrugged his shoulders. "I have never denied that I have anantipathy for Baron Wergenthin. That is why the whole business was sopainful to me from the very beginning."

"Is that why?"

"Yes."

"And yet I think, Berthold, that you would regard the matterdifferently if you were to meet Anna Rosner again some time or other asa widow—even assuming that her late husband was even more antipatheticto you than Baron von Wergenthin."

"That's possible. One can certainly presume that she has been loved—orat any rate respected, not just taken and—chucked away as soon as thespree was over. I'd have found that rather.... Well, I won't put it anymore definitely."

The old man shook his head as he looked at his son. "It really seems asthough all the advanced views of you young people break down as soon asyour passions and vanities come into question."

"So far as certain questions of cleanness or cleanliness are concernedI do not know that I am guilty of any so-called advanced views, father,and I don't think that you would be particularly delighted either ifI felt any desire to be the successor of a more or less dead BaronWergenthin."

"Certainly not, Berthold. For her sake, especially, for you wouldtorture her to death."

"Don't be uneasy," replied Berthold, "Anna's in no peril from myquarter. It's all over."

"That's a good reason. But, happily, there's an even better one. BaronWergenthin's neither dead nor has he cleared out...."

"It doesn't matter, you know, about the actual word."

"He has, as you know, a position as a conductor in Germany...."

"What a piece of luck! He has really been very fortunate over the wholething. Not even having to provide for a child."

"You have two faults, Berthold. In the first place you are reallyan unkind man, and in the second place you never let one finish. Iwas just on the point of saying that it doesn't seem to be anythinglike all over between Anna and Baron Wergenthin. Only the day beforeyesterday she gave me his kind regards."

Berthold shrugged his shoulders as though the matter were finished sofar as he was concerned. "How's old Rosner?" he asked.

"He'll pull through all right this time," replied the old man. "Anyway,I hope that you've retained a sufficient sense of detachment to realisethat his attacks are not due to his grief about the prodigal daughter,but to a sclerosis of the arteries that is unfortunately fairly faradvanced."

"Is Anna giving lessons again?" asked Berthold after some hesitation.

"Yes," replied the old man, "but perhaps not much longer." And heshowed his son the visiting card which he was still holding in his hand.

Berthold contracted the corners of his mouth. "Do you think," he askedironically, "he has come here to celebrate his wedding, father?"

"I shall soon find that out," replied the old man. "At any rate I'mvery glad to see him again—for I assure you he's one of the mostcharming young men I've ever met."

"Extraordinary!" said Berthold. "A quite unique winner of hearts. EvenTherese raves about him. And Heinrich Bermann the other day, it wasalmost funny.... Oh well, a slim handsome blonde young man, a baron, aGerman, a Christian—what Jew could withstand the magic?... Goodbye,father."

"Berthold!"

"Well, what?" He bit his lips.

"Pull yourself together! Remember what you are."

"I ... remember."

"No, you don't. Otherwise you couldn't forget so often who the othersare."

Berthold lifted his head interrogatively.

"You should really go to Rosner's some time. It is not worthy of youto let Anna see your disapproval in so—childish a fashion. Goodbye... hope you'll have a good time in the 'Silberne Weintraube." Heshook hands with his son and then went into his consulting-room. Heopened the door of the waiting-room and with a friendly nod of the headinvited George von Wergenthin, who was turning over the leaves of analbum, to come in.

"I must first apologise to you, Herr Doctor," said George, after hehad sat down. "My departure was so sudden.... Unfortunately I had noopportunity of saying goodbye to you, of thanking you personally foryour great...."

Doctor Stauber deprecated his thanks. "I am very glad to see youagain," he said, "I suppose you are here in Vienna on leave?"

"Of course," replied George. "I've only got three days' leave; theyneed me there so urgently, you see," he added with a modest smile.

Doctor Stauber sat opposite him in the chair behind his secretaryand contemplated him kindly. "You feel very satisfied with your newposition, so Anna says."

"Oh yes; of course there are all kinds of difficulties when one plungesinto a new kind of life like I did. But taking it all round everythinghas turned out much easier than I expected."

"So I hear. And that you have already had a very good introduction atCourt."

George smiled. "Anna of course imagines that episode to be moremagnificent than it really was. I played once at the HereditaryPrince's and a lady member of the theatre sang two songs of mine there;that's all. But what is much more important is that I have a chance ofbeing appointed conductor this very season."

"I thought you were already."

"No, Herr Doctor, not yet officially. I have already conducted a fewtimes as deputy, Freischütz and Undine, but for the time being I amonly accompanist."

In response to further questions from the doctor he told him some moreabout his activities at the Detmold Opera. He then got up and saidgoodbye.

"Perhaps I can give you a lift part of the way in my carriage," saidthe doctor. "I am driving to the Rembrandtstrasse to the Golowskis'."

"Thanks very much, Herr Doctor, but that's not on my way. Anyway, Iintend to visit Frau Golowski in the course of to-morrow. She's notill, is she?"

"No. Of course the excitement of the last weeks is bound to have hadsome effect upon her."

George mentioned that he had written a few words to her and also to Leoimmediately after the duel. "When one thinks that it might have turnedout differently ..." he added.

Doctor Stauber looked in front of him. "Having children," he said, "isa happiness which one pays for by instalments."

At the door George began somewhat hesitatingly: "I also wanted ... toinquire of you, Herr Doctor, about the real state of Herr Rosner'shealth.... I must say I found him looking better than I had expectedfrom Anna's letters."

"I hope that he will get all right again," replied Stauber. "But ofcourse one must remember that he's an old man. He's even old for hisyears."

"But it's not a case of anything serious?"

"Old age is a serious business in itself," replied Doctor Stauber,"especially as his whole antecedent life, his youth and manhood, werenot particularly cheerful."

George, whose eyes had been roving round the room, suddenly exclaimed:"I've just thought of it, Herr Doctor. I've never sent you back thebooks you were good enough to lend me in the spring. And now I'm afraidall our things are at the depository, silver, furniture, pictures andthe books as well. So I must ask you, Herr Doctor, to have patiencetill the spring."

"If you have no worse troubles than that, my dear Baron...."

They went slowly down the stairs and Doctor Stauber inquired afterFelician.

"He's in Athens," replied George, "I've heard from him twice, not yetin any great detail.... How strange it is, Herr Doctor, coming backas a stranger to a town where one was at home a short time ago, andstaying at an hotel as a gentleman from Detmold!..."

Doctor Stauber got into his carriage. George asked him to give his verybest regards to Frau Golowski.

"I'll tell her. And I wish you all further success, my dear Baron.Goodbye."

It was five by the Stephanskirche clock. George was faced with anempty hour. He decided to stroll slowly into the suburb in the thintepid autumn rain. He had scarcely slept at all in the train and hehad been at the Rosners' two hours after his arrival. Anna herself hadopened the door to him, greeted him with an affectionate kiss, andquickly taken him into the room, where her parents welcomed him withmore politeness than sincerity. The mother, who preserved her usualembarrassed and slightly injured tone, did not say much. The father,sitting in the corner of the ottoman, with a blue-coloured rug over hisknees, felt it incumbent on him to inquire about the social and musicalconditions of the little capital from which George had come. Then hehad remained alone awhile with Anna. They first exchanged question andanswer with undue quickness, and subsequently endearments, which wereboth flat and awkward, and they both seemed disappointed that theydid not feel the happiness of seeing each other again with anythinglike the intensity which their love had given them to expect. Verysoon a pupil of Anna's put in an appearance. George took his leave andhurriedly arranged an appointment for the evening with his mistress. Hewould fetch her from Bittner's and then take her to the opera to seethe performance of Tristan.

He had then taken his midday meal by the big window of a restaurant inthe Ringstrasse, made purchases and given orders at his tradesmen's,looked up Heinrich, whom he did not find at home, and finally,obeying a sudden idea, decided to pay his "return-thanks" visit toDoctor Stauber. He now walked on slowly through the streets whichhe knew so well and which already seemed to have an atmosphere ofstrangeness; and he thought of the town from which he came and inwhich he was feeling at home far more quickly than he had expected.Count Malnitz had received him with great kindness from the veryfirst moment. He had the plan of reforming the opera in accordancewith modern ideas and wanted to win George to him, so the latterthought, as a collaborator and friend in his far-reaching projects.For the first conductor, excellent musician no doubt though he mightbe, was nowadays more of a court official than an artist. He had beenappointed when he was five-and-twenty and had now been stationed inthe little town for thirty years, a paterfamilias with six children,respected, contented and without ambition. Soon after his arrivalGeorge heard songs sung at a concert which a long time ago had spreadthe fame of the young conductor throughout almost the whole world.George was unable to understand the impression produced by these quiteout-of-date pieces, but none the less warmly complimented the composerwith a kindly sympathy for the ageing man in whose eyes there seemedto shine the distant glamour of a richer and more promising past.George frequently asked himself if the old conductor still thought ofthe fact that he had once been taken for a man who was destined to gofar, and whether he, like so many other of the inhabitants, regardedthe little town as a hub from which the rays of influence and offame fell far around. George had only found in a few any desire fora larger and more complex sphere of activity; it often seemed to himas though they rather treated him with a kind of good-natured pitybecause he came from a great town, and in particular from Vienna.Whenever the name of that town was mentioned in front of people Georgenoticed in their smug and somewhat sarcastic manner that almost asregularly as harmonies accompany the bass, certain other words wouldbe immediately switched into the conversation, even though they werenot specifically mentioned: waltzes ... café ... süsses Mädel[2]... grilled chicken ... fiacre ... parliamentary scandal. George wasoften irritated by this and made up his mind to do all he could toimprove his countrymen's reputation in Detmold. He had been asked tocome because the third conductor, a quite young man, had suddenly died,and so George, on the very first day, had to sit at the piano in thelittle rehearsal-room and perform singing accompaniments. It went offexcellently. He rejoiced in his gifts, which were stronger and surerthan he had himself hoped, and it seemed to him, so far as he couldrecollect, that Anna had slightly underestimated his talent. Apart fromthis he threw himself more seriously into his compositions than he hadever done before. He worked at an overture which had originated out ofthe motifs of Bermann's opera. He had begun a violin sonata, and themythical quintette, as Else had called it once, was nearly finished.It was going to be performed this very winter in one of the Courtsoirées, which were under the direction of the deputy-conductor ofthe Detmold orchestra, a talented young man, the only person in fact inhis new home with whom George had so far become at all intimate, andwith whom he was accustomed to take his meals at the "Elephant."

George still inhabited a fine room in this inn, with a view on to thebig square planted with lindens, and from day to day put off takingan apartment. He was quite uncertain whether he would be still inDetmold next year and he also had the feeling that it would be boundto wound Anna, if he were to do anything which looked like settlingdown as a bachelor for any length of time. Yet he had said no word inhis letters to her about any of the prospects of the future, just asshe, on her side, left off addressing to him doubting or impatientquestions. They practically only communicated to each other actualfacts. She wrote of her gradual return into her old groove of life,and he of all the new surroundings among which he must first settledown. Although there was practically nothing which he had to keep fromher, he made a special point of slurring over many things that mighteasily lead to a misunderstanding. How was one to express in wordsthe strange atmosphere which permeated in the morning the rehearsalsin the half-dark body of the theatre, when the odour of cosmetics,perfumes, dresses, gas, old wood and fresh paint came down from thestage to the stalls, when figures which one did not at first recognisehopped to and fro between the rows of seats in ordinary or stage dress,when some breath which was heavy and scented blew gently against one'sneck? And how was one to describe a glance which flashed down from theeyes of a young singer while one looked up to her from the keys...?Or when one saw this young singer home through the Theaterplatz andthe Königsstrasse in the broad light of noon and used the opportunitynot merely to talk about the part of Micaela, which one had just beenstudying with her, but also about all kinds of other, though no doubtfairly innocent, things? Could one recount this to one's mistress inVienna without her reading something suspicious between the lines? Andeven if one had laid stress on the fact that Micaela was engaged to ayoung doctor in Berlin who adored her as much as she did him it wouldscarcely have improved matters, for that would really have looked asthough one felt obliged to answer and reassure.

How strange, thought George, that it is just this very evening thatshe is singing the Micaela which I practised with her, and that Iam going here along this same road out to Mariahilf which I used totake a year ago so frequently and so gladly. He thought of a specificevening when he had fetched Anna from out there, walked about with herin the quiet streets, looked at funny photographs in a doorway andfinally walked with her on the cool stone flags of an ancient church,in a soft but how ominous conversation about an unknown future.... Andnow all had turned out quite differently to what he had hoped—quitedifferently.... Why did it strike him like that?... What had heanticipated then at that time?... Had not the year that had just passedbeen wonderfully rich and beautiful with its happiness and its grief?And did he not love Anna to-day better and more deeply than ever? Andhad he not frequently yearned for her in that fresh town as hotlyas though for a woman who had never yet belonged to him? To-day'searly meeting with its flat and awkward endearments in the sinisteratmosphere of a grey hour really ought not to lead him astray....

He was at the appointed place. When he looked up to the lightedwindows, behind which Anna was giving her lesson, a slight emotioncame over him, and when she came out of the door the next minute, in asimple English dress and a grey felt hat on her rich dark blonde hair,holding a book in her hand, just as she had appeared a year ago, anunexpected feeling of happiness suddenly streamed over him. She didnot see him at once, for he was standing in the shadow of a house. Sheopened her umbrella and went as far as the corner where she had been inthe habit of waiting for him the previous year. He gazed at her for awhile and was glad that she looked so fine and distinguished. Then hefollowed her quickly, and caught her up in a few strides. She informedhim at once that she could not go to the opera with him. Her father hadbeen taken ill this afternoon.

George was very disappointed. "Won't you at any rate come with me forthe first act?"

She shook her head. "No, I am not very keen on that sort of thing. Itis much better for you to give the seat to some friend. Go and fetchNürnberger or Bermann."

"No," he replied, "if you can't come with me I'd rather go alone. Ishould have enjoyed it so much. I am not very keen on the performancepersonally. I'd prefer to stay with you ... so far as I am concerned,even at your people's; but I must go. I have—to make a report."

Anna backed him up. "Of course you must go," and she added: "Iwouldn't advise you, too, to spend an evening with us. It's really notparticularly jolly."

He had taken the umbrella out of her hand and held it over her, whileshe held his arm. "I say, Anna," he said, "I should like to make asuggestion!" He was surprised that he should be looking for a way ofleading up to it, and began hesitatingly: "My few days in Vienna are,of course, more or less unsettled and cut up—and now there's thisdepressed atmosphere at your people's as well.... We are not reallymanaging to see anything of each other: don't you agree?"

She nodded without looking at him.

"So wouldn't you like to come part of the way with me, Anna, when I goback again?"

She looked at him sideways in her arch way and did not answer.

He went on speaking. "I can, you see, quite well manage to get an extraday's leave if I wire to the theatre. It would really be awfully niceif we had a few hours all to ourselves."

She consented with sincerity but not enthusiasm and made her decisiondepend on the state of her father's health. She then asked him how hehad spent the day.

He told her in detail, and also added his programme for to-morrow. "Sowe two will see each other in the evening," he said. "I'll come to yourplace if that's convenient, and then we'll arrange further details."

"Yes," said Anna, and looked in front of her down the damp brown-greystreet.

He tried again to persuade her to come to the opera with him, but itwas futile. He then inquired about her singing lessons and followedthat up by speaking about his own activity, as though he had toconvince her that after all he was not having a much better time thanshe was. And he referred to his letters, in which he had written abouteverything in full detail.

"So far as that's concerned ..." she said suddenly in quite a hardvoice.... And when, hurt by her tone, he could not help throwing backhis head, she proceeded: "What is there really in letters, howeverdetailed they are?"

He knew what she was thinking about—he felt a certain heaviness atheart. Was there not in the very inexorableness of this silence allthat she refused to voice aloud?—question, reproach and rage. He hadalready felt this morning and now felt again that a certain sense ofpositive enmity to himself was rising within her, against which sheherself seemed to be struggling in vain. Was this morning the firsttime...? Had it not dated far longer back? Perhaps it had been alwaysthere, from the very first moment when they had belonged to each other,and even in the moments of their supreme happiness? Had not thishostile feeling been present when she pressed her bosom against hisbehind dark curtains to the music of the organ, when she waited forhim in the room at the hotel in Rome, with eyes red with tears, whilehe had been watching with delight from Monte Pincio the sun settingin the Campagna, and had realised that he was finding this hour ofsolitary enjoyment the most wonderful in the whole journey? Had it notbeen present when he ran down the gravel path on a hot morning, droppeddown at her feet and cried in her lap as though it had been the lap ofa mother? And when he had sat by her bedside and looked out into thegarden at eventime, while the dead child she had borne an hour ago laysilent on the white linen cloth, had it not been there again, drearierthan ever, so that it would have been almost unbearable, if they hadnot long ago managed to put up with it, in the way one manages toendure so much of the unsatisfactoriness and so much of the sorrow thatcomes up out of the depths of human intercourse? And now how painfullydid he feel this sense of hostility as he walked arm-in-arm with her,holding the umbrella carefully over her, down the damp streets? It wasthere again—menacing and familiar. The words which she had spokenwere still ringing in his ears: "What is there really in letters,however detailed they are?"... But even more solemnly there rang inhis ears the unspoken words: What does the most ardent kiss in whichbody and soul seem to fuse really come to? What does the fact that wetravelled together for months through strange lands really come to?What does the fact that I had a child by you come to? What does thefact that you cried out in my lap your remorse for your deception? Whatdoes it all come to, when you still go and leave me quite alone?...Why, I was alone at the very moment when my body drank in the germ oflife which I carried within me for nine months, which was intended tolive amongst strangers, though our own child, and which did not wish toremain on earth!

But while all this sank heavily into his soul he agreed in a light tonethat she was really quite right and that letters—even though they wereactually twenty pages long—could not contain much in particular; andwhile a harrowing pity for her sprang up in him he gently expressedthe hope that there would be a time in which they would neither ofthem any longer be thrown back upon mere letters. And then he foundwords of greater tenderness, told her of those lonely walks of his inthe outskirts of the strange town when he thought of her; told herof the hours in that meaningless hotel room, with its view of thelinden-planted square, and of his yearning for her, which was alwayspresent whether he sat alone at his work or accompanied singers at thepianoforte or chatted with new acquaintances. But when he stood withher in front of the house door, with her hand in his, and looked upinto her eyes as he murmured a bright goodbye, he was shocked to seein them the flickering out of a jaded sense of disillusionment thathad almost ceased to be painful. And he knew that all the words whichhe had spoken to her had meant nothing to her, had meant less thannothing, since the one word, the word she scarcely hoped for any more,and yet longed for all the time, had not come.

A quarter of an hour later George was sitting in his stall at theopera. He was first a little depressed and limp, but the pleasure ofenjoyment soon began to course through his veins. And when Brangänethrew the king's cloak over her mistress's shoulders, Kurwenalannounced the king's approach and the ship's crew on the deck hailedthe land amid all the glory of the resplendent heavens, George had longago forgotten a bad night in the train, some boring commissions, anextremely forced conversation with an old Jewish doctor and a walk onthe wet pavement which mirrored the light of the lamps by the side ofa young lady who looked decent, distinguished and somewhat depressed.And when the curtain fell for the first time and the light streamedthrough the enormous room, upholstered in red and gold, he did notfeel any unpleasant sense of being brought back to sober life, buthe rather felt as though he were plunging his head out of one dreaminto another; while a reality which was full of all kinds of wretchedcomplications flew impotently past somewhere outside. The atmosphere ofthis house, so it seemed to him, had never made him so intensely happyas it did to-day. He had never felt so palpably that all the audience,so long as they were here, were protected in some mystic way againstall the pain and all the dirt of life. He stood up in his corner seat,which was in front by the middle gangway, saw many a pleased glanceturn towards him and felt conscious of looking handsome, elegant andeven somewhat unusual. And besides that he was—and this filled himwith satisfaction—a man who had a profession, a position, a man whosat in this very theatre with a responsible commission to perform,as a kind of envoy from a German court theatre. He looked round withhis opera-glass. From the back of the stalls Gleissner greeted himwith a somewhat too familiar nod of his head and seemed immediatelyafterwards to be expatiating on George's personal characteristics tothe young lady who sat next to him. Who could she be? Was it the harlotwhich the author, with his hobby for experimenting on souls, wanted tomake into a saint, or was it the saint whom he wanted to make into aharlot? Hard to say, thought George. They'd both look about the same,halfway.

George felt the lens of an opera-glass burning on the top of his head.He looked up. It was Else, who was looking down to him from a box inthe first tier. Frau Ehrenberg sat near her and between them therebowed over the front of the box a tall young man who was no other thanJames Wyner. George bowed and two minutes later stepped into the box,to find himself greeted with friendliness but not a trace of surprise.Else, in a low-cut black velvet dress, with a small pearl necklet roundher throat and a somewhat strange though interesting coiffure, held outher hand to him. "And how did you manage to get here? On leave? Sacked?Run away?"

George explained, briefly and good-humouredly.

"It was very nice of you," said Frau Ehrenberg, "to have sent us a linefrom Detmold."

"He really shouldn't have done that, either," remarked Else. "It wasquite calculated to make one think that he had gone off to America withsome one or other."

James was standing in the middle of the box, tall and gaunt, with hischiselled face and his dark smooth hair parted at the side. "Well,George, how do you like Detmold?"

Else was looking at him with dropped eyelashes. She seemed delightedwith his way of still always speaking German as though he had totranslate it to himself out of English. Anyway, she employed theoccasion to make a joke and said: "How George likes it in Detmold! I amafraid your question is indiscreet, James." Then she turned to George."We are engaged, you know."

"We haven't yet sent out any cards, you know," added Frau Ehrenberg.

George offered his congratulations.

"Lunch with us to-morrow," said Frau Ehrenberg. "You will only meet afew people. I'm sure they'll all be very glad to see you again—Sissy,Frau Oberberger, Willy Eissler."

George excused himself. He could not bind himself to any specific time,but if he possibly could he would very much like to look in during thecourse of the afternoon.

"Quite so," said Else in a low voice, without looking at him, while herarm, in its long white glove, lay carelessly on the ledge of the box."You are probably spending the middle of the day in the family circle."

George pretended not to hear and praised to-night's performance. Jamesdeclared that he liked Tristan better than all the other operas byWagner, including the Meistersingers.

Else simply remarked: "It's awfully fine, but as a matter of fact I'mall against love-philtres and things in that line."

George explained that the love-philtre was to be regarded as a symbol,whereupon Else declared that she had a distaste for symbols as well.The first signal for the second act was given. George took his leaveand rushed downstairs with only just enough time to take his placebefore the curtain rose. He remembered again the semi-official capacityin which he was sitting in the theatre to-night, and determined notto surrender himself unreservedly to his impressions. He soon managedto discover that it was possible to produce the love-scene quitedifferently from the way in which it was being done to-night. Nor didhe think it right that Melot, by whose hand Tristan was doomed to die,should be represented by a second-rate singer, as was nearly alwaysthe case. After the fall of the curtain on the second act he got upwith a kind of increased self-consciousness, stood up in his seat andlooked frequently up to the box in the first tier, from which FrauEhrenberg nodded to him benevolently, while Else spoke to James, whowas standing still behind her with crossed arms. It struck Georgethat he would see James's sister again to-morrow. Did she still oftenthink of that wonderful hour in the park in the afternoon, amid thedark green sultriness of the park, in the warm perfume of the moss andthe pines? How far away that was! He then remembered a fleeting kissin the nocturnal shadow of the garden wall at Lugano. How far awaythat was too! He thought of the evening under the plane-tree, and theconversation about Leo came again into his mind. A remarkable fellowthat Leo, really. How consistently he had stuck to his plan! For hemust have formed it a long time ago. And obviously Leo had only waitedfor the day when he could doff his uniform to put it into execution.George had received no answer to the letter which he had immediatelywritten him after hearing about the duel. He resolved to visit Leo inprison if it were possible.

A man in the first row greeted him. It was Ralph Skelton. Georgearranged by pantomimic signs to meet him at the end of the performance.

The lights were extinguished, the prelude to the third act began.George heard the tired sea-waves surging against the desolate beachand the grievous sighs of a mortally wounded hero were wafted throughthe blue thin air. Where had he heard this last? Hadn't it been inMunich...? No, it couldn't be so far back. And he suddenly rememberedthe hour when the sheets of the Tristan music had been spread openbefore him on a balcony beneath a wooden gable. A sunny path oppositeran to the churchyard between field and forest, while a cross hadflashed with its golden light; down in the house a woman he lovedhad groaned in agony and he had felt sick at heart. And yet thismemory, too, had its own melancholy sweetness, like all else that hadcompletely passed. The balcony, the little blue angel between theflowers, the white seat under the pear-tree, where was it all now? Hewould see the house again once more, once more before he left Vienna.

The curtain rose. The shawm rang out yearningly beneath the paleexpanse of an unsympathetic heaven. The wounded hero slumbered inthe shade of the linden branches, and by his head watched Kurwenalthe faithful. The shawm was silent, the herdsman bent questioninglyover the wall and Kurwenal made answer. By Jove, that was a voice ofunusual timbre! If we only had a baritone like that, thought George.And many other things, too, which we need! If he were only given therequisite power he felt himself able, in the course of time, to turnthe modest theatre at which he worked into a first-class stage. Hedreamed of model performances to which people would stream from farand wide. He no longer sat there as an envoy, but as a man to whom itwas perhaps vouchsafed to be himself a leader in not too distant days.Further and higher coursed his hopes. Perhaps just a few years—andhis own original harmonies would be ringing through a spacious hall ofa musical festival, and the audience would be listening as thrilledas the one to-day, while somewhere outside a hollow reality would beflowing impotently past. Impotently? That was the question. Did heknow whether it was given him to compel human beings by his art as ithad been given to the master to whom they were listening to-day—totriumph over the difficulty, wretchedness and awfulness of everydaylife? Impatience and doubt tried to rise out of his soul; but his willand common-sense quickly banished them and he now felt again the purehappiness he always experienced when he heard beautiful music, withoutthinking of the fact that he often wished himself to do creative workand obtain recognition for doing it.

In moments like this the only relation to his beloved art of whichhe was conscious was that he was able to understand it with deeperappreciation than any other human being. And he felt that Heinrichhad spoken the truth when they had ridden together through a forestdamp with the morning dew: it was not creative work—it was simply theatmosphere of his art which was necessary to his existence. He was notone of the damned, like Heinrich, who always felt driven to catch holdof things, to mould them, to preserve them, and who found his worldfall to pieces whenever it tried to escape from his creative hand.

Isolde in Brangäne's arms had dropped dead over Tristan's body, thelast notes were dying away, the curtain fell. George cast a glanceup to the box in the first tier. Else stood by the ledge with herlook turned towards him, while James put her dark-red cloak over hershoulders, and it was only now, that after a nod of the head as quickas though she had meant no one to notice it, she turned towards theexit. Remarkable, thought George from a distance: there is a certain... melancholy romantic something about the way she carries herself,about many of her movements. It is then that she reminds me most ofthe gipsy girl of Nice, or the strange young person with whom I stoodin front of the Titian Venus in Florence.... Did she ever love me? No.And she doesn't love her James either. Who is it then?... Perhaps ...it was really that mad drawing-master in Florence. Or no one at all. OrHeinrich, of all people?...

He met Skelton in the foyer. "Back again?" queried the latter.

"Only for a few days," replied George.

It transpired that Skelton had not really known what George wasdoing and had thought that he was on a kind of musical tour throughthe German towns for the purposes of study. He was now more orless surprised to hear that George was here on leave and had beenpractically commissioned by the manager to inspect the new productionof Tristan. "Will this suit you?" said Skelton. "I've got anappointment with Breitner; at the 'Imperial,' the white room."

"Excellent," replied George. "I'm staying there."

Doctor von Breitner was already smoking one of his celebrated bigcigars when the two men appeared at his table. "What a surprise!"he exclaimed, when George greeted him. He had heard that George wasengaged as conductor in Düsseldorf.

"Detmold," said George, and he thought: "The people here don't botherabout me particularly.... But what does it matter?"

Skelton described the Tristan performance and George mentioned thathe had spoken to the Ehrenbergs.

"Do you know that Oskar Ehrenberg is on his way to India or Ceylon?"asked Doctor von Breitner.

"Really!"

"And whom do you think with?"

"Some woman, I suppose?"

"Oh, of course. I've even heard they've got five or seven women withthem."

"Who?—'they.'"

"Oskar Ehrenberg ... and ... have a guess.... Well, the Prince ofGuastalla!"

"Impossible!"

"Funny, eh? They became very thick this year at Ostend or at Spa....Cherchez ... et cetera. It seems that just as there are women, youknow, for whom people fight duels there's also another class acrosswhom, as it were, you shake hands. Now they've left Europe together.Perhaps they'll found a kingdom on some island or other and OskarEhrenberg will be prime minister."

Willy Eissler appeared. His complexion was sallow, his voice hoarse andhe looked as if he had been keeping late hours. "Hullo, Baron! Forgiveme not being thunderstruck but I have already heard that you are here.Some one or other saw you in the Kärtnerstrasse."

George requested Willy to remember Count Malnitz to his father. Hehimself, he was sorry to say, had no time on this occasion to look upthe old gentleman, to whom, as he observed with a pretty mock-modesty,he owed his position in Detmold.

"So far as your future is concerned, Baron," said Willy, "I never hadany anxiety about it, particularly since I heard Bellini sing yoursongs last year—or was it further back? But it is quite a good ideaof yours, deciding to leave Vienna. You'd have been bound to have beentaken for a dilettante here for a cool twenty or thirty years. That'salways the way in Vienna. I know it. When people know that a man comesof a good family, has a taste too for pretty ties, good cigarettes andvarious other amenities of life, they don't believe that he has realartistic capacity. You wouldn't be taken seriously here without prooffrom outside.... So hurry up and furnish us with a brilliant one,Baron."

"I'll make an effort to," said George.

"By the way, have you heard the latest, gentlemen?" began Willy again."Leo Golowski, the one-year-volunteer who shot First-LieutenantSefranek, is free."

"Let out on bail?" asked George.

"No, he's quite free. His advocate addressed a petition to the Emperorto quash the proceedings, and it turned out successful to-day."

"Incredible!" exclaimed Breitner.

"Why are you so surprised, Breitner?" said Willy. "It is possible, youknow, for something sensible to happen in Austria once in a blue moon."

"A duel is never sensible," said Skelton, "and therefore a pardon for aduel can't be sensible either."

"A duel, my dear Skelton, is either something very much worse orsomething very much better than sensible," replied Willy. "It iseither a ghastly folly or a relentless necessity, either a crime or anact of deliverance. It is not sensible and doesn't need to be so. Inexceptional cases, one can't make any headway at all with common-sense,and I am sure you too will concede, Skelton, that in a case like theone of which we have just been speaking a duel was inevitable."

"Absolutely," said Breitner.

"I can imagine a polity," observed Skelton, "in which differences ofthat kind were settled by a court."

"Differences of that kind settled by a court! Oh, I say!... Do youreally think, Skelton, that in a case where there is no question ofright or of possession at issue, but where men confront each other witha stupendous hate, do you really think that a proper settlement couldbe arrived at by means of a fine or imprisonment? The fact, gentlemen,that refusal to fight a duel in such cases is regarded as a piece ofcowardice by all people who possess temperament, honour and honesty hasa fairly deep significance. In the case of Jews at any rate," he added."So far as the Catholics are concerned it is well known that it is onlytheir orthodoxy which keeps them from fighting."

"That's certainly the case," said Breitner simply.

George wanted to know details of the affair between Leo Golowski andthe First-Lieutenant.

"Quite so," said Willy. "Of course you've only just arrived. Well, theFirst-Lieutenant gave him a fine ragging for the whole year, and as amatter of fact——"

"I know the prelude," interrupted George. "Part of it from first-handinformation."

"Really! Well, the prelude, to stick to that expression, was over onthe first of October. I mean Leo Golowski had finished his year ofservice. And on the second he placed himself in front of the barracksearly in the morning and quietly waited till the First-Lieutenantcame out of the door. As soon as he did he stepped up to him; theFirst-Lieutenant reached for his sword, but Leo Golowski grabs holdof his hand, doesn't let it go, puts his other fist in front of hisforehead. There is a story, too, that Leo is supposed to have flung thefollowing words at the First-Lieutenant.... I don't know if it's true."

"What words?" asked George curiously.

"'You were worth more than I was yesterday, Herr First-Lieutenant; nowwe are on an equality for the time being—but one of us will be worthmore than the other again by this time to-morrow.'"

"Somewhat Talmudic," remarked Breitner.

"You, of course, must be the best judge of that, Breitner," repliedWilly, and went on with his story. "Well, the duel took place nextmorning in the fields by the Danube—three exchanges of ball at twentypaces without advancing. If that proved abortive the sword till one orother was hors de combat.... The first shots missed on both sides,and after the second ... after the second, I say, Golowski was reallyworth more than the First-Lieutenant, for the latter was worth nothing,less than nothing—a dead man."

"Poor devil," said Breitner.

Willy shrugged his shoulders. "He just happened to have caught atartar. I'm sorry, too, but one must admit that Austria would be adifferent place in many respects if all Jews would behave like LeoGolowski in similar cases. Unfortunately...."

Skelton smiled. "You know, Willy, I don't like any one to say anythingagainst the Jews when I am there. I like them, and I should be sorry ifpeople wanted to solve the Jewish question by a series of duels, forwhen it was all over there wouldn't be a single male specimen left ofthat excellent race."

At the end of the conversation Skelton had to admit that the duel couldnot be abolished in Austria for the present. But he reserved the rightof putting the question whether that fact was really an argument infavour of the duel, and not rather an argument against Austria, sincemany other countries—he refrained from mentioning any out of a senseof modesty—had discarded the duel for centuries. And did he go toofar if he ventured to designate Austria—the country, too, in whichhe had felt really at home for the last six years—as the country ofsocial shams? In that country more than anywhere else there existedwild disputes without a touch of hate and a kind of tender love withoutthe need of fidelity. Quite humorous personal likings existed or cameinto existence between political opponents; party colleagues, on theother hand, reviled, libelled and betrayed each other. You would onlyfind a few people who would vouchsafe specific views on men and things,and anyway even these few would be only too ready to make reservationsand admit exceptions. The political conflict there gave one quitethe impression as though the apparently most bitter enemies, whileexchanging their most virulent abuse, winked to each other: "It's notmeant so seriously."

"What do you think, Skelton?" asked Willy. "Would you wink, too, if thebullets were flying on both sides?"

"You certainly would, Willy, unless death were staring you in the face.But that circ*mstance, I think, doesn't affect one's mood but onlyone's demeanour."

They went on sitting together for a long time and continued gossiping.George heard all kinds of news. He learned among other things thatDemeter Stanzides had concluded the purchase of the estate on theHungarian-Croatian frontier, and that the Rattenmamsell was lookingforward to a happy event. Willy Eissler was much excited at the resultof this crossing of the races, and amused himself in the meanwhile byinventing names for the expected child, such as Israel Pius or RebeccaPortiuncula.

Subsequently the whole party betook itself to the neighbouring café.George played a game of billiards with Breitner and then went up to hisroom. He made out in bed a time-table for the next day and finallysank into a deliciously deep sleep.

The paper he had ordered the day before was brought in with the teain the morning, together with a telegram. The manager requested himto report on a singer. To George's delight it was the one he hadheard yesterday in Kurwenal. He was also allowed to stay three daysbeyond his specified leave, "in order to put his affairs in orderat his convenience," since an alteration of the programme happenedto allow it. Excellent, really, thought George. It struck him thathe had completely forgotten his original intention of wiring for aprolongation of his leave. I have got even more time for Anna now thanI thought, he reflected. We might perhaps go into the mountains. Theautumn days are fine and mild, and at this time one would be prettywell alone and undisturbed anywhere. But supposing there is an accidentagain—an—accident—again!... Those were the very words in which thethought had flown through his mind. He bit his lips. Was that how hehad suddenly come to regard the matter? An accident.... Where wasthe time when he had thought of himself almost with pride as a linkin an endless chain which went from the first ancestors to the lastdescendants? And for a few moments he seemed to himself like a failurein the sphere of love, somewhat dubious and pitiable.

He ran his eye over the paper. The proceedings against Leo Golowski hadbeen quashed by an Imperial pardon. He had been discharged from prisonlast evening. George was very glad and decided to visit Leo this veryday. He then sent a telegram to the Count, and made out a report withdue formality and detail on yesterday's performance. When he got outinto the street it was nearly eleven. The air had the cool clearnessof autumn. George felt thoroughly rested, refreshed and in a goodtemper. The day lay before him rich with hopes and promised all kindsof excitement. Only something troubled him without his immediatelyknowing what it was.... Oh yes, the visit in the Paulanergasse, thedepressing rooms, the ailing father, the aggrieved mother. I'll simplyfetch Anna, he thought, take her for a walk and then go and have suppersomewhere with her. He passed a flower shop, bought some wonderfuldark-red roses and had them sent to Anna with a card on which he wrote:"A thousand wishes. Goodbye till the evening." When he had done this hefelt easier in his mind. He then went through the streets in the centreof the town to the old house in which Nürnberger lived. He climbed upthe five storeys. A slatternly old servant with a dark cloth over herhead opened the door and ushered him into her master's room. Nürnbergerwas standing by the window with his head slightly bent, in the brownhigh-cut lounge-suit which he liked to wear at home. He was not alone.Heinrich, of all people, got up from the old arm-chair in front of thesecretary with a manuscript in his hand. George was heartily welcomed.

"Has your being in Vienna anything to do with the crisis in themanagement of the opera?" asked Nürnberger. He refused to allow thisobservation to be simply passed over as a joke. "Look here," he said,"if little boys who a short time ago were only in a position to giveformal proof of their connection with German literature on the strengthof the regularity of their visits to a literary café, are invited totake appointments as readers on the Berlin stage, well, in an age likethis I see no occasion for astonishment if Baron Wergenthin is fetchedin triumph to the Vienna opera after his no doubt strenuous six weeks'career as the conductor of a German Court theatre."

George paid a tribute to truth by explaining that he had only obtaineda short leave to put his Vienna affairs in order, and did not forget tomention that he had seen the new production of Tristan yesterday as akind of agent for his manager, but he smiled ironically at himself allthe time. Then he gave a short and fairly humorous description of hisexperiences up to the present in the little capital. He even touchedjestingly on the Court concerts as though he were far from taking hisposition, his present successes, the theatre, or indeed life in generalwith any particular seriousness.

Conversation then turned on Leo Golowski's release from prison.Nürnberger rejoiced at this unhoped-for issue, but yet firmly refusedto be surprised at it, for the most highly improbable things alwayshappened in life, and particularly in Austria, as they all knew verywell. But when George mentioned the rumour of Oskar Ehrenberg'syachting trip with the Prince as a new proof of the soundness ofNürnberger's theory, he was at first inclined nevertheless to beslightly sceptical. Yet he finished by admitting its possibility,since his imagination, as he had known for a long time, was invariablysurpassed by reality.

Heinrich looked at the time. It was time for him to say goodbye.

"Haven't I disturbed you, gentlemen?" asked George. "I think you werereading something, Heinrich, when I came in?"

"I had already finished," replied Heinrich.

"You'll read me the last act to-morrow, Heinrich?" said Nürnberger.

"I have no intention of doing so," replied Heinrich with a laugh. "Ifthe first two acts are as great a frost in the theatre as they werewith you, my dear Nürnberger, it will be positively impossible to playthe thing through to the end. We'll assume, Nürnberger, that you rushindignantly out of the stalls into the open air. I'll let you off thecat-calls and the rotten eggs."

"Hang it all!" exclaimed George.

"You're exaggerating again, Heinrich," said Nürnberger. "I onlyventured to make a few objections," he said, turning to George,"that's all. But he's an author, you know."

"It all depends on what you mean by 'objection,'" said Heinrich. "Afterall, it is only an objection to the life of a fellow human being if youcut his head open with a hatchet; only it's a fairly effective one." Hepointed to his manuscript and turned to George. "You know what that is?My political tragi-comedy. No wreaths, by request."

Nürnberger laughed. "I assure you, Heinrich, you could still makesomething really splendid out of your subject. You can even keep thewhole scenario and a number of the characters. All you need to do is tomake up your mind to be less fair when you revise your draft."

"But surely his fairness is a fine thing," said George.

Nürnberger shook his head. "One may be anywhere else, only not in thedrama," and turning to Heinrich again, "In a piece like that, whichdeals with a question of the day, or indeed several questions, as youreally intended, you'll never do any good with a purely objectivetreatment. The theatre public demands that the subjects tackled by theauthor should be definitely settled, or that at any rate some illusionof that kind should be created. For of course there never is any realsolution, and an apparent solution can only be made by a man who hasthe courage or the simplicity or the temperament to take sides. You'llsoon appreciate the fact, my dear Heinrich, that fairness is no good inthe drama."

"Do you know, Nürnberger," said Heinrich, "one perhaps might do somegood even with fairness. I think I simply haven't got the right kind.As a matter of fact, you know, I've no desire at all to be fair. Iimagine it must be so wonderfully nice to be unfair. I think it wouldbe the most healthy gymnastic exercise for one's soul that one couldpossibly practise. It must do one such a lot of good to be able reallyto hate the man whose views you are combating. It saves one, I'm sure,a great deal of inner strength which you can expend far better yourselfin the actual fight. Yes, if one still preserves fairness of heart....But my fairness is here," and he pointed to his forehead. "I do notstand above parties either, but I belong to them all in a kind of way,or am against them all. I have not got the divine but the dialecticalfairness. And that's why"—he held his manuscript high up—"it hasresulted in such a boring and fruitless lot of twaddle."

"Woe to the man," said Nürnberger, "who is rash enough to writeanything like that about you."

"Well, you see," replied Heinrich with a smile, "if some one else wereto say it, one couldn't suppress the slight suspicion that he might beright. But now I must really go. Good-bye, George. I'm very sorry thatyou missed me yesterday. When are you leaving again?"

"To-morrow."

"Anyway, I shall see you before you leave. I'm home to-day the wholeafternoon and evening. You will find a man who has resolutely turnedaway from the questions of the day and devoted himself again tothe eternal problems, death and love.... Do you believe in death,by-the-bye, Nürnberger? I am not asking you about love."

"That somewhat cheap joke from a man in your position," saidNürnberger, "makes me suspect that in spite of your very dignifieddemeanour my criticism has...."

"No, Nürnberger, I swear to you that I am not wounded. I have rather acomfortable sensation of the whole thing being finished with."

"Finished with, why so? It is still quite possible that I've madea mistake, and that this very piece, which I didn't think quite asuccess, will have a success on the stage which will make you into amillionaire. I should be deeply grieved if on account of my criticism,which may be very far from being authoritative...."

"Quite so, quite so, Nürnberger. We must all of us always admit thepossibility that we may be mistaken. And the next time I'll writeanother piece, and one with the following title too: 'Nobody's goingto take me in,' and you shall be the hero of it, Nürnberger."

Nürnberger smiled. "... I? That means you'll take a man whom youimagine you know, that you'll try to describe those sides of hischaracter which suit your game—that you'll suppress others which areno use to you, and the result...."

"The result," interrupted Heinrich, "will be a portrait taken by a madphotographer with a spoilt camera during an earthquake and an eclipseof the sun. Is that right, or is there anything missing?"

"The psychology ought to be exhaustive," said Nürnberger.

Heinrich took his leave in boisterous spirits and went away with hisrolled-up manuscript. When he had gone George remarked: "His goodtemper strikes me as a bit of a pose, you know."

"Do you think so? I have always found him in remarkably good formlately."

"In really good form? Do you seriously think so? After what he has gonethrough?"

"Why not? Men who are so almost exclusively self-centred as he isget over emotional troubles with surprising quickness. Characters ofthat type, and as a matter of fact other kinds of men as well, feelthe slightest physical discomfort far more acutely than any kind ofsentimental pain, even the faithlessness and death of the persons theyhappen to love. It comes no doubt from the fact that every emotionalpain flatters our vanity somehow or other, and that you can't say thesame thing about an attack of typhoid or a catarrh in the stomach. Thenthere is this additional point about artistic people, for while catarrhof the stomach provides positively no copy at all (at any rate thatused to be reasonably certain a short time ago) you can get anythingyou jolly well like out of your emotional pains, from lyric poems downto works on philosophy."

"Emotional pains are of very different kinds, of course," repliedGeorge. "And being deceived or deserted by a mistress ... or even herdying a natural death ... is still rather a different thing to herkilling herself on our account."

"Do you know for a certainty," replied Nürnberger, "that Heinrich'smistress really killed herself on his account?"

"Didn't Heinrich tell you, then?..."

"Of course, but that doesn't prove much. Even the shrewdest amongst usare always fools about the things which concern ourselves."

Such remarks as these on the part of Nürnberger produced a strangelydisconcerting effect on George. They belonged to the class of whichNürnberger was rather fond, and which, as Heinrich had once observed,quite destroyed all the point of all human intercourse, and in fact ofall human relations.

Nürnberger went on speaking. "We only know two facts. One is that ourfriend once had a liaison with a girl and the other that the girl inquestion threw herself into the water. We both of us know practicallynothing about all the intervening facts, and Heinrich probably doesn'tknow anything more about them either. None of us can know why shekilled herself, and perhaps the poor girl herself didn't know either."

George looked through the window and saw roofs, chimneys andweather-beaten pipes, while fairly near was the light-grey towerwith the broken stone cupola. The sky opposite was pale and empty.It suddenly occurred to George that Nürnberger had not yet made anyinquiry about Anna. What was he probably thinking? Thinking no doubtthat George had deserted her, and that she had already consoled herselfwith another lover. Why did I come to Vienna? he thought desultorily,as though his journey had had no other purpose than to listen toNürnberger giving him what had now turned out to be a sufficientlypessimistic analysis of life. It struck twelve. George took his leave.Nürnberger accompanied him as far as the door and thanked him forhis visit. He inquired earnestly about what George was doing in hisnew home, about his work and his new acquaintances, as though theirprevious conversation on the subject had not really counted, and nowlearned for the first time of the accident which was responsible forGeorge's sudden appointment in the little town.

"Yes, that's just what I always say," he then remarked. "It is not wewho make our fate, but some circ*mstance outside us usually sees tothat—some circ*mstance which we were not in a position to influencein any way, which we never have a chance of bringing into the sphereof our calculations. After all, do you deserve any credit...? I feeljustified in putting this question, much as I respect your talent.Nor does old Eissler, whose interest in your affairs you once told meabout, deserve any credit either for your being wired to from Detmoldand finding your true sphere of work there so quickly. No. An innocentman, some one you don't know, had to die a sudden death to enable youto find that particular place vacant. And what a lot of other thingswhich you were equally unable to influence, and which you were quiteunable to foresee, had to come on the scene to enable you to leaveVienna with a light heart—to enable you, in fact, to leave it at all."

George felt hurt. "What do you mean by a light heart?" he asked.

"I mean a lighter heart than you would have had under othercirc*mstances. If the little creature had remained alive who knowswhether you...."

"You can take it from me that I would have gone away, even then. AndAnna would have taken it quite as much as a matter of course as shedoes now. Don't you believe me? Why, perhaps I'd have gone with aneven lighter heart if that matter had turned out otherwise. Why, it wasAnna who persuaded me to accept. I was quite undecided. You have noidea what a good sensible creature Anna is."

"Oh, I don't doubt it at all. According to all you have told me abouther from time to time, she certainly seems to have behaved with moredignity in her position than young ladies of her social status areusually accustomed to exhibit on such occasions."

"My dear Herr Nürnberger, the position really wasn't as dreadful as allthat."

"Come, don't say that. For however much things may have been madeeasier by your courtesy and consideration, take it from me that theyoung lady is bound to have felt frequently during the last monthsthe irregularity of her position. I am sure there isn't a singlemember of the feminine sex, however daring and advanced may be herviews, who doesn't prefer in a case like that to have a ring on herfinger. And it's all in favour, too, of your friend's sensible anddignified behaviour that she never allowed you to notice it, and thatshe took the bitter disillusionment at the end of these nine months,which were certainly not entirely a bed of roses, with calmness andself-possession."

"Disillusionment is rather a mild word. Pain would perhaps be morecorrect."

"I dare say it was both. But in this case, as in most others, theburning wound of pain heals more quickly than the throbbing piercingwound of disillusionment."

"I don't quite understand."

"Well, my dear George, you don't doubt, do you, that if the littlecreature had remained alive you two would have married very quickly;why, you'd even be married this very day."

"And you think that now, just because we have no child.... Yes, youseem to be of the opinion that ... that ... it's all over between us.But you are quite wrong, quite wrong, my dear friend."

"My dear George," replied Nürnberger, "both of us would prefer notto speak about the future. Neither you nor I know the place where astrand of our fate is being spun at this very moment. You didn't havethe slightest inkling, either, when that conductor was attacked by astroke, and if I now wish you luck in your future career I don't knowwhose death I have not conjured down by that very wish."

They took leave of each other on the landing. Nürnberger cried afterGeorge from the stairs: "Let me hear from you now and then."

George turned round once more. "And mind you do the same." He only sawNürnberger's gesture of resigned remonstrance, smiled involuntarily,hurried down the stairs and took a conveyance at the nearest corner.

He pondered over Nürnberger and Bermann on his way to the Golowskis'.What a strange relationship it was between them. A scene which hethought he had seen some time or other in a dream came into George'smind. The two sat opposite each other, each held a mirror in front ofthe other. The other saw himself in it with the mirror in his hand,and in that mirror the other again with his mirror in his hand, andso on to infinity; but did either of them really know the other, dideither of them really know himself? George's mind became dizzy. Hethen thought of Anna. Was Nürnberger right again? Was it really allover? Could it really ever end? Ever?... Life is long! But were eventhe ensuing months dangerous? No. That was not to be taken seriously,however it might turn out. Perhaps Micaela.... And in Easter he wouldbe in Vienna again. Then there came the summer, they would be together,and then? Yes, what then? Engagement? Herr Rosner and Frau Rosner'sson-in-law, Joseph's brother-in-law! Oh well, what did he care aboutthe family? It was Anna after all who was going to be his wife, thatgood gentle sensible creature.

The fly stopped in front of an ugly fairly new house, painted yellow,in a wide monotonous street. George told the driver to wait and wentinto the doorway. The house looked quite dilapidated from inside.Mortar had crumbled away from the walls in many places and the stepswere dirty. There was a smell of bad fat coming out of some of thekitchen windows. Two fat Jewesses were talking on the landing of thefirst storey in a jargon which George found positively intolerable.One of them said to a boy whom she held by the hand: "Moritz, let thegentleman pass."

Why does she say that? thought George, there's plenty of room; sheobviously wants to get into conversation with me. As though I could doher any harm or any good! An expression of Heinrich's in a long-pastconversation came into his mind: "An enemy's country."

A servant-girl showed him into a room which he immediately recognisedas Leo's. Books and papers on the writing-table, the piano open, aGladstone bag, which was still not completely unpacked, open on thesofa. The door opened the next minute. Leo came in, embraced hisvisitor and kissed him so quickly on both cheeks that the man who waswelcomed with such heartiness had no time to be embarrassed.

"This is nice of you," said Leo, and shook both his hands.

"You can't imagine how glad I was ..." began George.

"I believe you.... But please come in with me. We are having dinner,you know, but it's nearly over."

He took him into the next room. The family was gathered round the table.

"I don't think you know my father yet," observed Leo, and introducedthem to each other.

Old Golowski got up, put away the serviette which he had tied roundhis neck and held out his hand to George. The latter was surprisedthat the old man should look so completely different from what he hadexpected. He was not patriarchal, grey-bearded and venerable, but withhis clean-shaven face and broad cunning features looked more like anageing provincial comedian than anything else.

"I am very glad to make your acquaintance, Herr Baron," he said, whileone could read in his crafty eyes ... "I know everything."

Therese hastily asked George the conventional questions: when he hadcome, how long he was staying, how he was; he answered patientlyand courteously, and she looked him in the face with animation andcuriosity.

Then he asked Leo about his plans for the near future.

"I must first practise the piano industriously, so as not to makea fool of myself before my pupils. People were very nice to me, ofcourse. I had books, as many as I wanted, but they certainly didn'tput a piano at my disposition." He turned to Therese. "You shouldcertainly flog that point to death in one of your next speeches. Thisbad treatment of prisoners awaiting trial must be abolished."

"It was no laughing matter for him this time yesterday," said oldGolowski.

"If you think by any chance," said Therese, "that the good luck whichhappened to come your way will alter my views you are making a violentmistake. On the contrary." And turning to George she continued:"Theoretically, you know, I am absolutely against their having lethim out. If you'd simply knocked the fellow down dead, as you wouldhave been quite entitled to do, without this abominable farce of aduel you'd never have been let out, but would have served your fiveto ten years for a certainty. But since you went in for this ghastlylife-and-death gamble which is favoured by the State, because youcringed down to the military point of view you've been pardoned. Am Inot right?" She turned again to George.

The latter only nodded and thought of the poor young man whom Leo hadshot, who as a matter of fact had had nothing else against the Jewsexcept that he disliked them just as much as most people did afterall—and whose real fault had only been that he had tried it on thewrong man.

Leo stroked his sister's hair and said to her: "Look here, if you saypublicly in your next speech what you've just said to-day within thesefour walls you'll really impress me."

"Yes, and you'll impress me," replied Therese, "if you take a ticket toJerusalem to-morrow with old Ehrenberg."

They got up from the table. Leo invited George to come into his roomwith him.

"Shall I be disturbing you?" asked Therese. "I too would like to seesomething of him, you know."

They all three sat in Leo's room and chatted. Leo seemed to beenjoying his regained freedom without either scruples or remorse.George felt strangely affected by this. Therese sat on the sofa ina dark well-fitting dress. To-day was the first occasion on whichshe resembled the young lady who had drunk Asti under a plane-treein Lugano, when she was the mistress of a cavalry officer, and whohad subsequently kissed some one else. She asked George to play thepiano. She had never yet heard him. He sat down, played something fromTristan and then improvised with happy inspiration. Leo expressed hisappreciation.

"What a pity that he is not staying," said Therese, as she leanedagainst the wall and crossed her hands over her high coiffure.

"I am coming back at Easter," replied George, and looked at her.

"But only to disappear again," said Therese.

"That may be," replied George, and the thought that his home was nolonger here, that he had no home at all anywhere, and would not havefor a long time, suddenly overwhelmed him.

"How would it be," said Leo, "if we went on a tour together in thesummer?—you, Bermann and I? I promise you that you won't be bored bytheoretical conversation like you were once last autumn ... do youstill remember?"

"Oh well," said Therese, stretching herself, "nothing will come of itanyway. Deeds, gentlemen!"

"And what comes of deeds?" asked Leo. "Putting them at the highest,they simply save individual situations for the time being."

"Yes, deeds which you do for yourself," said Therese. "But I onlycall a real deed what one is capable of doing for others, withoutany feeling of revenge, without any personal vanity, and if possibleanonymously."

At last George had to go. What a lot of things he still had to see to.

"I'll come part of the way with you," said Therese to him.

Leo embraced him again, and said: "It really was nice of you."

Therese disappeared to fetch her hat and jacket. George went into thenext room. Old Frau Golowski seemed to have been waiting for him; witha strangely anxious face she came up to him and put an envelope in hishand.

"What is that?"

"The account, Herr Baron. I didn't want to give it to Anna.... It mightperhaps have upset her too much."

"Oh yes...." He put the envelope in his pocket and thought that it feltstrangely different to any other....

Therese appeared with a little Spanish hat, ready to go out. "Here Iam. Goodbye, mamma. Shan't be home for dinner."

She went down the stairs with George and threw him sideways a glance ofpleasure.

"Where can I take you?" asked George.

"Just take me along with you. I'll get out somewhere."

They got in, the vehicle went on. She put to him all kinds of questionswhich he had already answered in the apartment, as though she tookit for granted that he was now bound to be more candid with herthan before the others. She did not learn anything except that hefelt comfortable in his new surroundings and that his work gave himsatisfaction. Had his appearance been a great surprise for Anna? No,not at all. He had of course given her notice of it. And was it reallytrue that he meant to come back again at Easter? It was his definiteintention....

She seemed surprised. "Do you know that I had almost imagined...."

"What?"

"That we would never see you again!"

He was somewhat moved and made no answer. The thought then ran throughhis mind: Would it not have been more sensible...? He was sitting quiteclose to Therese and felt the warmth of her body, as he had done beforein Lugano. In what dream of hers might she now be living—in the darkjumbled dream of making humanity happy, or the light gay dream of a newromantic adventure? She kept looking insistently out of the window. Hetook her hand, without resistance, and put it to his lips.

She suddenly turned round to him and said innocently: "Yes, stop now.I'd better get out here."

He let go her hand and looked at Therese.

"Yes, my dear George. What wouldn't one fall into," she said, "if onedidn't"—she gave an ironic smile—"have to sacrifice oneself forhumanity? Do you know what I often think?... Perhaps all this is only aflight from myself."

"Why.... Why do you take to flight?"

"Goodbye, George."

The vehicle stopped. Therese got out, a young man stood still andstared at her, she disappeared in the crowd. I don't think she'llfinish up on the scaffold, thought George. He drove to his hotel, hadhis midday meal, lit a cigarette, changed his clothes and went toEhrenbergs'.

James, Sissy, Willy Eissler and Frau Oberberger were with the ladiesof the house in the dining-room taking black coffee. George sat downbetween Else and Sissy, drank a glass of Benedictine and answered withpatience and good humour all the questions which his new activities hadprovoked. They soon went into the drawing-room, and he now sat for atime in the raised alcove with Frau Oberberger, who looked young againto-day and was particularly anxious to hear more intimate details aboutGeorge's personal experiences in Detmold. She refused to believe himwhen he denied having started intrigues with all the singers in theplace. Of course she simply regarded theatrical life as nothing but apretext and opportunity for romantic adventures. Anyway, she alwaysmade a point of thinking she detected the most monstrous goings-on inthe coulisses behind the curtain, in the dressing-rooms and in themanager's office. When George had no option but to disillusion her, byhis report of the simple, respectable, almost philistine life of themembers of the opera, and by the description of his own hardworkinglife, she visibly began to go to pieces, and soon he found himselfsitting opposite an aged woman, in whom he recognised the same personas had appeared to him last summer, first in the box of a littlewhite-and-red theatre and later in a now almost forgotten dream. Hethen went and stood with Sissy near the marble Isis, and each sought tofind in the eyes of the other during their harmless chatter a memoryof an ardent hour beneath the deep shade of a dark green park in theafternoon. But to-day that memory seemed to them both to be plunged inunfathomable depths.

Then he went and sat next to Else at the little table on whichbooks and photographs were lying. She first addressed to him someconventional questions like all the rest. But suddenly she asked quiteunexpectedly and somewhat gently: "How is your child?"

"My child...." He hesitated. "Tell me, Else, why do you ask me...? Isit simply curiosity?"

"You are making a mistake, George," she replied calmly and seriously."You usually make mistakes about me, as a matter of fact. You take mefor quite superficial, or God knows what. Well, there's no point intalking about it any more. Anyway, my asking after the child is notquite so incomprehensible. I should very much like to see it sometime."

"You would like to see it?" He was moved.

"Yes, I even had another idea.... But one which you will probably thinkquite mad."

"Let's hear it, Else."

"I was thinking, you know, we might take it with us."

"Who, we?"

"James and I."

"To England?"

"Who's told you we're going to England? We are staying here. We'vealready taken a place in 'Cottage'[3] outside. No one need know that itis your child."

"What a romantic thought!"

"Good gracious, why romantic? Anna can't keep it with her, and youcertainly can't. Where could you put it during the rehearsals? In theprompter's box, I suppose?"

George smiled. "You are very kind, Else."

"I'm not kind at all. I only think why should an innocent littlecreature pay the penalty or suffer for.... Oh well, I mean it can'thelp it.... After all ... is it a boy?"

"It was a boy." He paused, then he said gently: "It's dead, you know."And he looked in front of him.

"What! Oh, I see ... you want to protect yourself against myofficiousness."

"No, Else, how can you?... No, Else, in matters like that one doesn'tlie."

"It's true, then? But how did it...?"

"It was still-born."

She looked at the ground. "No? How awful!" She shook her head. "Howawful!... And now she's lost everything quite suddenly."

George gave a slight start and was unable to answer. How every oneseemed to take it for granted that the Anna affair was finished. AndElse did not pity him at all. She had no idea of how the death of thechild had shocked him. How could she have an idea either? What did sheknow of the hour when the garden had lost its colour for him and theheavens their light, because his own beautiful child lay dead withinthe house?

Frau Ehrenberg joined them. She declared that she was particularlysatisfied with George. Anyway, she had never doubted that he would showwhat he was made of as soon as he once got started in a profession. Shewas firmly convinced, too, that they would have him here in Vienna as aconductor in three to five years. George pooh-poohed the idea. For thetime being he had not thought of coming back to Vienna. He felt thatpeople worked more and with greater seriousness outside in Germany.Here one always ran the danger of losing oneself.

Frau Ehrenberg agreed, and took the opportunity to complain aboutHeinrich Bermann, who had lapsed into silence as an author and nownever showed himself anywhere.

George defended him and felt himself obliged to state positively thatHeinrich was more industrious than he had ever been. But Frau Ehrenberghad other examples of the corrupting influence of the Vienna air,particularly Nürnberger, who now seemed to have cut himself completelyoff from the world. As for what had happened to Oskar ... could thathave happened in any other town except Vienna? Did George know,by-the-by, that Oskar was travelling with the Prince of Guastalla? Hertone did not indicate that she regarded that as anything special, butGeorge noticed that she was a little proud of it, and entertained theopinion somewhere at the back of her mind that Oskar had turned out allright after all.

While George was speaking to Frau Ehrenberg he noticed that Else,who had retired with James into the recess, was directing glancestowards him—glances full of melancholy and of knowledge, which almostfrightened him. He soon took his leave, had a feeling that Else'shandshake was inconceivably cold, while those of the others wereamiably indifferent, and went.

"How funny it all is," he thought in the vehicle which drove him toHeinrich's. People knew everything before he did. They had known ofhis liaison with Anna before it had begun, and now they knew thatit was over before he did himself. He had half a mind to show themall that they were making a mistake. Of course, in so vital an affairas that one should be very careful not to decide on one's course ofaction out of considerations of pique. It was a good thing that a fewmonths were now before him in which he could pull himself togetherand have time for mature reflection. It would be good for Anna, too,particularly good for her, perhaps. Yesterday's walk with her in therain over the brown wet streets came into his mind again, and struckhim as ineffably sad. Alas, for the hours in the arched room into whichthe strains of the organ opposite had vibrated through the floatingcurtain of snow—where were they? Yes, where had these hours gone to?And so many other wonderful hours as well! He saw himself and Annaagain in his mind's eye, as a young couple on their honeymoon, walkingthrough streets which had the wonderful atmosphere of a strange land;commonplace hotel rooms, where he had only stayed with her for a fewdays, suddenly presented themselves before him, consecrated as it wereby the perfume of memory.... Then his love appeared to him, sittingon a white seat, beneath the heavy branches, with her high foreheadgirdled with the deceptive presentiment of gentle motherhood. Andfinally she stood there with a sheet of music in her hand while thewhite curtain fluttered gently in the wind. And when he realised thatit was the same room in which she was now waiting for him, and thatnot more than a year had gone by since that evening hour in the latesummer when she had sung his own songs for the first time to his ownaccompaniment, he breathed heavily and almost anxiously in his corner.

When he was in Heinrich's room a few minutes afterwards he asked himnot to look upon this as a visit. He only wanted to shake hands withhim. He would fetch him for a walk to-morrow morning if that suitedhim.... Yes—the idea occurred to him while he was speaking—for a kindof farewell walk in the Salmansdorf Forest.

Heinrich agreed, but asked him to stay just a few minutes. George askedhim jestingly if he had already recovered from his failure of thismorning.

Heinrich pointed to the secretary, on which were lying loose sheetscovered with large nervous writing. "Do you know what that is? I havetaken up Ägidius again, and just before you came I thought of anending which was more or less feasible. I'll tell you more about itto-morrow if it will interest you."

"By all means. I am quite excited about it. It's a good thing, too,that you have settled down to a definite piece of work again."

"Yes, my dear George, I don't like being quite alone, and must createsome society for myself as quickly as possible, people I choose myself... otherwise, any one who wants to come along, and one is not keen onbeing at home to every chance ghost."

George told him that he had called on Leo and found him in far betterspirits than he had ever expected.

Heinrich leaned against the secretary with both his hands buried inhis trouser pockets and his head slightly bent; the shaded lamp madeuncertain shadows on his face. "Why didn't you expect to find him ingood spirits? If it had been us ... if it had been me, at any rate, Ishould probably have felt exactly the same."

George was sitting on the arm of a black leather arm-chair with crossedlegs and his hat and stick in his hand. "Perhaps you are right," hesaid, "but I must confess all the same that when I saw his cheerfulface I found it very strange to realise that he had a human life on hisconscience."

"You mean," said Heinrich, beginning to walk up and down the room,"that it is one of those cases where the relationship of cause andeffect is so illuminating that you are justified in saying quietly'he has killed' without its looking like a mere juggle of words....But speaking generally, George, don't you think that we regard thesematters a little superficially? We must see the flash of a dagger orhear the whistle of a bullet in order to realise that a murder has beencommitted. As though any man who let any one else die would be in mostcases different from a murderer in anything else except having managedthe business more comfortably and being more of a coward...."

"Are you really reproaching yourself, Heinrich? If you had reallybelieved that it was bound to turn out like that ... I am sure youwould not have ... let her die."

"Perhaps ... I don't know. But I can tell you one thing, George: if shewere still alive—I mean if I had forgiven her, to use the expressionyou are so fond of using now and then—I should regard myself asguiltier than I do to-day. Yes, yes, that's how it is. I will confessto you, George, there was a night ... there were a few nights, when Iwas practically crushed by grief, by despair, by.... Other people wouldhave taken it for remorse, but it was nothing of the kind. For amid allmy grief, all my despair, I knew quite well that this death meant akind of redemption, a kind of reconciliation, a kind of cleanness. IfI had been weak or less vain ... as you no doubt regard it ... if shehad been my mistress again, something far worse than that death wouldhave happened for her as well ... loathing and anguish, rage and hate,would have crawled around our bed ... our memories would have rottedbit by bit—why, our love would have decomposed whilst its body wasstill alive. It had no right to be. It would have been a crime to haveprotracted the life of this love affair which was sick unto death,just as it is a crime—and what is more, will be regarded so in thefuture—to protract the life of a man who is doomed to a painful death.Any sensible doctor will tell you as much. And that is why I'm very farfrom reproaching myself. I don't want to justify myself before you orbefore any one else in the world, but that is just how it is. I can'tfeel guilty. I often feel very bad, but that hasn't the least thing inthe world to do with any consciousness of guilt."

"You went there just afterwards?" asked George.

"Yes, I went there. I even stood by when they lowered the coffin intothe ground. Yes, I trained there with the mother." He stood by thewindow, quite in the darkness, and shook himself. "No, I shall neverforget it. Besides, it is only a lie to say that people come togetherin a common sorrow. People never come together if they're not naturalaffinities. They feel even further away from each other in times oftrouble. That journey! When I remember it! I read nearly the wholetime, too. I found it positively intolerable to talk to the silly oldcreature. There is no one one hates more than some one who is quiteindifferent to you and requires your sympathy. We stood together byher grave, too, the mother and I—I, the mother, and a few actors fromthe little theatre.... And afterwards I sat in the inn with her alone,after the funeral—a tête-à-tête wake. A desperate business, I cantell you. Do you know, by-the-by, where she lies buried? By your lake,George. Yes. I have often found myself driven to think of you. You knowof course where the churchyard is? Scarcely a hundred yards from Auhof.There's a delightful view on to our lake, George; of course, only ifone happens to be alive."

George felt a slight horror. He got up. "I am afraid I must leave you,Heinrich. I am expected. You'll excuse me?"

Heinrich came up to him out of the darkness of the window. "Thank youvery much for your visit. Well, to-morrow, isn't it? I suppose you aregoing to Anna now? Please give her my best wishes. I hear she is verywell. Therese told me."

"Yes, she looks splendid. She has completely recovered."

"I'm very glad. Well, till to-morrow then. I'm extremely glad that Ishall be able to see you again before you leave. You must still haveall kinds of things to tell me. I've done nothing again but talk aboutmyself."

George smiled. As though he hadn't grown used to this with Heinrich."Good-bye," he said, and went.

Much of what Heinrich had said echoed in George's mind when he satagain in his fiacre. "We must see the flash of a dagger in order torealise that a murder has been committed." George felt that there was akind of subterranean connection, but yet one which he had guessed for along time, between the meaning of these words and a certain dull senseof discomfort which he had frequently felt in his own soul. He thoughtof a past hour when he had felt as though a gamble over his unbornchild was going on in the clouds, and it suddenly struck him as strangethat Anna had not yet spoken a word to him about the child's death,that she had even avoided in her letters any reference, not only to thefinal misfortune, but also to the whole period when she had carried thechild under her bosom.

The conveyance approached its destination. Why is my heart beating?thought George. Joy?... Bad conscience?... Why to-day all of a sudden?She can't have any grievance against me.... What nonsense! I am rundown and excited at the same time, that's what it is. I shouldn'thave come here at all. Why have I seen all these people again? Wasn'tI a thousand times better off in the little town where I had starteda new life, in spite of all my longings?... I ought to have met Annasomewhere else. Perhaps she will come away with me.... Then everythingwill still come right in the end. But is anything wrong?... Are ourrelations really in a bad way? And is it a crime to prolong them?...That may be a convenient excuse on certain occasions.

When he went into Rosners' the mother, who was sitting alone at thetable, looked up from her book and shut it with a snap. The light of alamp that was swinging gently to and fro flowed from overhead on to thetable, distributing itself equally in all directions. Josef got up froma corner of the sofa. Anna, who had just come out of her room, strokedher high wavy hair with both hands, welcomed George with a light nod ofthe head and gave him at this moment the impression of being rather anapparition than real flesh and blood. George shook hands with every oneand inquired after Herr Rosner's health.

"He is not exactly bad," said Frau Rosner, "but he finds it difficultto stand up."

Josef apologised at being found sleeping on the sofa. He had to use theSunday in order to rest himself. He was occupying a position on hispaper which often kept him there till three o'clock in the morning.

"He is working very hard now," said his mother corroboratively.

"Yes," said Josef modestly, "when a fellow gets real scope, so tospeak...." He went on to observe that the Christliche Volksbote wasenjoying a larger and larger circulation, particularly in Germany. Hethen addressed some questions to George about his new home, and showeda keen interest in the population, the condition of the roads, thepopularity of cycling and the surrounding neighbourhood.

Frau Rosner, on her side, made polite inquiries about the compositionof the repertoire. George supplied the information and a conversationwas soon in progress, in which Anna also played a substantial part,and George found himself suddenly paying a visit to a middle-class andconventional family where the daughter of the house happened to bemusical. The conversation finally finished up in George feeling himselfbound to express a wish to hear the young lady sing once more—and hehad as it were to pull himself together to realise that the woman whosevoice he had asked to hear was really his own Anna.

Josef made his excuses; he was called away by an appointment with clubfriends in the café. "Do you still remember, Herr Baron ... the classyparty on the Sophienalp?"

"Of course," replied George, smiling, and he quoted: "Der Gott, derEisen wachsen liess...."

"Der wollte keine Knechte," added Josef. "But we have left off singingthat now for a long time. It is too like the 'Watch on the Rhine,' andwe don't want to have it cast in our teeth any more that we have asneaking fancy for the other side of the frontier. We had great fightsabout it on the committee. One gentleman even sent in his resignation.He's a solicitor, you know, in the office of Doctor Fuchs, the NationalGerman Deputy. Yes, it's all politics, you know." He winked. They mustnot think, of course, that now that he himself had an insight into themachinery of public life he still took the swindle seriously. Withthe scarcely surprising remark that he could tell a tale or two if hewanted, he took his leave. Frau Rosner thought it time to go and lookafter her husband.

George sat alone with Anna, opposite her by the round table, over whichthe hanging lamp shed its light.

"Thank you for the beautiful roses," said Anna. "I have them inside inmy room." She got up, and George followed her. He had quite forgottenthat he had sent her any flowers. They were standing in a high glassin front of the mirror. They were dark red and their reflection wasopaque and colourless. The piano was open, some music stood ready andtwo candles were burning at the side. Apart from that all the light inthe room was what came from the adjoining apartment through the wideopening left by the door.

"You've been playing, Anna?" He came nearer. "The Countess's Aria? Beensinging, too?"

"Yes—tried to."

"All right?"

"It is beginning to ... I think so. Well, we'll see. But first tell mewhat you have been doing all to-day."

"In a minute. We haven't welcomed each other at all so far." Heembraced and kissed her.

"It is a long time since——" she said, smiling past him.

"Well?" he asked keenly, "are you coming with me?"

Anna hesitated. "But what do you really think of doing, George?"

"Quite simple. We can go away to-morrow afternoon. You can choose theplace. Reichenau, Semmering, Brühl, anywhere you like.... And I'llbring you back in the morning the day after to-morrow." Something orother kept him back from mentioning the telegram which gave him threewhole days to do what he liked with.

Anna looked in front of her. "It would be very nice," she saidtonelessly, "but it really won't be possible, George."

"On account of your father?"

She nodded.

"But he is surely better, isn't he?"

"No, he is not at all well. He is so weak. They wouldn't of coursereproach me directly in any way. But I ... I can't leave mother alonenow, for that kind of excursion."

He shrugged his shoulders, feeling slightly wounded at the designationwhich she had chosen.

"Come, be frank," she added in a jesting manner. "Are you really sokeen on it?"

He shook his head, almost as if in pain, but he felt that this gesturealso was lacking in sincerity. "I don't understand you, Anna," he said,more weakly than he really meant. "To think that a few weeks of beingaway from each other, to think of ... well, I don't know what to callit.... It is as though we had got absolutely out of touch. It's reallyme, Anna, it's really me...." he repeated in a vehement but tiredvoice. He got up from the chair in front of the piano. He took herhands and put them to his lips, feeling nervous and somewhat moved.

"What was Tristan like?" she inquired.

He gave her a conscientious account of the performance and did notleave out his visit to the Ehrenbergs' box. He spoke of all the peoplewhom he had seen and conveyed to her Heinrich Bermann's wishes. Hethen drew her on to his knee and kissed her. When he removed his facefrom hers he saw tears running over her cheeks. He pretended to besurprised, "What's the matter, child?... But why, why...?"

She got up and went to the window with her face turned away from him.

He stood up too, feeling somewhat impatient, walked up and down theroom once or twice, then went up to her, pressed her close to him, andthen immediately began again in great haste: "Anna, just think it overand see if you really can't come with me! It would all be so differentfrom what it is here. We could really talk things over thoroughly. Wehave got such important matters to discuss. I need your advice as well,about the plans I am to make for next year. I've written to you aboutit, haven't I? It is very probable, you see, that I shall be asked tosign a three years' contract in the next few days."

"What am I to advise you?" she said. "After all, you know best whetherit suits you there or not."

He began to tell her about the kind and talented manager who clearlywished to have him for a collaborator; about the old and sympatheticconductor who had once been so famous; about a very diminutivestage-hand who was called Alexander the Great; about a young ladywith whom he had studied the Micaela, and who was engaged to a Berlindoctor; and about a tenor, who had already been working at the theatrefor twenty-seven years and hated Wagner violently. He then began totalk about his own personal prospects, artistic and financial. Therewas no doubt that he could soon attain an excellent and assuredposition at the little Court Theatre. On the other hand one had to bearin mind that it was dangerous to bind oneself for too long; a careerlike that of the old conductor would not be to his taste. Of course ...temperaments varied. He for his part believed himself safe from a fatelike that.

Anna looked at him all the time, and finally said in a half jesting,half meditative tone, as though she were speaking to a child: "Yes,isn't he trying hard?"

The thrust went home. "In what way am I trying hard?"

"Look here, George, you don't owe me explanations of any kind."

"Explanations? But you are really.... Really, I'm not giving you anyexplanations, Anna. I'm simply describing to you how I live and whatkind of people I have to deal with ... because I flatter myself thatthese things interest you, in the same way that I told you where I hadbeen yesterday and to-day."

She was silent, and George felt again that she did not believe him,that she was justified in not believing him—even though now andagain the truth happened to come from his lips. All kinds of wordswere on the tip of his tongue, words of wounded pride, of rage, ofgentle persuasion—each seemed to him equally worthless and empty. Hemade no reply, sat down at the piano and gently struck some notes andchords. He now felt again as though he loved her very much and wassimply unable to tell it her, and as though this hour of meeting wouldhave been quite different if they had celebrated it elsewhere. Not inthis room, not in this town; in a place, for preference, which theyneither of them knew, in a new strange environment, yes, then perhapseverything would have been again just as it had been once before. Thenthey would have been able to have rushed into each other's arms—asonce before, with real yearning, and found delight—and peace. Theidea occurred to him: "If I were to say to her now 'Anna! Three daysand three nights belong to us!' If I were to beg her ... with theright words.... Entreat her at her feet.... 'Come with me, come!'...She would not hold out long! She would certainly follow me...." Heknew it. Why did he not speak the right words? Why did he not entreather? Why was he silent, as he sat at the piano and gently struck notesand chords...? Why?... Then he felt her soft hand upon his head. Hisfingers lay heavy on the notes, some chord or other vibrated. He didnot dare to turn round. She knows it, too, he felt. What does sheknow?... Is it true, then...? Yes ... it is true. And he thought ofthe hour after the birth of his dead child—when he had sat by her bedand she had lain there in silence, with her looks turned towards thegloomy garden.... She had known it even then—earlier than he—thatall was over. And he lifted his hands from the piano, took hers, whichwere still lying on his head, guided them to his cheeks, drew her tohim till she was again quite close, and she slowly dropped down onto his knees. And he began again, shyly: "Anna ... perhaps ... youcould manage to.... Perhaps I too could manage for a few days' moreleave if I were to telegraph. Anna dear ... just listen.... It wouldbe really so beautiful...." A plan came to him from the very depths ofhis consciousness. If he really were to go travelling with her for somedays, and were to take the opportunity honestly to say to her, "It mustend, Anna, but the end of our love must be beautiful like the beginningwas. Not dim and gloomy like these hours in your people's house...."If I were honestly to say that to her—somewhere in the country—wouldit not be more worthy of her and mine—and our past happiness...? Andwith this plan in his mind he grew more insistent, bolder, almostpassionate.... And his words had the same ring again as they had had along, long time ago.

Sitting on his knees, with her arms around his neck, she answeredgently: "George, I am not—going to go through it another time...."

He already had a word upon his lips with which he could have dissipatedher alarm. But he kept it back, for if put in so many words it wouldhave simply meant that while he was thinking of course of living againa few hours of delight with her, he did not feel inclined to take anyresponsibility upon himself. He felt it. All he need say to avoidwounding her was this one thing: "You belong to me for ever!—Youreally must have a child by me—I'll fetch you at Christmas or Easterat the outside. And we will never be parted from each other any more."He felt the way in which she waited for these words with one last hope,with a hope in whose realisation she had herself ceased to believe. Buthe was silent. If he had said aloud the words she was yearning for hewould have bound himself anew, and ... he now realised more deeply thanhe had ever realised before that he wanted to be free.

She was still resting on his knees, with her cheek leaning on his.They were silent for a long time and knew that this was the farewell.Finally George said resolutely: "Well, if you don't want to come withme, Anna, then I'll go straight back—to-morrow, and we'll see eachother again in the spring. Until then there are only letters. Only inthe event of my coming at Christmas if I can...."

She had got up and was leaning against the piano. "The boy's madagain," she said. "Isn't it really better if we don't see each othertill after Easter?"

"Why better?"

"By then—everything will be so much clearer."

He tried to misunderstand her. "You mean about the contract?"

"Yes...."

"I must make up my mind in the next few weeks. The people want ofcourse to know where they are. On the other hand, even if I did signfor three years, and other chances came along, they wouldn't keep meagainst my will. But up to the present it really seems to me thatstaying in that small town has been an extremely sound thing for me. Ihave never been able to work with such concentration as there. Haven'tI written to you how I have often sat at my secretary after the theatretill three o'clock in the morning, and woken up fresh at eight o'clockafter a sound sleep?"

She gazed at him all the time with a look at once pained andreflective, which affected him like a look of doubt. Had she not oncebelieved in him! Had she not spoken those words of trust and tendernessto him in a twilight church: "I will pray to Heaven that you becomea great artist"? He felt again as though she did not think anythinglike as much of him as in days gone by. He felt troubled and askedher uncertainly: "You'll allow me, of course, to send you my violinsonata as soon as it is finished? You know I don't value anybody else'scriticism as much as I do yours." And he thought: If I could only justkeep her as a friend ... or win her over again ... as a friend ... isit possible?

She said: "You have also spoken to me about a few new fantasies youhave written just for the pianoforte."

"Quite right; but they are not yet quite ready. But there's anotherone which I ... which I ..." he himself found his hesitationsfoolish—"composed last summer by the lake where that poor girl wasdrowned, Heinrich's mistress you know, which you don't know yet either.Couldn't I ... I'll play it to you quite gently; would you like me to?"

She nodded and shut the door. There, just behind him, she stoodmotionless as he began.

And he played. He played the little piece with all its passionatemelancholy which he had composed by that lake of his, when Anna and thechild had been completely forgotten. It was a great relief to him thathe could play it to her. She must be bound to understand the messageof these notes. It was impossible for her not to understand. He heardhimself as it were speaking in the notes; he felt as though it was onlynow that he understood himself. Farewell, my love, farewell. It wasvery beautiful. And now it is over ... farewell, my love.... We havelived through what was fated for both of us. And whatever the futuremay hold for me and for you we shall always mean something to eachother which we can neither of us ever forget. And now my life goesanother way.... And yours too. It must be over ... I have loved you. Ikiss your eyes.... I thank you, you kind, gentle, silent one. Farewell,my love ... farewell.... The notes died away. He had not looked up fromthe keys while he was playing: he now turned slowly round. She stoodbehind him solemn and with lips which quivered slightly. He caught herhands and kissed them. "Anna, Anna ..." he exclaimed. He felt as if hisheart would break.

"Don't quite forget me," she said softly.

"I'll write to you as soon as I'm there again."

She nodded.

"And you'll write to me, too, Anna ... everything ... everything ...you understand?"

She nodded again.

"And ... and ... I'll see you again early to-morrow."

She shook her head. He wanted to make some reply as though he wereastonished—as if it were really a matter of course that he shouldsee her again before his departure. She lightly lifted her hand asthough requesting him to be silent. He stood up, pressed her to him,kissed her mouth, which was cool and did not answer his kiss, and leftthe room. She stayed behind standing with limp arms and shut eyes. Hehurried down the stairs. He felt down below in the street as thoughhe must go up again—and say to her: "But it's all untrue! That wasnot our goodbye. I really do love you. I belong to you. It can't beover...."

But he felt that he ought not to. Not yet. Perhaps to-morrow. She wouldnot escape him between this evening and to-morrow morning ... and herushed aimlessly about the empty streets as though in a slight deliriumof grief and freedom. He was glad he had made no appointments with anyone and could remain alone. He dined somewhere far off in an old lowsmoky inn in a silent corner while people from another world sat atthe neighbouring tables, and it seemed to him that he was in a foreigntown: lonely, a little proud of his loneliness and a little frightenedof his pride.

The following day George was walking with Heinrich about noon throughthe avenues of the Dornbacher Park. An air which was heavy with thinclouds enveloped them, the sodden leaves crackled and slid underneaththeir feet, and through the shrubbery there glistened that very roadon which they had gone the year before towards the reddish-yellowhill. The branches spread themselves out without stirring, as thoughoppressed by the distant sultriness of the greyish sun.

Heinrich was just describing the end of his drama, which had occurredto him yesterday. Ägidius had been landed on the island ready afterhis death-journey to undergo within seven days his foretold doom. Theprince gives him his life. Ägidius does not take it and throws himselffrom the cliffs into the sea.

George was not satisfied: "Why must Ägidius die?" He did not believe init.

Heinrich could not understand the necessity for any explanation at all."Why, how can he go on living?" he exclaimed. "He was doomed to death.It was with his hand before his eyes that he lived the most splendid,the most glorious days that have ever been vouchsafed to man as theuncontrolled lord upon the ship, the lover of the Princess, the friendof the sages, singers and star-gazers, but always with the end beforehis eyes. All this richness would, so to speak, lose its point: why,his sublime and majestic expectation of his last minute would be boundto become transformed in Ägidius's memory into a ridiculous dupe's fearof death, if all this death-journey were to turn out in the end to bean empty joke. That's why he must die."

"Then you think it's true?" asked George, with even greater doubt thanbefore. "I can't help it—I don't."

"That doesn't matter," replied Heinrich. "If you thought it true now,things would be too easy for me. But it would have become true assoon as the last syllable of my piece is written. Or...." He did notgo on speaking. They walked up a meadow, and soon the expanse of thefamiliar valley spread out at their feet. The Sommerhaidenweg gleamedon the hill-slope on their right, on the other side hard by the forestthe yellow-painted inn was visible with its red wooden terraces, andnot far off was the little house with the dark grey gable. The towncould be descried in an uncertain haze, the plain floated still furthertowards the heights and far in the distance loomed the pale low drawnoutlines of the mountains. They now had to cross a broad highway and atlast a footpath took them down over the fields and meadows. Remote oneither side slumbered the forest.

George felt a presentiment of the yearning with which in the years tocome, perhaps on the very next day, he would miss this landscape whichhad now ceased being his home.

At last they stood in front of the little house with the gable whichGeorge had wanted to see one last time. The door and windows wereboarded up; battered by the weather, as though grown old before itstime, it stood there and had no truck with the world.

"Well, so this is what is called saying goodbye," said George lightly.His look fell upon the clay figure in the middle of the fadedflower-beds. "Funny," he said to Heinrich, "that I've always taken theblue boy for an angel. I mean I called him that, for I knew, of course,all the time what he looked like and that he was really a curly-headedboy with bare feet, tunic and girdle."

"You will swear a year from to-day," said Heinrich, "that the blue boyhad wings."

George threw a glance up to the attic. He felt as though there existeda possibility of some one suddenly coming out on the balcony: perhapsLabinski who had paid him no visits since that dream; or he himself,the George von Wergenthin of days gone by; the George of that summerwho had lived up there. Silly fancies. The balcony remained empty, thehouse was silent and the garden was deep asleep. George turned awaydisappointed. "Come," he said to Heinrich. They went and took the roadto the Sommerhaidenweg.

"How warm it's grown!" said Heinrich, took off his overcoat and threwit over his shoulder, as was his habit.

George felt a desolate and somewhat arid sense of remembrance. Heturned to Heinrich: "I'd prefer to tell you straight away. The affairis over."

Heinrich threw him a quick side-glance and then nodded, notparticularly surprised.

"But," added George, with a weak attempt at humour, "you are earnestlyrequested not to think of the angel boy."

Heinrich shook his head seriously. "Thank you. You can dedicate thefable of the blue boy to Nürnberger."

"He's turned out right, once again," said George.

"He always turns out right, my dear George. One can positively neverbe deceived if one mistrusts everything in the world, even one's ownscepticism. Even if you had married Anna he would have turned out right... or at any rate you would have thought so. But at any rate I think... you don't mind my saying so, I suppose ... it's sound that it'sturned out like this."

"Sound? I've no doubt it is for me," replied George with intentionalsharpness, as though he were very far from having any idea of sparinghis conduct. "It was perhaps even a duty, in your sense of the term,Heinrich, which I owed to myself to bring it to an end."

"Then it was certainly equally your duty to Anna," said Heinrich.

"That remains to be seen. Who knows if I have not spoilt her life?"

"Her life? Do you still remember Leo Golowski saying about her thatshe was fated to finish up in respectable life? Do you think, George,that a marriage with you would have been particularly respectable? Annawas perhaps cut out to be your mistress—not your wife. Who knows ifthe fellow she is going to marry one day or other wouldn't really haveevery reason to be grateful to you if only men weren't so confoundedlysilly? People only have pure memories when they have lived throughsomething—this applies to women quite as much as men."

They walked further along the Sommerhaidenweg in the direction of thetown, which towered out of the grey haze, and approached the cemetery.

"Is there really any point," asked George hesitatingly, "in visitingthe grave of a creature that has never lived?"

"Does your child lie there?"

George nodded. His child! How strange it always sounded! They walkedalong the brown wooden palings above which rose the gravestones andcrosses, and then followed a low brick wall to the entrance. Anattendant of whom they inquired showed them the way over the widecentre path which was planted with willows. There were rows of littleoval plates, each one with two short prongs stuck into the ground, onlittle mounds like sand-castles, close to the planks in a fairly largeplot of ground. The mound for which George was looking lay in themiddle of the field. Dark red roses lay on it. George recognised them.His heart stood still. What a good thing, he thought, that we didn'tmeet each other! Did she hope to, I wonder?

"There where the roses are?" asked Heinrich.

George nodded.

They remained silent for a while. "Isn't it a fact," asked Heinrich,"that during the whole time you never once thought of the possibilityof its ending like this?"

"Never? I don't quite know. All kinds of possibilities run throughone's mind. But of course I never seriously thought of it. Besides, howcould one?" He told Heinrich, and not for the first time, of how theProfessor had explained the child's death. It had been an unfortunateaccident through which one to two per cent. of unborn children werebound to perish. As to why this accident should have taken place inthis particular case, that, of course, the Professor had not been ableto explain. But was accident anything more than a word? Was not eventhat accident bound to have its cause?

Heinrich shrugged his shoulders. "Of course.... One cause after theother and its final cause in the beginning of all things. We could ofcourse prevent the happening of many so-called accidents if we had moreperception, more knowledge and more power. Who knows if your child'sdeath could not have been prevented at some moment or other?"

"And perhaps it may have been in my own power," said George slowly.

"I don't understand. Was there any premonitory symptom or...."

George stood there staring fixedly at the little mound. "I'll ask yousomething, Heinrich, but don't laugh at me. Do you think it possiblethat an unborn child can die from one not longing for it to come, inthe way one ought to—dying, as it were, of too little love?"

Heinrich put his hand on his shoulder. "George, how does a sensible manlike you manage to get hold of such metaphysical ideas?"

"You can call it whatever you like, metaphysical or silly; for sometime past I haven't been able to shake off the thought that to someextent I bear the blame for it having ended like that."

"You?"

"If I said a minute ago that I did not long for it enough I didn'texpress myself properly. The truth is this: that I had quite forgottenthat little creature that was to have come into the world. In the lastfew weeks immediately before its birth, especially, I had absolutelyforgotten it. I can't put it any differently. Of course I knew all thetime what was going to happen, but it didn't concern me, as it were. Iwent on with my life without thinking of it. Not the whole time, butfrequently, and particularly in the summer by the lake, my lake as youcall it ... then I was.... Yes, when I was there I simply knew nothingabout my going to have a child."

"I've heard all about it," said Heinrich, looking past him.

George looked at him. "You know what I mean then? I was not only faraway from the child, the unborn child, but from the mother too, and inso strange a way that with the best will in the world I can't describeit to you, can't even understand it myself to-day. And there aremoments when I can't resist the thought that there must have been someconnection between that forgetting and my child's death. Do you thinkanything like that so absolutely out of the question?"

Heinrich's forehead was furrowed deeply. "Quite out of the question?one can't go as far as that. The roots of things are often so deeplyintertwined that we find it impossible to look right down to thebottom. Yes, perhaps there even are connections like that. But even ifthere are ... they are not for you, George! Even if such connectionsdid exist they wouldn't count so far as you were concerned."

"Wouldn't count for me?"

"The whole idea which you just tell me, well, it doesn't fit in with myconception of you. It doesn't come out of your soul. Not a bit of it.An idea of that kind would never have occurred to you your whole lifelong if you hadn't been intimate with a person of my type, and if ithadn't been your way sometimes not to think your own thoughts but thoseof men who were stronger—or even weaker than you are. And I assureyou, whatever turn your life may have taken even down by that lake,your lake ... our lake ... you haven't incurred any so-called guilt.It might have been guilt in the case of some one else. But with a manlike you whose character—you don't mind my saying this—is somewhatfrivolous and a little unconscientious there would certainly be nosense of guilt. Shall I tell you something? As a matter of fact youdon't feel guilty about the child at all, but the discomfort which youfeel only comes from your thinking yourself under an obligation to feelguilty. Look here, if I had gone through anything like your adventureI might perhaps have been guilty because I might possibly have feltmyself guilty."

"Would you have been guilty in a case like mine, Heinrich?"

"No, perhaps I wouldn't. How can I know? You're probably now thinkingof the fact that I recently drove a creature straight to her death andin spite of that felt, so to speak, quite guiltless."

"Yes, that's what I'm thinking of. And that's why I don'tunderstand...."

Heinrich shrugged his shoulders. "Yes. I felt quite guiltless.Somewhere or other in my soul and somewhere else, perhaps deeper down,I felt guilty.... And deeper down still, guiltless again. The onlyquestion is how deep we look down into ourselves. And when we havelit the lights in all the storeys, why, we are everything at the sametime: guilty and guiltless, cowards and heroes, fools and wise men.'We'—perhaps that's putting it rather too generally. In your case, forexample, George, there are far less of these complications, at any ratewhen you're outside the influence of the atmosphere which I sometimesspread around you. That's why, too, you are better off than I am—muchbetter off. My look-out is ghastly, you know. You surely must havenoticed it before. What's the good to me of the lights burning in allmy storeys? What's the good to me of my knowledge of human nature andmy splendid intelligence? Nothing.... Less than nothing. As a matter offact there's nothing I should like better, George, than that all theghastly events of the last months had not happened, just like a baddream. I swear to you, George, I would give my whole future and Godknows what if I could make it undone. But if it were undone ... then Ishould probably be quite as miserable as I am now."

His face became distorted as though he wanted to scream. Butimmediately afterwards he stood there again, stiff, motionless, pale,as though all his fire had gone out. And he said: "Believe me, George,there are moments when I envy the people with a so-called philosophyof life. As for me, whenever I want to have a decently ordered world Ihave always first got to create one for myself. That's rather a strainfor any one who doesn't happen to be the Deity."

He sighed heavily. George left off answering him. He walked with himunder the willows to the exit. He knew that there was no help forthis man. It was fated that some time or other he should precipitatehimself into the void from the top of a tower which he had circled upin spirals; and that would be the end of him. But George felt in goodform and free. He made the resolve to use the three days which stillbelonged to him as sensibly as possible. The best thing to do was tobe alone in some quiet beautiful country-side, to rest himself fullyand recuperate for new work. He had taken the manuscript of the violinsonata with him to Vienna. He was thinking of finishing that before allothers.

They crossed the doorway and stood in the street. George turned round,but the cemetery wall arrested his gaze. It was only after a few stepsthat he had a clear view of the valley. All he could do now was toguess where the little house with the grey gables was lying; it was nolonger visible from here. Beyond the reddish-yellow hills which shutoff the view of the landscape the sky sank down in the faint autumnlight. A gentle farewell was taking place within George's soul of muchhappiness and much sorrow, the echoes of which he heard as it were inthe valley which he was now leaving for a long time; and at the sametime there was within his soul the greeting of days as yet unknown,which rang to his youth from out the wideness of the world.

[1] A pun on the word Ehre which means honour.

[2] Literally "sweet girl." The phrase was invented bySchnitzler himself.

[3] A fashionable district in Vienna.

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