"You are, of course, above such coarse insults, Doctor," said Herr
Rosner.
"I won't go quite so far as that," answered Berthold, "but one always
has to be prepared for things like that all the same. I'm resigning my
seat for a different reason."
"May one ask what it is?" queried George.
Berthold looked at him with an air which was penetrating and yet
distrait. He then answered courteously: "Of course you may. I went
into the buffet after my speech. I met there, among others, one of the
silliest and cheekiest of our democratic popular representatives, who,
as he usually does, had made more row than any one else while I was
speaking ... Jalaudek the paper-merchant. Of course I didn't pay any
attention to him. He was just putting down his empty glass. When he saw
me he smiled, nodded and hailed me as cheerily as though nothing had
taken 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 as
our enthusiasm. The only things genuine with us are our malice and our
hate 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 was
his habit when he was painfully or disagreeably affected. It was too
late to tell her that as a matter of fact he had come to ask her for
her advice, as he used to do in the old days. And at any rate he felt
sure of this, he had done wisely in cutting off all retreat as soon
as he entered the room by announcing the resignation of his seat as
an already accomplished fact, and his journey to Paris as directly
imminent. 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 man
was capable of winning her really and permanently, and it never entered
his head for a minute to be jealous of that elegant young artist who
was standing so quietly by the window with his crossed arms. It had
happened many times before that Anna had fluttered away for a time,
as though fascinated by the magic of an element which was strange to
her. Why only two years ago, when she was thinking seriously of going
on the stage, and had already begun to learn her parts, he had given
her up for a short time as completely lost. Subsequently when she
had been compelled to relinquish her artistic projects, owing to the
unreliability of her voice, she seemed as if she wanted to come back to
him again. But he had deliberately refused to exploit the opportunities
of that period. For he wanted before he made her his wife to have won
some triumph, either in science or in politics, and to have obtained
her genuine admiration. He had been well on the way to it. In the very
seat where she was now sitting as she looked him straight in the face
with those clear but alas! cold eyes, she had looked at the proofs of
his latest medico-philosophical work which bore the title _Preliminary
Observations on the Physiognomical Diagnosis of Diseases_. And then,
when he finally left science for politics, at the time when he made
speeches at election meetings and equipped himself for his new career
by serious studies in history and political economy, she had sincerely
rejoiced in his energy and his versatility.
All this was now over. She had grown to eye more and more severely
those faults of his of which he was quite aware himself, and
particularly his tendency to be swept away by the intoxication of
his own words, with the result that he came to lose more and more of
his self-confidence in his attitude towards her. He was never quite
himself when he spoke to her, or in her presence. He was not satisfied
with himself to-day either. He was conscious, with an irritation which
struck even himself as petty, that he had not given sufficient force to
his encounter with Jalaudek in the buffet, and that he ought to have
made his detestation of politics ring far more plausibly.
"You are probably quite right, Fräulein Anna," he said, "if you
smile at my resigning my seat on account of that silly incident.
A parliamentary life without its share of comedy is an absolute
impossibility. I should have realised it, played up to it and taken
every opportunity of drinking with the fellow who had publicly insulted
me. It would have been convenient, Austrian--and possibly even the most
correct course to have taken." He felt himself in full swing again and
continued with animation. "What it comes to in the end is that there
are two methods of doing anything worth doing in politics. The one
is a magnificent flippancy which looks on the whole of public life
as an amusing game, has no true enthusiasm for anything, and no true
indignation against anything, and which regards the people whose misery
or happiness are ultimately at stake with consummate indifference. I
have not progressed so far, and I don't know that I should ever have
succeeded in doing so. Quite frankly, I have often wished I could have.
The other method is this: to be ready every single minute to sacrifice
one's whole existence, one's life, in the truest sense of the word, for
what one believes to be right----"
Berthold suddenly stopped. His father, old Doctor Stauber, had come in
and been heartily welcomed. He shook hands with George, who had been
introduced to him by Frau Rosner, and looked at him so kindly that
George felt himself immediately drawn towards him. He looked younger
than he was. His long reddish-yellow beard was only streaked by a few
grey hairs, and his smoothly combed long hair fell in thick locks on to
his broad neck. The strikingly high forehead gave a kind of majesty to
the somewhat thick-set figure with its high shoulders. When his eyes
were not making a special point of looking kind or shrewd they seemed
to be resting behind the tired lids as though to gather the energy for
the 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 or
four at the time."
"You attended her?" asked George.
"I visited her sometimes as deputy for Professor Duchegg, whose
assistant I was. You used to live then in the Habsburgergasse, in an
old house that has been pulled down long ago. I could describe to you
even to-day the furniture of the room in which I was received by your
father ... whose premature death I deeply regret.... There was a bronze
figure on the secretary, a knight in armour to be sure with a flag, and
a 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 Stauber
in that droning slightly melancholy and yet superior tone which was
peculiar 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 latter
answered with equal quietness. George, who had watched this play of the
eyes, had the impression that there prevailed between these two a tacit
understanding which did not need any words.
"Yes," said Doctor Stauber. "I wasn't at all surprised. I've always
felt 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 go
back to his real calling. Yes, yes, your real calling, Berthold," he
repeated, as though to answer his son's furrowed brow. "You have not
prejudiced your future by it, in the least. Nothing makes life so
difficult as our frequent belief in consistency ... and our wasting
our time in being ashamed of a mistake, instead of owning up to it and
simply 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. His
studies might necessitate travelling further afield. Further, he had
decided not to make any farewell visits. He had, he added by way of
explanation, completely given up all association with certain bourgeois
sets, among whom his father had an extensive practice.
"Didn't we meet each other once this winter at Ehrenbergs'?" asked
George with a certain amount of satisfaction.
"That's right," answered Berthold. "We are distantly related to the
Ehrenbergs you know. The Golowski family is curiously enough the
connecting link between us. It would be no good, Herr Baron, if I
were to make any attempt to explain it to you in greater detail. I
should have to take you on a journey through the registry offices and
congregations of Temesvar Tarnopol and similar pleasant localities--and
that you mightn't quite fancy."
"Anyway," added old Doctor Stauber in a resigned tone, "the Baron is
bound to know that all Jews are related to one another."
George smiled amiably. As a matter of fact it rather jarred on his
nerves. There was no necessity at all, in his view, for Doctor Stauber
as well officially to communicate to him his membership of the Jewish
community. He already knew it and bore him no grudge for it. He bore
him no grudge at all for it; but why do they always begin to talk about
it themselves? Wherever he went, he only met Jews who were ashamed of
being Jews, or the type who were proud of it and were frightened of
people thinking they were ashamed of it.
"I had a chat with old Frau Golowski yesterday," continued Doctor
Stauber.
"Poor woman," said Herr Rosner.
"How is she?" asked Anna.
"How is she ... you can imagine ... her daughter in prison, her son a
conscript--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 the
café and watches the other people playing chess. He himself can't even
run 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 really
nice 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't
understand why," he added with a smile, while he looked at Anna almost
tenderly.
She looked straight in front of her and made no answer.
The clock on the wall struck seven. George got up as though he had
simply 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 hands
all round.
"It is strange," said old Stauber, "how your voice reminds one of your
poor father."
"Yes, many people have said so," replied George. "I, personally, can't
see any trace of it."
"There isn't a man in the world who knows his own voice," remarked old
Stauber, and it sounded like the beginning of a popular lecture.
But George took his leave. Anna accompanied him, in spite of his slight
remonstrance, into the hall and left the door half open--almost on
purpose, so it struck George. "It's a pity we couldn't go on with our
music 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 to
accompany myself, only it falls off a bit at the end.... I don't know
how to express myself."
"Oh, I know what you mean, the end is conventional. I felt so too. I
hope soon to be able to bring you something better than that, Fräulein
Anna."
"But don't keep me waiting for it too long."
"I certainly won't. Goodbye, Fräulein Anna." They shook hands with each
other and both smiled.
"Why didn't you come to Weissenfeld?" asked Anna lightly.
"I am really sorry, but just consider, Fräulein Anna, I could scarcely
get in the mood for society of any kind this year, you can quite
appreciate that."
Anna looked at him seriously. "Don't you think," she said, "that
perhaps 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. But
Frau 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 a
written time-table, so that you may know when I'm at home, but that
wouldn't be much good either. I often go for walks or go shopping in
town 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 then
took 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 Library
at eleven on Thursday. If you too are interested in miniatures, we
might meet there."
"Delighted, I'm sure."
"Right you are then, we can then arrange the next time for you to
accompany my singing."
"Done," said George and shook hands with her. It struck him that while
Anna was chatting with him here outside, young Doctor Stauber would
doubtless be getting irritated or offended inside, and he was surprised
that he should be more disturbed by this circumstance than Anna, who
struck him as on the whole a perfectly good-natured person. He freed
his hand from hers, said good-bye and went.
It was quite dark when George got into the streets. He strolled slowly
over the Elizabeth Bridge to the Opera, past the centre of the
town and undisturbed by the hubbub and traffic around him, listened
mentally to the tune of his song. He thought it strange that Anna's
voice which had so pure and sound a tone in a small room, should have
no future whatsoever before it on the stage and concert platform, and
even stranger that Anna scarcely seemed to mind this tragic fact. But
of course he was not quite clear in his mind whether Anna's calmness
really reflected her true character.
He had known her more or less casually for some years, but an evening
in the previous spring had been the first occasion when they had
become rather more intimate. A large party had been got up on that
occasion in the Waldsteingarten. They took their meal in the open air
under 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: Frau
Ehrenberg, the organiser of the party, dressed in an intentionally
matronly style, in a dark loose-fitting foulard dress; Hofrat Wilt,
wearing as it were the mask of an English statesman with all the sloppy
aristocracy of his nonchalant demeanour, and his chronic and somewhat
cheap superior manner towards everything and everybody; Frau Oberberger
who looked like a rococo marquise with her grey powdered hair, her
flashing eyes and her beauty spot on her chin; Demeter Stanzides
with his white gleaming teeth and that pale forehead that showed
all the weariness of an old race of heroes; Oskar Ehrenberg dressed
with a smartness that smacked a great deal of the head clerk in a
dressmaking establishment, a great deal of a young music-hall comedian
and something, too, of a young society man; Sissy Wyner who kept
switching her dark laughing eyes from one man to another, as though
she had a merry secret understanding with every single member of the
party; Willy Eissler who related in his hoarse jovial voice all kinds
of jolly anecdotes of his soldier days and Jewish stories as well;
Else Ehrenberg in a white English cloth dress with all the delicate
melancholy of the spring flowing around her, while her _grande dame_
movements combined with her baby-face and delicate figure to invest
her with an almost pathetic grace; Felician, cold and courteous, with
haughty eyes which gazed between the members of the party to the other
tables, and from the other tables beyond into the distance; Sissy's
mother, young, red-cheeked and a positive chatter-box, who wanted to
talk about everything at the same time and to listen to everything at
the same time; Edmund Nürnberger with his piercing eyes and his thin
mouth curving into that smile of contempt (which had almost become
a chronic mask) for that whirligig of life, which he thoroughly saw
through, though to his own amazement he frequently discovered that he
was playing in the game himself; and then finally Heinrich Bermann in a
summer suit that was too loose, with a straw hat that was too cheap and
a tie that was too light, who one moment spoke louder than the others
and at the next moment was more noticeably silent.
Last of all Anna Rosner had appeared, self-possessed and without any
escort, greeted the party with a slight nod and composedly sat down
between Frau Ehrenberg and George. "I have asked her for you," said
Frau Ehrenberg softly to George, who prior to this evening had scarcely
given Anna a single thought. These words, which perhaps only originated
in a stray idea of Frau Ehrenberg's, became true in the course of the
evening. From the moment when the party got up and started on their
merry expedition through the Volksprater George and Anna had remained
together everywhere, in the side-shows and also on the journey home to
town, which for the fun of the thing was done on foot, and surrounded
though they were by all that buzz of jollity and foolishness they had
finished by starting a perfectly rational conversation. A few days
later he called and brought her as he had promised the piano score
of "Eugen Onegin" and some of his songs; on his next visit she sang
these songs over to him as well as many of Schubert's, and he was
very pleased with her voice. Shortly afterwards they said goodbye to
each other for the summer without a single trace of sentimentalism or
tenderness. George had regarded Anna's invitation to Weissenfeld as a
mere piece of politeness, just in the same way as he had thought his
promise to come had been understood; and the atmosphere of to-day's
visit when compared with the innocence of their previous acquaintance
was bound to strike George as extremely strange.
At the Stephansplatz George saw that he was being saluted by some one
standing on the platform of a horse-omnibus. George, who was somewhat
short-sighted, did not immediately recognise the man who was saluting
him.
"It's me," said the gentleman on the platform.
"Oh, Herr Bermann, good evening." George shook hands with him. "Which
way are you going?"
"I'm going into the Prater. I'm going to dine down there. Have you
anything special on, Baron?"
"Nothing at all."
"Well, come along with me then."
George swung himself on to the omnibus, which had just begun to move
on. 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 topic
did not interest him any further. It struck him that Bermann was
looking in front of him in a manner that was not only absent-minded but
really almost melancholy.
"And how's your work getting on, my dear Baron?" asked Heinrich with
sudden animation, while he drew closer round him the dark grey overcoat
which hung over his shoulders.[1] "Have you finished your quintette?"
"My quintette?" repeated George in astonishment. "Have I spoken to you
about my quintette, then?"
"No, not you, but Fräulein Else told me that you were working at a
quintette."
"I see, Fräulein Else. No, I haven't got much further with it. I didn't
feel quite in the mood, as you can imagine."
"Quite," said Heinrich, and was silent for a while. "And your father
was 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 proceeded
to light another. Then he said: "You must be surprised at my inquiring
after your brother when I have scarcely ever spoken to him. But he
interests me. He represents in my view a type which is absolutely
perfect 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 come
to think so seeing that you scarcely know him?"
"In the first place his name is Felician Freiherr von
Wergenthin-Recco," said Heinrich very seriously, and blew the smoke
into 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 at
all a bad appearance. But people whose real point is that they're
handsome have really a much better time of it than others whose real
point is that they're clever. If you are handsome you are handsome
for always, while clever people, or at any rate nine-tenths of them,
spend their life without showing a single trace of talent. Yes, that's
certainly the case. The line of life is clearer so to speak when one
is handsome than when one is a genius. Of course all this could be
expressed far better."
George was disagreeably affected. What's the matter with him? he
thought. Can he perhaps be jealous of Felician ... on account of Else
Ehrenberg?
They got out at the Praterstern. The great stream of the Sunday crowd
was flowing towards them. They went towards the Hauptallee, where there
was no longer any crush, and strolled slowly on. It had grown cool.
George made remarks about the autumnal atmosphere of the evening, the
people sitting in the restaurants, the military bands playing in the
kiosks.
At first Heinrich answered offhandedly, and subsequently not at all,
and finally seemed scarcely to be paying any attention. George thought
this rude. He was almost sorry that he had joined Heinrich, all the
more so as he made it an almost invariable practice not to respond
straight away to casual invitations. The excuse he gave to himself
was that it was simply out of absent-mindedness that he had done it
on this occasion. Heinrich was walking close to him or even going a
few steps in front, as if he were completely oblivious of George's
presence. He still held tightly in both hands the overcoat which was
swung round him, wore his dark grey felt hat pressed down over his
forehead and looked extremely uncouth. His appearance suddenly began
to jar keenly on George's nerves. Heinrich Bermann's previous remarks
about Felician now struck him as in bad taste, and as quite devoid
of tact, and it occurred to him at the psychological moment that
practically all he knew of Heinrich's literary productions had gone
against the grain. He had seen two pieces of his: one where the scene
was laid in the lower strata of society, among artizans or factory
workers, and which finished up with murder and fatal blows; the other a
kind of satirical society comedy whose first production had occasioned
a scandal and which had soon been taken out of the repertoire of the
theatre. Anyway George did not then know the author personally, and had
taken no further interest in the whole thing. He only remembered that
Felician had thought the piece absolutely ridiculous, and that Count
Schönstein had expressed the opinion that if he had anything to do with
it pieces written by Jews should only be allowed to be performed by the
Buda-Pesth Orpheum Company.[2] But Doctor von Breitner in particular,
a baptised Jew with a philosophical mind, had given vent to his
indignation that such an adventurer of a young man should have dared to
have put a world on to the stage that was obviously closed to him, and
which it was consequently impossible for him to know anything about.
While George was remembering all this his irritation at the rude
conduct and stubborn silence of his companion rose to a genuine sense
of enmity, and quite unconsciously he began to think that all the
insults which had been previously directed against Bermann had been in
fact justified. He now remembered too that Heinrich had been personally
antipathetic to him from the beginning, and that he had indulged in
some ironic remark to Frau Ehrenberg about her cleverness in having
lost no time in adding that young celebrity to the tame lions in her
drawing-room. Else, of course, had immediately taken Heinrich's part,
and explained that he was an interesting man, was in many respects
positively charming, and had prophesied to George that sooner or later
he would become good friends with him. And as a matter of fact George
had preserved, as the result of that nocturnal conversation on the seat
in the Ringstrasse in the spring of this year, a certain sympathy for
Bermann which had survived down to the present evening.
They had passed the last inns some time ago. The white high road ran by
their side out into the night on a straight and lonely track between
the trees, and the very distant music only reached them in more or less
broken snatches.
"But where are you going to?" Heinrich exclaimed suddenly, as though he
had 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 one
loses 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 I
never 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 an
hour or so."
"I thought you stayed there."
"Not a bit of it. I stayed down at the hotel. I only occasionally went
up to Auhof. There was too much noise and bustle there for me.... The
house was positively packed with visitors. And I can't stand most of
the 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 that
gleamed through the darkness.
"Don't know her."
They turned their steps through a dark side-avenue. The conversation
stuck again. Finally Heinrich began: "Fräulein Else sang a few of your
songs to me at Auhof. I'd heard some of them already too, sung by the
Bellini, 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, that
as a matter of fact those songs impressed me even more than when I
heard them the first time at the concert, in spite of the fact that
Fräulein Else has considerably less voice and technique than Fräulein
Bellini. Of course one must take into consideration on the other hand
that it was a magnificent summer afternoon when Fräulein Else sang
your songs. The window was open, there was a view of the mountains and
the deep-blue sky opposite ... but anyway, you came in for a more than
sufficient share of the credit."
"Very flattering," said George, who felt pained by Heinrich's sarcastic
tone.
"You know," continued Heinrich, speaking as he frequently did with
clenched teeth and unnecessary emphasis, "you know it is not generally
my habit to invite people whom I happen to see in the street to join
me in an omnibus, and I prefer to tell you at once that I regarded it
as--what does one say?--a sign of fate when I suddenly caught sight of
you on the Stephansplatz."
George listened to him in amazement.
"You perhaps don't remember as well as I do," continued Heinrich, "our
last conversation on that seat in the Ringstrasse."
George now remembered for the first time that Heinrich had then made a
quite 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 equal
casualness and more as a joke than anything else. He answered with
deliberate coldness: "Oh yes, I remember."
"Well, that binds you to nothing," answered Heinrich, even more coldly
than the other. "All the less so since, to tell you the truth, I've not
given my opera libretto a single thought till that beautiful summer
afternoon when Fräulein Else sang your song. Anyway, what do you say to
our stopping here?"
The restaurant garden which they entered was fairly empty. Heinrich and
George sat down in a little arbour next to the green wooden railing and
ordered their dinner.
Heinrich leant back, stretched out his legs, looked with probing almost
cynical eyes at George, who maintained an obstinate silence, and said
suddenly: "I don't think I am making a mistake if I venture to presume
that 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 have
the same feeling with regard to most men, and I regard this faculty
as the only indisputable one I've really got. All my others, I think,
are fairly problematical. My so-called art in particular is more or
less mediocre, and a good deal too could be said against my character.
The only thing which gives me a certain amount of confidence is simply
the consciousness of being able to see right into people's souls ...
right deep down, every one, rogues and honest people, men, women
and children, heathens, Jews and Protestants, yes, even Catholics,
aristocrats and Germans, although I have heard that that is supposed to
be infinitely difficult, not to say impossible, for people like myself."
George gave a slight start. He knew that Heinrich had been subjected
to the most violent personal attacks by the clerical and conservative
press, particularly with reference to his last piece. "But what's that
got to do with me?" thought George. There was another one of them who
had been insulted! It was really absolutely impossible to associate
with these people on a neutral footing. He said politely, though
coldly, with a semi-conscious recollection of old Herr Rosner's retort
to young Dr. Stauber: "I really thought that people like you were above
attacks of the kind to which you're obviously alluding."
"Really ... you thought that?" queried Heinrich, in that cold almost
repulsive manner which was peculiar to him on many occasions. "Well,"
he went on more gently, "that is the case sometimes. But unfortunately
not always. It doesn't need much to wake up that self-contempt which is
always lying dormant within us; and once that takes place there isn't a
single rogue or a single scoundrel with whom we don't join forces, and
quite 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 course
I have not yet had the opportunity of being exposed to the public as
often as you and in the same way."
"Well, supposing you did ... you would never have to go through quite
what I did."
"Why not?" queried George, slightly hurt.
Heinrich looked him sharply in the face. "You are the Baron von
Wergenthin-Recco."
"So that's your reason! But you must remember that there are a whole
lot of people going about to-day who are prejudiced against one for
that very reason--and manage to cast in one's teeth the fact of one's
being a baron whenever they get a chance."
"Yes, yes, but I think you will agree with me that being ragged for
being a baron is a very different matter than being ragged for being
a 'Jew,' although the latter--you'll forgive me of course--may at
times denote the better aristocracy. Well, you needn't look at me
so pitifully," he added with abrupt rudeness. "I am not always so
sensitive. I have other moods in which nothing can affect me in any
way nor any person either. Then I feel simply this--what do you all
know--what do you know about me...." He stopped, proudly, with a
scornful look that seemed to pierce through the foliage of the arbour
into the darkness. He then turned his head, looked round and said
simply to George in quite a new tone: "Just look, we shall soon be the
only 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 they
passed.
"The fraud of summer doesn't last after nightfall. It'll soon all be
over," said Heinrich in a tone of unmitigated melancholy, while he
added, as though to console himself: "Well, one will be able to work."
They came into the Wurstelprater. The sound of music rang out from the
restaurants, and some of the exuberant gaiety communicated itself to
George. He felt suddenly swung out of the dismalness of an inn garden
at autumn time and a somewhat painful conversation into a new world. A
tout, in front of a merry-go-round, from which a gigantic hurdy-gurdy
sent into the open air the pot-pourri cut of the "Troubadour" with all
the effect of some fantastic organ, invited people to take a journey
to London, Atzgersdorf and Australia. George remembered again the
excursion in the spring with the Ehrenberg party. It was on this
narrow seat inside the room that Frau Oberberger had sat with Demeter
Stanzides, the lion of the evening, by her side, and had probably
told him one of her incredible stories: that her mother had been the
mistress of a Russian Grand Prince; that she herself had spent a night
with an admirer in the Hallstadt cemetery, of course without anything
happening; or that her husband, the celebrated traveller, had made
conquests of seventeen women in one week in one harem at Smyrna. It
was in this carriage upholstered in red velvet, with Hofrat Wilt as
her _vis-à-vis_, that Else had lounged with lady-like grace, just as
though she were in a carriage on Derby Day, while she yet managed to
show by her manner and demeanour that, if it came to the point, she
herself could be quite as childish as other persons of happier and less
complex temperaments. Anna Rosner with the reins nonchalantly in her
hand, looking dignified, but with a somewhat sly face, rode a white
Arab; Sissy rocked about on a black horse that not only turned round in
a circle with the other animals and carriages, but swung up and down
as well. The boldest eyes imaginable flashed and laughed beneath the
audacious _coiffure_ with its gigantic black feather hat, while her
white skirt fluttered and flew over her low-cut patent leather shoes
and open-work stockings. Sissy's appearance had produced so strange an
effect on a couple of strangers that they called out to her a quite
unambiguous invitation. There had then ensued a short mysterious
interview between Willy, who immediately came on the spot, and the two
somewhat embarrassed gentlemen, who first tried to save their faces by
lighting fresh cigarettes with deliberate nonchalance and then suddenly
vanished in the crowd.
Even the side-show with its "Illusions" and "Illuminated Pictures" had
special memories for George. It was here, while Daphne was turning
into 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 which
she had lifted up her lace veil for a fleeting kiss, though presumably
he had not been the only one. Then there was the hut where the whole
party had had themselves photographed: the three young girls, Anna,
Else and Sissy in the pose of classical goddesses and the men at their
feet with ecstatic eyes, so that the whole thing looked like the climax
of a transformation scene. And while George was thinking of these
little episodes there floated up through his memory the way in which
he and Anna had said goodbye to-day, and it seemed full of the most
pleasant 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 his
drum, now the glass ball which was dancing to and fro upon a jet of
water broke with a slight click, now a _vivandière_ hastily put her
trumpet to her mouth and blew a menacing blast, now a little railway
thundered out of a door which had sprung open, whizzed over a flying
bridge and was swallowed up by another door.
When the crowd began to thin, George and Heinrich made their way to the
front and recognised that the good shots were Oskar Ehrenberg and his
lady friend. Oskar was just aiming his gun at an eagle which was moving
up and down near the ceiling with outstretched wings, and missed for
the first time. He laid his weapon down in indignation, gazed round
him, saw the two gentlemen behind him and saluted them.
The young lady with her cheek resting on her gun threw a fleeting
glance at the new arrivals, then aimed again with great keenness, and
pressed the trigger. The eagle drooped its hit wings and did not move
any more.
"Bravo," shouted Oskar.
The lady laid the weapon before her on the table. "That's my little
lot," 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 hand
into his waistcoat pocket, threw a silver gulden down and received with
condescension 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 body
slightly in front and put his left foot forward, "Allow me, Amy, to
introduce the gentlemen who witnessed your triumph, Baron Wergenthin,
Herr von Bermann ... Fräulein Amelie Reiter."
The gentlemen lifted their hats, Amelie returned the greeting by
nodding a few times with her head. She wore a simple foulard dress
designed in white, and over it a light cloak of bright yellow bordered
with 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 came
on 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 quieter
and quieter, past inn gardens which were gradually becoming empty.
Oskar thrust his right arm through his companion's left and then turned
to George. "Why didn't you come to Auhof this year? We were all very
sorry."
"Unfortunately I didn't feel much in the mood for society."
"Of course, I can quite understand," said Oskar with all proper
seriousness. "I was only there myself for a few weeks. In August I
strengthened my tired limbs in the waves of the North Sea; I was in
the Isle of Wight, you know."
"That must be very nice," said George. "Who is it that always goes
there?"
"You're thinking of the Wyners," replied Oskar. "When they used to live
in London they went there regularly, but now they only go there every
two or three years."
"But they've kept the Y for Austrian consumption as well," said George
with a smile.
Oskar was serious. "Old Herr Wyner," he answered, "honestly earned
his right to the Y. He went to England in his thirteenth year, became
naturalised there and was made a partner when quite a young man in the
great 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 with
her two children, but James will never get acclimatised here.... Lord
Antinous, you know, that's what Frau Oberberger calls him. He is now
back at Cambridge again where strangely enough he is studying Greek
scholarship. 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 him
this spring at Freudenau, and won a lot of money, and now she inquires
if 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's
always a case of 'I've an appointment with Stanzides' or 'I'm riding
with Stanzides in the Prater.' Stanzides this and Stanzides that, why
it 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 most
beautiful black moustache and the most fiery black eyes that are to be
found anywhere."
"That's quite possible, but when I saw him he looked more like a
jack-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 she
suddenly 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 them
with 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. "The
Prince of Guastalla."
"Which one?" asked George.
"The youngest, of course, Karl Friedrich. He was there incognito. He's
very thick with Stanzides, an extraordinary man. You take my word for
it," he added softly, "if people like us said one hundredth part of the
things the prince says, we'd never get out of prison our whole life
long."
"Look, Oskar," cried Amy, "at the tables and the people down there. It
looks just like a little box, doesn't it? And that mass of lights over
there, 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 stared
through the glass wall out into the night.
When they left the compartment and got out into the open air the Sunday
hubbub was subsiding.
"Poor little girl," said Oskar Ehrenberg to George, while Amy went on
in front with Heinrich, "she has no idea that this is the last time we
are going out together in the Prater."
"But why the last time?" asked George, not feeling particularly
interested.
"It's got to be," replied Oskar. "Things like this oughtn't to last
longer than a year at the outside. Any way, you might buy your gloves
from her after December," he added brightly, though with a certain
touch of melancholy. "I am setting her up, you know, in a little
business. I more or less owe her that, for I took her away from a
fairly safe situation."
"A safe one?"
"Yes, she was engaged, to a case-maker. Did you know that there were
such people?"
In the meanwhile Amy and Heinrich were standing in front of a narrow
moving staircase that went boldly up to a platform and waited for the
others. All agreed that they ought not to leave the Prater before going
for a ride on the switchback.
They whizzed through the darkness down and up again in the groaning
coach under the black tree-tops; and George managed to discover a
grotesque motif in 3/4 time in the heavy rhythmic noise.
While he was going down the moving staircase with the others, he knew
that the melody should be introduced by an oboe and clarionet and
accompanied by a cello and contra bass. It was clearly a _scherzo_
probably for a symphony.
"If I were a capitalist," expounded Heinrich with emphasis, "I would
have a switchback built four miles long to go over fields and hills,
through forests and dancing-halls; I would also see that there were
surprises on the way." Anyway, he thought that the time had come to
develop more elaborately the fantastic element in the Wurstelprater. He
himself, he informed them, had a rough idea for a merry-go-round that
by means of some marvellous machinery was to revolve spiral-fashion
above the ground, winding higher and higher till eventually it reached
the top of a kind of tower.
Unfortunately he lacked the necessary technical knowledge to explain
it in greater detail. As they went on he invented burlesque figures
and groups for the shooting galleries, and finally declared that there
was a pressing need for a magnificent Punch and Judy show for which
original authors should write pieces at once profound and frivolous.
In this way they came to the end of the Prater where Oskar's carriage
was waiting. Squashed, but none the less good-tempered, they drove to
a wine-restaurant in the town. Oskar ordered champagne in a private
room, George sat down by the piano and improvised the theme that had
occurred to him on the switchback. Amy lounged back in the corner of
the sofa, while Oskar kept whispering things into her ears which made
her laugh. Heinrich had grown silent again and twirled his glass slowly
between his fingers. Suddenly George stopped playing and let his hands
lie on the keys. A feeling of the dreamlike and purposeless character
of existence came over him, as it frequently did when he had drunk
wine. Ages seemed to have passed since he had come down a badly-lighted
staircase in the Paulanergasse, and his walk with Heinrich in the dark
autumn avenue lay far away in the distant past. On the other hand he
suddenly remembered, as vividly as though the whole thing had happened
yesterday, a very young and very depraved individual, with whom he had
spent many years ago a few weeks of that happy-go-lucky life which
Oskar Ehrenberg was now leading with Amy. She had kept him waiting
too long one evening in the street, he had gone away impatiently and
had neither heard nor seen anything of her again. How easy life was
sometimes....
He heard Amy's soft laugh and turned round. His look encountered that
of Oskar, who seemed to be trying to catch his eye over Amy's blonde
head. He felt irritated by that look and deliberately avoided it and
struck a few chords again in a melancholy ballad-style. He felt a
desire to describe all that had happened to him to-day, and looked at
the clock over the door. It was past one. He caught Heinrich's eye and
they both got up. Oskar pointed to Amy, who had gone to sleep on his
shoulder, and intimated by a smile and a shrug of his shoulders that
under such circumstances he could not think of going for the present.
The two others shook hands with him, whispered good-night and slipped
away.
"Do you know what I've done?" said Heinrich. "While you were
improvising so extraordinarily finely on that ghastly piano I tried to
get the real hang of that libretto that I spoke to you about in the
spring."
"Oh, the opera libretto! that _is_ interesting. Won't you tell me?"
Heinrich shook his head. "I should like to, but the unfortunate thing
is, as you've already seen, that it's really not yet finished--like
most of my other so-called plots."
George looked at him interrogatively. "You had a whole lot of things on
hand last spring, when we saw each other last."
"Yes, I have made a lot of notes, but to-day I've done nothing more
than sentences ... no words, no, just letters on white paper. It's just
as if a dead hand had touched everything. I'm frightened the next time
I 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 better
one in store for me?"
George was silent. Then he suddenly remembered the notice in the
papers which he had read somewhere or other about Heinrich's father,
the former deputy, Doctor Bermann. He suspected that that might be the
reason. "Your father is ill, isn't he?" he asked.
Heinrich answered without looking at him. "Yes, my father has been in a
mental home since June."
George shook his head sympathetically.
Heinrich continued: "Yes, it's an awful business, even though I
wasn't on very intimate terms with him during the last months it is
indescribably awful, and goes on being so."
"I can quite understand," said George, "not making any headway with
one's work under circumstances like that."
"Yes," answered Heinrich hesitatingly. "But it's not that alone. To be
quite frank that business plays a comparatively subordinate part in my
present mental condition. I don't want to make myself out better than I
am. Better...! Should I be better...!" He gave a short laugh and then
went on speaking. "Look here, yesterday I still thought that it was the
accumulation of every possible misfortune that depressed me so. But
to-day I've had an infallible proof that things of no importance at
all, positively silly things in fact, affect me more deeply than very
real 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 vehemence
of 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 to
the point he won't last much longer"--he gave a deep breath--"and as
you can imagine that involves all kinds of troubles, responsibilities
for 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 nothing
of importance so to speak--a letter from a person with whom I have been
intimate for two years--and there was a passage in that letter which
struck me as a little suspicious--one isolated passage ... otherwise
the letter was very affectionate and very nice, like all her other
letters ... and now, just imagine, the memory of that one suspicious
passage, which another man wouldn't have noticed at all, has been
haunting me and torturing me the whole day. I've not been thinking
about my father in the lunatic asylum, nor about my mother and sister
who are in despair, but only about that unimportant passage in that
silly letter from a really by no means brilliant female. It eats up all
my strength, it makes me incapable of feeling like a son, like a human
being ... isn't it ghastly?"
George listened coldly. It struck him as strange that this taciturn
melancholy man should suddenly confide in so casual an acquaintance as
himself, and he could not help feeling a painful sense of embarrassment
when confronted with this unexpected revelation. He did not have the
impression either that any particular sympathy for him on Heinrich's
part was the real reason for all these confessions. He rather felt
inclined to put it down to a want of tact, a certain natural lack
of self-control, something which seemed very well described by
the expression "bad breeding," which he had once heard applied to
Heinrich--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 in
the trees of the park, they could hear somewhere or other the noise of
a rolling carriage as it drove away into the distance.
As Heinrich was silent again, George stood still and said in as kind a
tone 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 a
long way--and I've been tactless enough to tell you, or rather myself
in your presence, a lot of things which can't interest you in the
least.... Forgive me!"
"What is there to forgive?" answered George gently. He felt a little
moved 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 a
hurry, as though he had suddenly decided that any further word would be
bound to be importunate.
George looked after him with a mixture of sympathy and repulsion, and
suddenly a free and almost happy mood came over him. He felt young,
devoid of care and destined for the most brilliant future. He rejoiced
at the winter which was coming, there were all kinds of possibilities:
work, amusement, sentiment, while he was absolutely indifferent as to
who it was from whom these joys might come. He lingered a moment by the
Opera-house. If he went home through the Paulanergasse it would not be
appreciably out of his way. He smiled at the memory of the serenades
of his earlier years. Not far from here lay the street where he had
looked up many a night at a window behind whose curtains Marianne had
been accustomed to show herself when her husband had gone to sleep.
This woman who was always playing with dangers in whose seriousness
she herself did not believe had never really been worthy of George....
Another memory more distant than this one was much more gracious. When
he was a boy of seventeen in Florence he had walked to and fro many a
night before the window of a beautiful girl, the first creature of the
other sex who had given her virgin self to him as yet untouched. And
he thought of the hour when he had seen his beloved step on the arm of
her bridegroom up to the altar, where the priest was to consecrate the
marriage, of the look of eternal farewell which she had sent to him
from under her white veil....
He had now arrived at his goal. The lamps were still burning at both
ends of the short street, so that it was quite dark where he stood
opposite the house. The window of Anna's room was open, and the pinned
curtains fluttered lightly in the wind, just as in the afternoon. It
was quite dark below. A soft tenderness began to stir in George's
heart. Of all the beings who had ever refrained from hiding their
inclination for him he thought Anna the best and the purest. She was
also the first who brought the gift of sympathy for his artistic
aspirations. She was certainly more genuine than Marianne, whose tears
would roll over her cheeks whatever he happened to play on the piano;
she was deeper too than Else Ehrenberg, who no doubt only wanted to
confirm herself in the proud consciousness of having been the first
to recognise his talent. And if any person was positively cut out to
counteract his tendency to dilettantism and nonchalance and to keep
him working energetically, profitably and with a conscious object that
person was Anna. He had thought only last winter of looking out for a
post as a conductor or accompanist at some German Opera; at Ehrenbergs'
he had casually spoken of his intentions, which had not been taken very
seriously. Frau Ehrenberg, woman of the world that she was, had given
him the motherly advice rather to undertake a tour through the United
States as a composer and conductor, whereupon Else had cut in, "And an
American heiress shouldn't be sniffed at either." As he remembered this
conversation he was very pleased with the idea of knocking about the
world a bit, he wished to get to know foreign towns and foreign men, to
win love and fame somewhere out in the wide world, and finally came to
the conclusion that his life was slipping away from him on the whole in
far too quiet and monotonous a fashion.
He had long ago left the Paulanergasse, without having taken mentally
any farewell of Anna, and was soon home.
As he stepped into the dining-room he saw a light shining from
Felician'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 asleep
quite 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 the
author. We shot and went on the switchback. It was quite jolly.... What
have you got in your hand?" he said, interrupting his narrative. "Have
you been out for a walk like that?" he added jestingly.
Felician let the sword which he held in his right hand shine in the
light of the lamp. "I've just taken it down from the wall, I begin
to-morrow again in earnest. The tournament is in the middle of
November, 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 before
the middle of November. And the strange thing is I've got the feeling
as though I had learnt something fresh in the very six weeks of this
summer when I didn't have the thing in my hand at all. It's as though
my 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 it
affectionately. 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 out
straight away. I've been studying."
"Studying?"
"Yes, I must really do something serious now. I want to pass my
Diplomatic 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 the
Stadthalterei. 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 has
spent 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?" But
why did it affect him so much all of a sudden?... Why, he himself had
determined to go away, and had quite recently spoken to his brother
about his plans for next year. Was he still as sceptical as ever
of his seriousness? If only they could have a good frank brotherly
heart-to-heart talk as they had had on that evening after their
father's funeral. As a matter of fact, it was only when life revealed
its gloomy side to them that they felt absolutely in touch. Otherwise
there was always this strange constraint between them both. There was
obviously no help for it. They just had to talk more or less discreetly
to each other like fairly intimate friends. And as though resigned to
the situation George went on with his questions. "What did you do in
the 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. Not
particularly pretty, but clever. She improves him and he respects her;
he wants her to be baptised. A humorous affair I can tell you. You
would have had quite a good time."
George turned his eyes towards the sword which Felician still held in
his 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 the
wall.
"I haven't had a thing in my hand since May," he said as he took hold
of his sword. They took off their coats and crossed blades. George
cried _touché_ the next second.
"Come on," cried George, and thought himself lucky that it was his
brother whom he had to face as he stood in an awkward position with the
slender flashing weapon in his hand.
Felician hit him as often as he wanted to without himself being touched
a single time. He then lowered his sword and said: "You're too tired
to-day, there's no point in it. But you should come more often to the
club. I assure you it's a pity, with your talent."
George was pleased by his brotherly praise. He laid his sword down on
the table, took a deep breath and went to the wide centre window which
was open. "What wonderful air," he said. A lonely lamp was shining from
the park, there was absolute silence.
Felician came up to George, and while the latter leant with both hands
on the sill the elder brother remained upright and swept over street,
park and town with one of his proud quiet glances. They were both
silent for a long time. And they knew they were each thinking of the
same thing: a May night of last spring when they had gone home together
through the park and their father had greeted them with a silent nod of
his 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 the
whole day with such full gusto, without any painful memories of the
beloved man who now lay beneath the ground.
"Well, good-night," said Felician in a softer tone than usual as he
held out his hand to George. He pressed it in silence and each went
into his own room.
George arranged the table lamp, took out some music paper and began to
write. It was not the scherzo which had occurred to him when he had
whizzed through the night with the others under the black tree-tops
a few hours ago; and it was not the melancholy folk-ballad of the
restaurant either; but a quite new _motif_ that swam up slowly and
continuously as though from secret depths. George felt as though he had
to allow some mysterious element to take its course. He wrote down the
melody, which he thought should be sung by an _alto_ voice or played
on the viola, and at the same time a strange accompaniment rang in his
ears, which he knew would never vanish from his memory.
It was four o'clock in the morning when he went to bed with the
calmness of a man to whom nothing evil can ever come in all his life
and for whom neither solitude nor poverty nor death possess any terror.
[1] A special way of wearing a coat affected in Viennese artistic
circles.
[2] A company celebrated for its risqué plays.