Late evening crept like a spider over the city. In the light of
Kohn's little lamp the upper torso of Kuno Kohn was a bit bent over
the table. On the sofa, breaking the circle of lamplight and
stretching beyond it, lay Max Mechenmal, half in the dark. Windows
glittered in lush, flowing black. Swollen and blurred objects rose
up out of the darkness. The open bed shone with a whiteness. Kohn's
hands held papers with writing on them. His voice sounded gentle,
dreamy, singing with feeling. He often became hoarse, and coughed
like someone who had read much. One could hear: "The old, splendid
stories about God have been slaughtered. We must no longer believe
in them. But the knowledge of misery drives us to need to
believe--the longing for new, stronger belief. We are searching. We
find nothing anywhere. We torment ourselves because
we have been helplessly abandoned. Why doesn't someone come, teach
us non-believers, who thirst for God." Kohn was quiet, full of
expectation. Mechenmal had secretly been amused during the lecture.
Now he broke out. Then he said: "Don't take this wrong, little Kohn.
But you certainly have funny ideas. This is really crazy." Kohn
said: "You have no feeling. You are a superficial being. It is also
certain that you are a psychopath." Max Mechenmal said: "what do you
mean by that?" Kuno Kohn said: "You'll find that out soon enough."
Max Mechenmal said merely, "Ah, so." He was angry that Kuno Kohn had
called him superficial. He thought of Ilka Leipke.
Then Kuno Kohn said: "Death is an unbearable thought. For those of
us who are without God. We are damned to live through it in advance
hundreds of nights. And to find no way past it." He became very
quiet. Mechenmal wanted to show his friend Kohn that he too could
express himself about perverse problems. He thought it over, and
said: I have different version, little Kuno, little Kohn. However,
it is an emotional matter. I also tell myself thank God for those
who have no God. God is nonsense. To waste a word on the topic is
unworthy of a thinking man. But listen, I have no need of God--not
in life, not in death. Death without God is very beautiful. It is
my wish. I think it's wonderful simply to be dead. Without heaven.
Without rebirth. Utterly dead. I'm can't wait. Life for me is too
hard. Too stimulating.."
He wanted to speak further. There was a knocking at the door; Kohn
opened it. Ilka Leipke quickly came in. She said: "Good evening
Herr Kohn. Excuse me for disturbing you." She screamed at Mechenmal:
"So, I catch you here. So, for this you have abandoned me. You're
only using my body. You have never grasped my soul." She wept. She
sobbed. Mechenmal tried to calm her down. That irritated her even
more. She shouted: "To betray me with a crippled Kohn... I'll
report you to the police, Mr. Kohn. You should be ashamed of
yourselves, you swine..." She had a crying fit. Kuno Kohn was
incapable of responding. Mechenmal pulled her up from the floor upon
which she had thrown herself screaming. He said with a changed,
stern voice, that her behavior was unseemly, that she had no grounds
for jealousy, for after all, he had no obligations. Then Ilka Leipke
looked at the hunch-backed Kohn humbly, like a beaten little dog.
She was very quiet. She followed the angry Mechenmal out the door.
When Kohn was alone, he gradually became enraged. He thought: such a
rude person... and at intervals: How upset the cow had become. How
jealous she is of me. One of the few women who please me... and she
goes and chooses the little animal Mechenmal. That is atrocious.
Early the next morning Kuno Kohn stood in Miss Leipke's drawing-room,
trembling like an actor with stage fright, When the maid brought Kuno
Kohn's card, Miss Leipke was reading the forbidden pamphlet, "The
suicide of a fashionable lady. Or how a fashionable lady committed
suicide." Her eyes were filled with tears. When she had finished
reading the entire pamphlet, she freshened her make-up. Finally,
covered only by a silk morning-coat, she appeared in the drawing-room.
Kuno Kohn was red up to his ears. Groaning, he said that he had
come to apologize for yesterday's scene, that Miss Leipke did him
wrong, that she knew him too briefly. He had, after all, inner worth.
Then he spoke in praise of his friend, the worthy Mechenmal; but he
did not disguise the man's lack of a refined inner feeling about life.
Miss Leipke looked at him with beguiling eyes. He turned the
conversation to art. Then he turned the conversation to her legs;
she said frankly that she too liked her legs. She had lifted her
morning-coat somewhat. With his shy hands, Kuno Kohn carefully
lifted it higher-That evening Kuno Kohn sat dreamily in his room. He
looked out through the hole made by the open window. In front of him
the gray inner wall of the house dropped a short distance. With many
quiet windows. There was no sky, only shimmering evening air. And a
gentle, occasional breeze, which could scarcely be felt. The wall
with the windows was like a lovely, sad picture. Kuno Kohn was
surprised that it was not boring. He stared steadily and deeply into
the wall. It seemed kind. Friendly. Full of loneliness. Secretly
he thought: the wind against the wall is doing this. He sang
inwardly: Come, be... loved--a bell startled him.
The postman brought him a letter from the Clou Club. The Clou Club
requested Mr. Kohn to read from his works on a certain evening.