The following day light was thrown upon the situation.

Konrad came at twilight, paler than usual, his eyes shining unnaturally.

"Listen, darling," he said, "I spent the night thinking everything over,

and now I know what I ought to do. We can't go on this way."

She thought he meant that he must leave her. An icy numbness spread over

her body. She looked at him quietly awaiting the death blow.

"Since we belong to each other," he continued, "we have never spoken of

your betrothed. That doesn't mean I didn't think of him. And you have

been very reticent about his friend, Mr. Dehnicke. All I know is Mr.

Dehnicke is now off on a trip and has left you, so to speak, without a

guardian."

She forced herself to smile. Why did he prolong the agony?

"I must confess, in the midst of all my happiness, I have always felt

that this exploiting of the situation was nothing more nor less than

contemptible so far as I myself am concerned. But I am not the one to be

considered. The question is: what will become of you? The thing I

dreaded from the very first has come to pass: your friends have begun to

notice us together. You can't ask one person not to tell another. That's

degrading. So your friend will discover everything. He will call you to

account, you will be too proud to deny the truth, and the end of the

story will be that you will be left alone, utterly unprotected. Because

the way things are now, _I_ haven't even the right to protect you. The

thought of it is sickening."

He jumped up, ran his outspread fingers through his imaginary shock of

hair, and tramped up and down.

Lilly felt the blood begin to course through her veins again, and with

it life and thought.

The dear, noble, unsuspecting boy!

She came near bursting into laughter. But she refrained herself and

said:

"You can be perfectly calm, Konni. Mr. Dehnicke won't find out, and

even if he does, he won't believe it. Or if he believes it, he will take

good care--"

She could not continue. The great innocent eyes troubled her.

"So you still think he will--?"

Konrad also faltered. He, too, was unable to utter the unspeakable.

Lilly regarded the buttons on her skirt, and said nothing.

"When is Mr. Dehnicke coming home again?" he asked.

"He's not certain. He's gone a-wooing," Lilly replied with a little

feeling of triumph. She thought she was saying something which raised

her above suspicion in the future--there was still a possibility of

suspicion.

"Where is he now?"

"Why do you want to know?"

"I want to speak to him."

Lilly started. She could not believe her ears.

It _could_ not be. Either she must have lost her reason or Konrad.

"Don't be afraid," he reassured her. "I know quite well what I owe your

reputation. But I should like to find out at last what _he_ thinks of

your situation. There's a man in the United States whom you are pledged

to, yet he doesn't let himself be heard from. He doesn't come for you.

He doesn't write. Why doesn't he write? If he's ignorant of your

whereabouts, he's perfectly aware that Mr. Dehnicke's business is known

in Berlin. You can't be sure he's still alive. At first I tried to

explain his silence in various ways. But now I say to myself, he's

either dead or as good as dead. And are you to consider yourself bound?

Should you make your entire social existence dependent upon a sort of

guard of honour, which has nothing more to guard? I'd like to hold all

this under Mr. Dehnicke's nose. He'll have to answer me. Don't you think

he will?"

"Konrad has less worldly knowledge than is permissible," thought Lilly,

pityingly, and replied: "But I don't understand, Konni, what right you

have to call a stranger to account."

"That's my affair," he rejoined, tossing his head defiantly. "I must

know if he will set you free. I won't brook his playing the slave-master

over you."

"And I won't brook your getting yourself into a false position," cried

Lilly in reawakened alarm. She already heard blows and pistol shots. "I

myself will speak to Mr. Dehnicke. I will free myself, I promise you.

But you, if _you_ go to him, what will he think of me? At best you will

merely succeed in compromising me."

He drew himself up to his full height. His eyes flashed victoriously.

"If a man loves you and wants you to be his wife, why should that

compromise you?"

* * * * *

It was hot and murky when these words were spoken. The canary ran about

on the sand of his cage chirping wearily, his wings drooping; the gold

fish hung motionless behind their glass walls, and the naked monkey

whined in its sleep.

The slimy canal water reflected bluish black clouds; a storm hovered in

the atmosphere, and this was the thunder-clap.

Lilly's first sensation was one of surprise--not joyous surprise, indeed

not. Then came an unspeakably mournful cry, which no mortal ear heard,

though all the more painful in its muteness.

"Too late--a lost chance--nothing to hope for--no more happiness on

earth--too late!"

She leaned back on the sofa and studied the ceiling attentively and

thoroughly.

He was awaiting his answer.

If she lowered her eyes, she would have to encounter his eyes, which ate

into her soul. No salvation from those eyes, no salvation from that

which must perforce come.

And he was waiting.

Then she heard her own voice, very clear and very calm, as if Mrs. Jula

were speaking in her place, that little artist of life with the iron

brow.

"I thought, Konni, you and I had agreed never to marry."

"How can you remind me of it?" he cried violently. "Did I know how

things would turn out when I said it? Did I know who you are and what

bliss and torture a goddess of a woman like you can bestow on a poor

devil? Yes, torture. I must tell you everything to-day. I'm at my wit's

end. There's a break in my life. Everything is torn asunder--my work, my

thoughts, my belief in you. You want to be my good genius. Instead

you're almost my evil genius. Don't be frightened. It's not your fault.

I am not reproaching you--only myself, for being so weak. I want to

work. I must work. I have assumed a number of _new_ duties. I thought if

duty came from the outside, I could force myself into the right path.

The very reverse has happened. I'm growing stupid just from wrestling

with myself. I must bring peace into our lives, else we're both lost.

And I can't have peace unless you belong to me _altogether_, unless your

bed is next to my bed, and the desk is in the next room, and you're

always with me."

"I can move to you in the autumn," Lilly interjected timidly.

"No, nothing of that sort any more. No self-reproaches, no

secretiveness. Should I have it on my conscience that each additional

day on which you sacrifice yourself, you're drawing nearer to ruin? And

it's bound to ruin you. It will cling to you like dirt. And why should

we create dirt out of what is most sacred to us? Or am I not good enough

to be your life-companion? Do you think you will be too poor as my

wife?"

She repudiated the idea with a lively exclamation of scorn.

"I don't know, and I don't need to know, how much you have. I am rich

enough now. I get three hundred marks a month from my uncle; Dr. Salmoni

pays me four hundred--"

Oh, how she started at the name!

"And I can easily earn another three hundred by writing articles--in all

a thousand a month, a general's salary. You may be satisfied."

"Keep quiet," she cried, almost beside herself. "It isn't that."

"Then what is it?"

He planted himself in front of her challengingly. Between his brows were

those folds of wrath which cut her like a knife. She ducked her head.

Never since the colonel's time had she experienced such fear of a human

being.

"Tell me what it is. Apparently you don't love me enough. You still

cling to the man who forgot you long ago. You probably say to yourself:

'The stupid boy is good enough for a passing love; he's good enough for

whiling the time away. But if he shows any intentions of interfering

with my life, I must get rid of him with all possible speed.' Am I not

right? Tell me. Be brave! What harm can I do you? Just tell me that I'm

nothing but a _pis aller_, the sort of man you wouldn't want as a

husband. When I've made a name for myself, then you will be willing to

consider marriage, too. Am I not right?--Well, then."

He picked up his hat to go.

"Have pity on me, Konni," she implored. She had glided down from her

seat to lay her head on his knees, and now she crouched between the sofa

and Konrad's chair, and groped for support.

"I don't need _your_ pity, you don't need _mine_," he cried. "Until

to-day you've been the noblest thing on earth to me. But I won't suffer

myself just to be expunged from your life. Tell me why you don't want to

marry me--_one_ plausible reason, and I'll never return to the subject

again. I promise you."

"Give me until to-morrow," she groaned.

"Why? For what? To-day is as good as to-morrow. I've come to the end of

my tether. I can't spend another night of torture."

"I will write to you."

That surprised him.

"What will you write?"

"Whether I may or not. And the reasons and everything."

"During the night I'll manage to find some way out," she thought.

"When will I get the letter?"

"To-morrow morning by the first delivery."

"Very well. I will wait until then. Good-by, Lilly."

When he helped her back on the sofa, and held his hand out in farewell,

and she saw his eyes fastened on her with their candid, magnanimous

expression, which a lie had never clouded--unsuspicious still--she was

suddenly convinced that evasion was no longer possible.

"Truth! Nothing but the truth. Even if it lead to perdition, Konrad must

now be told the truth." The thought flooded her soul like a warm,

soothing stream.

But she could not tell him the truth face to face. Nobody would have the

strength of will for that.

The reaction did not set in until she was left alone. The impulse for

self-preservation asserted itself. If Mrs. Jula could do it, she could,

too. Mrs. Jula had much worse things to conceal.

Richard, of course, would say nothing; which was the main consideration.

Now that he wished to go his own way, it was to his interest for her to

vanish decorously from his life. The rest of the "crew" might tattle to

their heart's content. Konrad was immune against their poison. The only

dangerous person was Dr. Salmoni. But if she went to him soon and begged

him, he, too, would maintain silence. He had sufficiently strong motives

for hushing his disgraceful attempt upon her. Besides, Mrs. Jula had

said: "You must wear a smile on your brow but beneath the smile your

brow must be of iron."

Thus Lilly revolved the situation in her mind.

But in the midst of her brooding and planning she was seized with

disgust of herself and her intentions, which tore the whole tissue of

deceit into ragged bits.

Why, it was sheer folly to think she would always be able to play the

false part. If upon the mere mention of Dr. Salmoni's name she dreaded

appearing on the street with Konrad, how could she go through a lifetime

at his side haunted by that ever-present fear? What repulses and

humiliations she would have to undergo whenever Konrad led her into the

society in which as his wife she would belong--she, whom the papers had

taken up and treated as a rising star in the fashionable demi-monde?

And, worst of all, if Konrad should begin to suspect! How he would eat

his heart away in shame and abhorrence, he, with his pride and delicate

susceptibilities and that unworldly purity which alone accounted for the

fact that no surmise as to her real life had ever touched his soul.

What an awaking from a short, torturing dream!

No, she could not do what Mrs. Jula had done.

And she threw far from her the shameful thought with which the stress of

the hour had stained her wrestling soul.

An exultant craving for self-annihilation came over her, the desire to

tear her breast open and throw her throbbing heart at his feet.

So she sat down and wrote:

"My dear, sweet Konni:--

I have shamefully deceived you. I am a prostitute, or something

not much better. The man to whom I told you I was betrothed is

a myth. He was a little good-for-nothing lieutenant. I wickedly

broke my marriage vows for his sake, and he never thought of

marrying me, but turned me over to his rich friend, who made me

his mistress. His mistress I still am. I have been living for

years in the world of vice and vulgarity. I am an outlaw from

decent society. Hired mistresses and their lovers who pay them

form my sole associates. I clung to you, because you in your

innocence respected me, and because I, down in the mire,

clamoured for respect.

Now you know why I may not be your wife. If you desire my

kisses, come. I am not fit for anything else.

Lilly."

It was nearly eleven o'clock. Adele had gone to bed. It occurred to

Lilly that she would have to go down to mail the letter herself.

But the storm that had been impending the whole afternoon, was just then

giving full vent to its fury. The rain was coming down in sheets, and

gusts of wind blew through the open window across Lilly's desk.

Once a shower of drops spattered the paper, at which she was staring

with hot, dry eyes. It looked as if tears had fallen upon it while she

was writing.

"Very good," she thought.

Then she felt ashamed. The time for farce was ended. But when she

started to rewrite the letter, she stopped short with a shudder.

What did those monstrous self-accusations signify? Were they the truth?

Perhaps so in the mouth of a backbiting woman who needs facts about her

friend in order to twist them into a crime, or in the mouth of one of

those social hangmen who hold a halter in readiness for everybody's

past.

For herself, who knew how everything had come about, how from inner need

and outer compulsion, from trustfulness and defencelessness, link after

link of the chain had been forged which now clanked about her body, a

burden of sin--for her there was another, a milder truth, which must win

pardon and atonement for her in the eyes of every person who understood.

She tore up the sheet, and began anew. She draughted a sketch, and

polished it until it thoroughly satisfied her.

"My dearly beloved friend:--

She who writes this letter to you is a most unhappy woman, whom

you know only slightly, and who had to deceive you until

to-day, because what is most sacred to her, her love of you,

was at stake.

And now, with these lines, I am losing that love. I am

sacrificing it to your happiness, to the divine fire which

sanctified my life.

The world has treated me badly. It robbed me of my belief in

man, my ideals, my will power; and so deprived me of the right

to go through life at your side.

I began my course full of confidence and hope, pure to the core

of my being. Each man who stepped into my existence broke off a

piece of my virtue.

I raised my eyes in devotion to my aging husband, who promised

to be my hero, master, model, and idol. He converted me into a

tool of base desires.

Another man came, who was young like myself and had been left

without ties like myself, and whom I wished to save while I

sought refuge with him. He took me and tasted me. I was a

fascinating adventure to him, and in the course of his

adventure he went to perdition.

He wrote a treacherous letter to a friend placing me in his

care. That friend exploited my spiritual and physical needs for

his own advantage, and by a shameful trick made me so dependent

upon him that for a long time I lived as his creature while

thinking myself free and untouched. Helpless and broken as I

was I became his entirely, nor ventured even to feel angry at

him, I was so slavishly in his power--until now.

So my destiny was fulfilled. I tried desperately to struggle

out of the dull night in which my spirit was enveloped, but

nowhere was there a path leading up to the light. With ardour I

seized each hand held out to help me, but each thrust me still

lower, until my whole being sank into a torpid state of

discouragement.

Then you came, my beloved, my saviour, my redeemer! It grew

light about me, the world blossomed forth again, the drained

sources began to flow afresh, the Song of Songs resounded.

And with pride and rapture I realised that nothing shameful had

taken firm root in my character, that the times of ignominy had

passed over my head without destroying my inner worth, my

desire for purity, my instinct for a great, noble humanity.

These had been merely dormant, and you, beloved, awakened them

to activity.

Even if I may not be your wife--your wife should be free of

stain--I want to be worthy of you, whether by your side or at a

distance--wherever you tell me to go.

Long ago I decided to shake off my chains, which, in fact, have

been merely external, and with unencumbered limbs climb up to a

new life in harmony with the demands of my genuine self. You

have pointed the way, and in gratitude I kiss your dear,

tender, industrious hands.

Farewell, beloved! If you would chastise me, never come again.

If you will and can put up with the love of one who loves you

as no other woman on earth will love you, then do not turn me

adrift. I have nothing to give you but what I am, though that

belongs to you unto death.

Lilly."

She read and reread the letter, and read herself into a state of

enthusiasm over it.

Now the truth wore quite a different aspect.

Then suddenly the question arose in her mind:

"_Is_ it the truth?"

Had she not luxuriated in choice words? Had she not smuggled in

high-flown emotions foreign to her nature? Phrases like "dull night in

which my spirit was enveloped" and "tried desperately to struggle"

belonged in sentimental novels. They were inapplicable to her life. She

had suffered not so much from despair as from boredom and during that

"dull night" she had enjoyed herself greatly on many an occasion.

Richard, the good fellow to judge by her insinuations, was a rank

despot, and she herself a sorry, subjugated victim, whereas in reality

she had been able to do or leave undone whatever her caprice dictated.

It _was_ the truth, and yet it was not. Just as much and as little as in

the first, dreadful letter. Each was correct enough in its way, and many

another might have been written equally correct; but the truth, the

genuine truth, which penetrated and illumined the whole, would appear in

none. That truth she herself did not know, nor did anybody else. That

truth vanished with the moment in which an event occurred, and no

earthly power could summon it back. All that her words reflected were

distorted images varying as her mood varied and as her pen travelled

over the paper.

"But I don't want to lie," she cried to herself. "I want to be true

to-day."

So she tore up the second letter also.

What now? Should she write a third letter?

It was long past midnight. Her eyes burned. Her temples throbbed with

over-excitement, and Konrad was to hear from her by the first mail in

the morning. She had promised him.

At this point the full force of what had happened suddenly struck her.

She realised that in the last four hours she had been face to face with

the danger of losing him at once and forever.

She was beset with an anguish of fear that threatened to rob her of her

senses. She cried his name aloud, ran about the apartment, reeled,

knocked against the walls, and wanted to throw herself from the window.

She must go to him forthwith. That was the one idea she was capable of

grasping. She would have the porter open the front door; she would wake

Konrad up, force her way into his room and stay with him that night and

forever. No matter what the consequences! It was all the same. Only to

rid herself of that dread which burned her body like a living flame.

The storm had subsided, but the rain was falling in a steady downpour.

Lilly scarcely took the time to put on a cloak.

In low shoes, without hat or umbrella, she dashed out on the street and

splashed through the puddles.

Light was shining from the two third-storey windows.

She clapped her hands and cried:

"Konni, Konni, Konni!"

Again and again.

But the windows were closed. He did not hear her.

She saw his figure glide back and forth like a shadow, from one end of

the room to the other, to and fro, to and fro, ceaselessly.

And all the time the rain beat down on her, soaking through her clothes,

while the cold wet of the pavement crawled up her legs.

"Konni, Konni," she called louder.

Passersby offered her their umbrellas; others taunted her, and cried,

"Konni, Konni."

At last the shadow halted. One of the windows went up.

"Lilly--you?" his voice called, hoarse with fright.

"At last--do come, my sweet Konni," a tipsy man, who had persistently

held his umbrella over her, answered in her place.

"For God's sake!"

The light disappeared from the windows, and a few moments later Konrad

appeared in the doorway with the front-door key and his lamp in his

hand.

The tipsy gentleman said good-by, bowing and scraping.

"Lilly--what has happened? What are you doing here?"

She pressed against the doorpost trembling. She was unable to speak.

"I am with him," was her one thought. "So all's well."

He passed his hand over her clothes.

"Why, you're dripping wet. You're in house slippers. For God's sake,

Lilly!"

She wanted to say something, but was ashamed to let him see how her

teeth were chattering.

"And I can't even take you to my room. You know why. But I must. If I

were to let you go back home again in the state you're in, you might

catch your death of cold. We will be very careful--just as we were that

time. We can't speak above a whisper. The girl's not out of danger yet.

Give me your hand. Come on."

With half-closed eyes she let herself be led up the stairs. Her wet

dress flapped against the balusters. She felt she would have to crouch

down on one of the steps and lie there until the porter came to sweep

the dust and dirt away. But each step only took her nearer to the fate

awaiting her up there in the third storey.

Then with bent head she crept along the corridor into his room, where

the imprisoned sultriness of the summer day suffocated her.

Konrad pressed her into his desk chair. He drew off the soggy velvet

rags from her feet, and brought her dry stockings; and after peeling her

wet dress from her body he wrapped her in his great coat and blankets.

She sat there accepting his service without a will of her own. She

wanted to taste the delicious sensation of his loving care of her until

the last moment.

She had not said a word.

When she had attempted to thank him, he pointed to the door leading to

the next room.

"Speak very low," he said, his mouth close to her ear. "The poor thing,

it seems, is having a good night for the first time."

Languid pity awoke in Lilly.

But she had to talk.

"What's the matter with her? Tell me," she breathed.

He hesitated.

"My landlady swore me to silence. But you're mine now. You will keep the

secret. Her daughter, her one child, ran away four months ago and gave

birth to a baby. The mother went to fetch her back home. She's been

hovering between life and death for six weeks. She's at last getting

better."

"Poor thing," said Lilly. And then the consciousness of her own misery

came upon her with redoubled force.

"Konni, Konni," she moaned on his neck. "Now it's all over. I was

willing to starve with you, go begging with you. But what's the use?

When once you know everything--"

"That can't be so very bad, darling."

"About me. About my life--my past."

With a little jerk he freed himself and sat down opposite her.

The look of questioning and terrified presentiment that congealed his

pale face, seeming to turn it into a mask, filled her with fright, such

fright as she had never experienced, because it was not on her own

behalf; she was afraid of converting her own pain into his pain.

"I wanted to write it to you--just the way it was, but I couldn't. It

turned out wrong while I wrote. So I came to you before morning. If you

want, I will tell you now--everything--"

She could not continue. She turned her face aside and buried it on the

desk.

"Why don't you speak?"

Konrad had quite forgotten the need for quiet, and both of them shrank

at the sudden sound of his voice. "She's probably asleep," he said

lowering his voice again. "Now tell me! What can it be?"

He breathed heavily under the growing oppression of his soul.

She began to speak. In a whisper, her upper body inclined toward him,

she tried to tell him the things for which she had not been able to find

words in her own home.

The truth did not come out this time either. She felt it.

Less, much less of it, than her letters would have given him. To

distress him with every detail--never! No power in the world could have

driven her to that.

Her life became a long list of martyrdoms--a funeral procession draped

in black--insults, humiliations, mortifications--an imprisonment without

a ray of light or mercy--and all the time a constant struggle for

deliverance--a noble withdrawal into herself--a dismal sacrifice for

nothing.

She talked and talked.

He listened, with wide-open eyes. But when she uttered the name she had

no right to omit, "Dr. Salmoni," he started and shrank back.

Both of them had completely forgotten the sick girl in the next room.

Sometimes Lilly had to wipe tears away, sometimes she grew indignant;

now she ventured to glide by difficult points, now she lingered over

touching self-reproaches.

"It _is_ the truth after all," she said to herself defiantly, yet in

fear, as she drew near the end of her narrative.

It was the truth in so far as it was a resume of the good in her, the

truth as it might take shape in his troubled mind, regardless of

fact--and this truth, too, had its rights.

Silence ensued.

Her guilty look glided past him and rested on the photograph on the

desk, which leered at her with its crafty, worldly eyes, as if to say:

"My child, I know you much better than you do yourself."

Something familiar and confidential lay in them, like a reflection of

the merry world which a moment ago had seemed to her the abode of

torture.

She did not venture to remove her gaze from those omniscient eyes, which

smilingly examined and disrobed her, and killed her last shy hope.

The unbroken silence in the room became a burden.

Suddenly Konrad and Lilly heard a low moan. It came from the next room,

where the sick girl lay, who, because of her secret sin, had been

wrestling with her poor life for weeks. The next instant the sound was

partially stifled, as if she had stuck a handkerchief into her mouth.

Then it broke out again all the more violently. Anxious words of comfort

mingled with the groans. They came from the mother, who probably slept

in the farther room, and had come in to find out the cause of her

daughter's outburst of grief.

Konrad's and Lilly's eyes met.

"She heard everything," their look said.

For a brief instant the stranger's unhappiness caused them to forget

their own. The great flood of the world's suffering poured over them

easing the sting of guilt and drowning their personal pain.

The sobbing in the next room was muffled under pillows.

"My own darling," the comforting voice implored, and each tone swelled

with love. "Don't worry. It isn't so bad. We will take the little baby.

Even if he doesn't marry you, what difference does it make? Think of it,

we have the baby! And then it will smile at you and say mama. You see,

it isn't so dreadful."

The sobbing quieted down, and turned into a heavy breathing, the first

earnest of peace.

"Oh," thought Lilly, "it must be good to have someone say: 'It's not so

dreadful.'"

Nobody would say that to her.

A burning desire to be petted and comforted, like the young sinner next

door, arose in her.

"She has her mother," she groaned, bursting into tears, "but whom have

I?"

Konrad leaned over and took her hands from her face. His troubled eyes

shone with such infinite loving kindness that they seemed not to be of

this world.

"Am I not here?" he asked.

"What can you do for me?" she complained. "How can you bear me?"

There were no sounds from the other room any more.

Now the mother also knew that Konrad had a visitor at that late hour.

"Listen," he whispered, his mouth close to her ear again. "We mustn't

talk much more. Besides, my head's in a whirl. But there's one thing I

see clearly: how ridiculous everything called guilt is when two people

love each other, and when one has suffered like you. You have always

been a saint to me, and you shall--continue to be in the future."

"Future," Lilly faltered, starting up anxiously, "what sort of a

future?"

He wiped his forehead, yellow and dank with sweat.

"I don't know," he said. "All I know is I can't live without you."

She closed her eyes. She wanted to dream longer.

"To be sure, it cannot be what we wanted." She noticed the hesitating,

dragging gait of his speech. "Everything, of course--will have to be

different."

"Your life must not be different--it ought not to be different."

"You can't blink facts, darling. Of course, I don't know _where_ we will

live. But we'll manage to find some spot on the globe where nobody knows

us."

Now she understood.

And forgetting herself and the sick girl and everything around she sank

down at his feet with a cry and sobbed:

"I don't want you to--you mustn't. You're entirely too young. You don't

know the world. You don't know what you're doing. I don't want the

sacrifice. I don't want to ruin you. I love you too much for that."

He bent her head back and stroked her hair from her forehead.

If only his eyes had not shone with that suffering loving kindness.

The unhappiness of a lifetime already glowed in them.

"If the question of sacrifice enters," he said, "then _I_ must ask a

sacrifice of _you_. Will you make it for my sake?"

"Everything, everything! Shall I die? Tell me."

"I want only one thing of you. Come to me as you are. Don't bring a

single possession of yours with you. Never return, not once, to your--to

that apartment. From this moment on nothing of all that is to be. Will

you promise me?"

Lilly battled against violent alarm.

Not to return home! Never to see her dear drawing-room again; never to

feed the little canary or Peter--never!

An ugly feeling, that such a sacrifice was rank folly, came and went

again, as if a daub of dirt had been flung upon her, and immediately

been wiped away. Then she decided hastily, and replied:

"Yes, I promise."

He drew a deep breath.

"Now we will be perfectly quiet," he said. "The patient ought to sleep,

and to-morrow morning I'll explain the matter to my landlady."

"But what is to become of your great work?" Lilly asked, self-reproach

rising up in her again.

A melancholy smile passed over his face.

"Who knows? That will depend upon my uncle. If he gives his consent, we

can live as we please. Everything will be all right."

"But if he doesn't?"

Konrad's right hand, which had been gliding ceaselessly from her

forehead to the nape of her neck, for an instant pressed her head

painfully as if to fetch strength for the approaching life struggle from

closer contact.

"That will be all right, too," he said and smiled again.

A little while later she lay at his side in the narrow bed, the edge of

which cut her body. She put her head under his shoulder, and with both

arms clasped his body, as always in her distress when she sought

protection with him.

But this time she slept, and he kept watch.

CHAPTER XIX

Mrs. Laue was not a little astonished when one day her former tenant,

the _grande dame_, appeared at her door in an ill-fitting alpaca suit

and a sailor hat, trimmed with a green band, begging for admittance.

The young lady tenant of the year had just been married, and the best

room was vacant.

Thus, it came about that Mrs. Laue's red plush furniture once more cast

a fiery glow upon Lilly's life.

The photographs of famous mimes smirked upon her patronisingly. And

while performing her morning toilet, she was admonished:

To keep your body clean, be sure

To have your conscience just as pure.

The way Konrad looked out for her was touching. He instantly drew all

his money from the bank, five hundred marks, and himself went to buy an

outfit for her, since she could not appear on the street in the garments

she had worn when she had come to him.

He had let the salesladies persuade him into buying the absurdest

things. Lilly would have split her sides laughing over them, if they had

not represented a goodly portion of his money.

The shoddy dress struck her as a temporary masquerade; and nothing in

the world would have induced her to wear it outside the house.

Mrs. Laue shook her head dubiously.

"When you moved away from here four years ago, you had the finest gowns

and brooches and bracelets and all sorts of things; and now you come

back in rags. It seems to me you're on the wrong road, Lilly dear."

Konrad found as little favour in Mrs. Laue's eyes.

"He's too young for you, and not stylish enough. Maybe he has ideal

sentiments--if he hadn't he would snap his fingers at you. But I tell

you, ideal sentiments always go hand in hand with trouble."

Lilly thought the old woman's chatter abominable. But for lack of

something better to do during the daytime--Konrad was busy and could not

come until evening--she again took to pasting flowers in Mrs. Laue's

company. Occasionally it seemed to her she had never gone away from her.

Lilly had written to Adele the very first day, without, of course,

mentioning her address. She told her not to be troubled by her absence,

and to attend to the apartment as usual until Mr. Dehnicke's return.

It was more difficult to pen her farewell to her old friend. She said

nothing of Konrad. For the present her engagement was to be kept a

secret. She gave as the sole cause for her flight her irresistible

desire at last to live a different life. She also referred to her wish

not to stand in the way of his future, and wound up with cordial words,

which robbed separation of its bitterness.

When she read the letter over, she felt a genuine pang, at which she was

a bit ashamed.

The days passed.

The new life that had been the dream of her dreams for years had begun,

freighted with boundless confidence, such as she had not ventured to

hope for in her wildest fancyings.

With her sins washed away, redeemed, reborn, she stepped back into

virtuous society at the side of the beloved man, whom only a few days

before, it would have been arrogance, sacrilege to wish to possess.

Who would have believed it?

And yet Lilly was unable to attain to perfect enjoyment of her

unspeakable happiness.

No matter how often she told herself it was nothing but a transition

period, soon to pass, the misery of her old quarters, the poor-peoples'

odour, the spiritual mustiness that pervaded the place, bad food, the

lack of suitable clothes, money and service, all this worked upon her

sufficiently to delude her into the belief that instead of rising to new

honours, she was suddenly sinking from splendour and brilliance to a

dull, dead level.

No matter that she found fault with herself for this ungrateful frame of

mind, the fact was, the feeling was there, and she could not dismiss it.

And how account for it that five years before when she had descended

from the genuine heights of life, delicately nurtured, a spoiled

darling, accustomed to luxury and attention, such as is granted to few

persons in the world, she had scarcely suffered from the wretchedness of

these surroundings? In fact, though utterly without prospects, she had

felt tolerably secure. But now that the idle comfort of a vapid

existence fortunately lay behind her, and her beloved walked by her side

ready to throw open the gates to a happiness she had never divined, she

was unable to breathe among the red plush chairs. Trifles annoyed her,

and she hankered for a bathroom and a hairdresser.

Something must have departed from her during those years. She thought

and thought, but failed to discover what it was.

Added to all these troubles was her worry over Konrad's condition.

Whenever her soul conjured up his image, her heart throbbed with mingled

sensations--secret pangs of conscience, longings for atonement,

reproaches, not to be stilled, of herself and--why conceal it?--of

Konrad also.

Her yearning for him no longer had a quality of joyousness; and yet, she

was ever expectant of a letter from him by the pneumatic tube.

If he wrote, he said too little; and if he sent no message at all she

felt angry, though she well knew he had not a second to spare for her

during the day, and was drudging as never before in his life.

He would come at last between eight and nine in the evening; and then

loaded with papers and books. He had manuscripts to read, proofs to look

over, and letters to answer. He scarcely took time to eat, and while he

snatched a few bites, troubled recollections of things he had forgotten

during the day kept flashing up in his harassed brain.

There was no thought of amorous nights. As a rule Konrad fell asleep in

the midst of work.

As he reclined there in the corner of the sofa, Lilly could appreciate

how tired and worn he was. He no longer cared for his person. His

clothes hung on him impressed, and in place of the velvety sheen on his

cheeks, which had been her delight, she saw dark boils and coarse

stubble.

She would have given a great deal to learn what he thought of her in the

depths of his soul. But she could extract nothing from him. He remained

mute, with glowing eyes, and lips tightly compressed.

Certainly she had no right to doubt him. She knew that he spent every

spare minute trying to arrange for their life in the future.

In Buenos Ayres the position of a high school teacher of German was

vacant; the same in Caracas; and he could even become a university

professor, though of course on the other side of the Atlantic. All he

needed to do was present a few letters of recommendation from well-known

professors.

Such efforts, however, were necessary only in case his uncle refused his

consent to Konrad's marriage with Lilly, and dropped his disobedient

heir.

If he said yes, if he furnished the means for their household, they

could live aloof from the world wherever they wished, wherever

conditions were best adapted for the precious work.

Konrad had immediately written to his uncle about his engagement, and

told of Lilly's past in the most touching words. He had not concealed

the stains on her life, but he brought out strongly her fine qualities,

the virginity of her soul, her nobility, her rich intellectual

endowments, the number of her ideal interests.

After he had sent off the letter, he read to Lilly a few passages from

the draught of it. It was a bold document of revolutionary ideas.

"I know that _I_ and you, too, are raised above the narrow conventions

of philistinism, above the merciless judgments of social court-martials,

above a Pharisaism which constitutes itself the watchdog of morality,

and which with its code of formal, pedantic family relationships knocks

to the ground all aspirations for free, high-minded conduct. You have

lived in many parts of the world, and you have learned to know how

mutable moral laws are everywhere, how hollow the pretence of regarding

each as the sole God-ordained dogma, you know the sly, hypocritical

paths and by-ways by which one manages to escape their tyranny, and you

know that in the province of ethics there is only one thing which

commands respect and admiration: the will to _kallokagathia_, to that

form of life in which the noblemen of all times combined the beautiful

with the good. Yes, beautiful and good. That is what Lilly is, her

aspirations, and sufferings."

How glorious!

Who could be dull enough to resist such words?

That is what Lilly said to comfort Konrad when uncertainty as to the

immediate future weighed upon him heavily.

Five days passed before the answer came upon which depended the weal or

woe of two human beings.

In reading it, Lilly saw the crafty eyes of the photograph turned upon

her as if the old man stood there in person.

"My dear boy:--

I don't understand anything about _kallokagathia_ or similar

phrases. It's nearly half a century ago, since I ran away from

school. But I flatter myself that I can measure things pretty

accurately with my eyes, and size people up by their faces,

whether striking a bargain or on the Yoshiwara, whether on the

various exchanges or at baccarat. Which did not keep me from

being fleeced, or my life from being a series of stupidities,

especially in regard to women. Once I wanted, whether or no, to

bring along a young Circassian, because her eyebrows met

prettily; and once I wanted to marry a little Musme because she

massaged my legs so well, etc. I won't say anything of my

various attempts to save souls, because everybody goes through

that.

However, the god of old rogues and bachelors--perhaps with your

classical knowledge you can tell me his name--mercifully kept

any of my plans from maturing.

But your case seems to be essentially different. If it's really

as you say, if your betrothed is really such a paragon of

virtues--the world is full of surprises--and, chief of all, if

she does not pose as a repentant Magdalene and bank upon your

pity, it will be a pleasure to me to tweak Mr. Respectability's

nose and give you my cordial blessing.

But if your intentions bear a certain family resemblance to my

own in the past, then pardon me if I refuse to shoulder the

responsibility for what you are pleased to call your "future,"

even with this in view, and if I feel compelled to beg you

kindly to break off your connections with me.

In order to settle the matter to the best of my ability, I will

be in Berlin day after to-morrow; and I herewith ask you and

your betrothed to keep the evening free for your old uncle. As

I do not know where you metropolitans dine and drink, I will

have to let you know the place of our meeting after I reach

Berlin.

Until then,

Yours faithfully,

Uncle Rennschmidt."

For the first time in that gloomy period Lilly saw Konrad's face relax

with a smile of relief.

"If that's his attitude, then there's no danger," he said. "He will have

to drop his distrust at the very first glance. Who in the world can

withstand you? You just have to be a little pleasant to him, and he'll

be your adorer."

But Lilly had her private opinion.

Yes, if she had her former wardrobe to choose from, perhaps she might

be sure of presenting the appearance she should to his uncle. But in

either one of her two ridiculous shop-girl dresses, which she had to pin

painstakingly before she could wear them, without jewellery, or the

thousand little appurtenances of a fine toilet, from where, in such

circumstances, was she to summon the self-confidence that would force

the shrewd old woman connoisseur to capitulate?

"I'm afraid I'll have to have some of your money for getting an evening

costume," she said hesitatingly.

He acquiesced with pleasure. She was to have whatever she still needed,

and a hat with plumes and a lace mantilla, just like the one she had

had.

All this for two hundred and sixty marks.

This, the entire sum he had left, was what he handed over to her for her

new purchases.

The dear boy, what sort of an idea did he have of fashionable dressing?

After he left she carefully considered ways and means.

While she wore herself out devising methods of patching up some sort of

costume, the most glorious dresses hung by the dozens in her old

closets, dresses which Konrad had not seen, because he had never gone to

any festive gathering with her. The lace mantilla which had cost a small

fortune was also there, and goodness knows what else!

But with all her might she cast the temptation from her. She had given

him her word of honour.

She might deceive everybody else in the world, but not Konrad.

So she decided to go on a shopping expedition the next morning and see

whether she could not ferret out a good garment at Gerson's or

Wertheim's in the reduced stock.

But she was known in the shops, and the salespeople had had the

experience that despite her economy she always bought nothing but the

very best. How they would stare if she appeared at the counter in her

tawdry trash.

No, with the best intentions she could not place herself in so

distressing a situation.

She pondered a long time, but her thoughts kept returning to those

wardrobes where her exquisite treasures reposed, and silently offered a

wide choice.

But nowhere a little back door to slip through; nowhere a pretext for

lessening the gravity of the offence.

Despite all these vexations, the night passed in caressing dreams,

lighted by newly arisen hope.

And as always when Lilly's frame of mind in sleep was healthy, she felt

she was being peacefully rocked to the rhythm of familiar melodies. She

recognised the "Moonlight Sonata," and Grieg's "Ung Birken," and the

motifs of the Rhine Daughters, and mingling with them all the Song of

Songs.

As she was coming out of her sleep in the morning, she still heard:

"Come, my beloved, let us go forth into the field."

Suddenly with an exclamation of fright she sat up in bed.

The Song of Songs--the score--her treasure--her legacy--where was it? In

the drawing-room secretaire--buried, forgotten.

Not to have thought of it once!

Now there was no possibility of abiding by her promise. If she had kept

her wits about her that momentous night, she would never have given it.

She had been at a loss for a pretext, and here she had a justification.

She did not experience the slightest pangs of conscience. It was a

sacred cause that she was upholding.

By eight o'clock she was already on her way to her former home.

The sunny haze of the red August morning floated up to the

violet-coloured heavens; sooty drops fell from the yellowing trees, and

the wires of the electric trams sang their stormy song.

Lilly joined the group of people at the nearest stopping place, which

from minute to minute waxed and dwindled. While waiting for a car to

convey her to the distant west side, she looked about in all directions

to see whether by chance Konrad was coming down the street.

In the car she sat with a newspaper held close to her face, and on the

short path along the canal she slipped from tree to tree like a wild

animal seeking cover.

At last she reached her house.

The porter, who was sweeping the front, greeted her with a shout of

surprise. The green-grocer smiled a mischievous greeting up to her from

his cellar door, and his two urchins, in whose mind Lilly was connected

with sweets, hung to her skirt with happy little noises.

All this instantly produced a sensation of returning home.

Adele was still asleep. Why should she not be? She had nothing to do.

When she opened the door, she showed the greatest delight. She even wept

great tears, and Lilly suddenly realised what she was losing in her.

Everything shone spick and span in the morning sunlight. Even the

flowers had been kept watered.

The canary beat his wings by way of greeting, and Peter wanted to break

the bars of his cage to reach Lilly's shoulder.

She did not know to whom or to what to turn first from sheer love, nor

what question to ask first.

Three letters and two telegrams lay on the card tray.

The letters were in Richard's writing. The telegrams were directed to

Adele and urgently inquired for Lilly's address.

But after sending these missives, Mr. Dehnicke, Adele informed her, had

given up his affairs in Harzburg and returned to Berlin. He had inserted

advertisements for her in the papers, and came every day at the usual

hour to find out if they had met with success. Then he sat on his

customary seat, very quiet, drinking tea and smoking cigarettes until

the time for returning to his office.

"Did you tell him about Dr. Rennschmidt?"

"What do you think of me, Mrs. Czepanek? Do you suppose I don't know how

to look out for my mistress's honour? But the best thing would be if you

were to come back and behave as if nothing had happened. That's what all

my ladies used to do."

Lilly asked her to fetch from the basement the smaller of the two

leather trunks, explaining that she wished to take a few of her old

possessions with her.

After Adele had swung herself out of the room sulking, Lilly gathered up

Konrad's letters from the secret drawer in which she had hidden them,

and then ran hastily to her large wardrobe, from which she pulled out

all her dresses and threw them on the bed in order to select whatever

might be of use to her.

At last the Song of Songs occurred to her.

She opened the secretaire.

The score, which had dreamed away its aimless existence for years in

the back part of the lowest drawer, had acquired a strange aspect.

The rubber band about it was sticky, and fell to bits when Lilly wanted

to undo the roll.

The sheets glided from her hand and flew over the carpet one by one.

There they all lay--the arias and recitatives, the duos and orchestral

interludes--mingled and confused, and on top the turtle dove solo for

the clarionet, which she had sung with her mother while still a lisping

babe.

She looked at the scattered leaves in dismay.

They had turned yellow and mouldy. Many of them were plastered with

blood, her own blood, which had squirted from the knife wound her mother

had inflicted, and covered large spots with black and reddish brown

stains. Some of the stains had been eaten into holes, the work of the

mice at Lischnitz.

So there it was--her Song of Songs.

Nevermore any hope. No rock of salvation for the future--no faithful

Eckhardt in life's stress, and no guide to golden heights! A mere

weather-beaten remnant, worn, though unused, honourable ballast which

one drags along for unknown reasons--a light extinguished, a piece of

wisdom without sense.

Shrugging her shoulders, she kneeled on the floor, and gathered up the

thin rolls hastily, without regard for their order.

"I can arrange them some other time," she thought, though a faint doubt

arose within her whether she ever would.

Adele came with the trunk. It had taken her an extraordinary length of

time. She replied to Lilly's questions in a confused way, and glanced at

the clock furtively.

She opened the trunk lid, and Lilly threw the score on the bottom.

The empty open trunk was like a mouth gaping for fodder. The clothes lay

spread on the bed. Her shoes stood next to the washstand. Hats, veils,

blouses, lace mantillas, silk petticoats--all waited and seemed to cry:

"Take me along."

For an instant Lilly closed her eyes and groaned, remembering the

sacrifice, the only one, he demanded of her.

But it had to be.

Both his and her future depended on it.

"Mrs. Laue will hide them for me, and she can keep them afterwards," she

thought.

She made her decision. Blindly she gathered up whatever her hands fell

upon--in addition to her dresses the ivory toilet articles with the

seven pointed coronet, the triple hand mirror, the powder box, the

receipt for her furs in the storage house, and numberless little _objets

de luxe_.

She did not forget her jewellery either.

"In case _he_ needs some money," she thought.

She sent Adele to order a cab. This time again it was an eternity before

she returned.

The porter helped carry the trunk down, and two hat boxes dangled in

Adele's free hand.

One more caress of the canary's greyish green wings, one more kiss on

the monkey's velvety snout, then the door closed behind her forever.

"Won't you leave an address?"

What a secretive air Adele wore!

"I will write to you, Adele, and sometime, I hope, you will come to me

again."

Adele did not respond, but looked down the street expectantly.

A minute later Lilly, glancing from the hansom window as she was being

driven along the canal, saw a taxicab whizz past from the opposite

direction. In that second she recognised Richard seated inside.

Red as a lobster, his head inclined to one side, he stared ahead of him

with wild, searching eyes at the house she had just left.

She hastily told the coachman to turn down a side street. She must not

meet Richard until her fate had been decided before the world.

But in a few moments, her heart throbbing, she heard behind her the

rattle and clatter that had just died down in the distance. It grew

louder and louder.

The yellow wall of the taxicab shot by, turned about suddenly, and

stopped. A man's voice called to Lilly's driver, and her cab was also

brought to a stop.

Richard was standing close to her, holding the open door in his

trembling hand.

"Where are you going?"

His voice shrilled in a feminine falsetto. His Adam's apple rose and

fell convulsively over his high collar.

Lilly felt quite calm, quite equal to the situation.

He who had so long been her lord and master now seemed like a poor,

helpless shadow.

"If you please, Richard, let me ride on," she said. "I took leave of you

in my letter. I just came to fetch a few of my things, and now all's

over between us. Why should we go on tormenting each other?"

"Come back!" he hissed.

"Why should I?"

"Come back, I say! You know where your home is. I won't let you stray

about in the world any more. Heaven knows what may happen to you.

Driver, turn back."

The coachman turned his russet face inquiringly to the lady in the

hansom.

"I beg your pardon, Richard. I have the sole say as to this cab--and as

to my future life, too. Just as you have had over your own."

"Stuff and nonsense! I suppose you're alluding to the American heiress.

She can go to the devil for all I care. That's the way I've felt for

some time. But you--_must--come--back. You--must--come--back.

You--must--you--must_."

He grasped the hem of her skirt with both hands, as if to drag her from

the carriage by her clothes.

"I beg you to come back--I can't sleep--I can't work--I'm so used to

you. If I had married, I should have come to you directly after the

wedding. Our relationship wouldn't have changed an iota. And everything

in your apartment is just as you left it. You saw it. Adele says Peter

won't eat, and Adele herself is worried. She says she simply can't do

without you. I'll give you a life-long annuity of twenty--by God! thirty

thousand marks a year. What's the difference? Mother hasn't anything

against it. She sees how I take it. She knows I won't ever marry after

all. She'll never do anything to you again. You can come to the office,

too. You can use our carriage instead of the hired one. I'll have a

telephone put up between your apartment and the stable. And if you want

I'll buy an automobile a thousand times finer than this one."

That was the highest trump. No one could outbid an automobile. So he

stopped to see the effect. Kneeling on the steps he leaned far into the

hansom and stared into her face.

Lilly realised she could not free herself from him, unless he learned

the truth.

She felt very sorry for him, but it had to be.

"Listen, Richard! What you offer doesn't count with me anymore. Because

I love another man--who wants to give me much more than you."

"What! I'd like to know what sort of a young Vanderbilt he is!" he cried

in jealous scorn. "Why, I never knew _that_ side of your nature."

"He's not a young Vanderbilt, Richard. On the contrary, he's so poor he

doesn't know where he'll get his bread from day to day. But I am engaged

to him, and as his affianced I will have to ask you to stand out of my

way."

His mouth gaped. His eyes grew large and round. He reeled back against

the hindwheels of the taxicab.

"Go on!" Lilly cried to the coachman.

She leaned back in her seat, drawing a deep breath of relief, though

with a faint consciousness of guilt, as if she had rid herself of her

old lover too lightly.

Throughout the ride she heard back of her the chug-chug of a slow-moving

automobile; and when she descended from her hansom, Richard descended

from the taxicab, at a slight distance, though near enough for Lilly to

catch the look in his eyes.

It was the look of a whipped dog.

As if someone were pursuing her, she ran up the four flights without

concerning herself about the trunk. But a little while later the driver

came panting up the stairs with it, apparently of his own accord.

When she held out the money to him, he refused it.

The gentleman downstairs, he said, had already paid for everything.

CHAPTER XX

It was the evening of the following day.

The carriage that was taking Lilly to the dreaded meeting stopped in

front of the renowned Linden restaurant which has been the resort of

elegant folk for years.

Although it was some time since Lilly had been there, she knew every

stone of it.

She knew Albert, too, the tall, dignified porter, who stood in the

doorway, and put his hand to his braided cap. It was he who had acted as

the go-between for her and the handsome hussar of the guards.

With downcast eyes, pressing close to Konrad, she passed by him, hoping

he no longer remembered her.

"This is Lilly, uncle."

An old bow-legged gentleman, slightly under medium size in an

ill-fitting jacket and crumpled collar, came shambling out of a back

room, and held out a broad, fleshy hand, the brown skin of which played

loosely over his bones like a large glove.

Lilly threw a timid glance of scrutiny at the all-powerful person, whom

she had pictured to herself as a commanding yet complaisant thunderer.

In reality he was a tottering, rotund, somewhat common-looking gnome.

When she told herself that her conduct now and during the next hour

would decide Konrad's and her own future, the old miserable timidity,

which had not troubled her for some time past, began to paralyse her

muscles and turned her into a doll, which smiled inanely and could not

tell its own name.

But the old uncle also seemed to have lost his power of speech.

He looked her up and down repeatedly and well-nigh forgot to invite her

to enter the back room.

As with everything else about the place Lilly was familiar with this

back room, its pressed leather walls, its red silk hangings, and the

blue oriental rugs over the high-armed sofa.

In the period when Richard was still possessed of the ambition to belong

to the aristocracy of high livers, she had spent many a mad hour there

late at night with him and his chance friends.

An immaculate waiter helped her off with her brocade jacket and lace

mantilla, and looked at her the while as if to say:

"I ought to know you."

Oh, that was a moment of agony.

The uncle, who had not ceased furtively to cast awed yet sullen glances

at Lilly, pulled himself together and said:

"Well, let's have a cosy time together, children. Nice and pleasant,

eh?"

Lilly inclined her head.

Her gesture was stiff enough apparently to increase the bow-legged old

gentleman's respect. He seemed to be at a loss, and tramped about the

room, played with the gold knobs which hung as a charm from his watch

pocket, and two or three times nodded his solemn appreciation to Konrad.

They seated themselves at the gleaming white table, resplendent with

flowers and cut glass.

About the bronze lamp--Lilly remembered it with its claws and slim lily

design--hung a veil of violet orchids, which had surely cost an enormous

sum.

He knew how to live, the old untidy rogue. One had to admit that.

Lilly saw her reflection in the mirror opposite her seat. It was

reassuringly aristocratic.

She had chosen a pleated dress of black Liberty silk with a waist of

Chantilly lace, which despite its costliness lay in simple lines of

grace about her breast and arms.

Unsuspecting spirits might believe that a similar costume was to be had

everywhere from San Francisco to St. Petersburg, from Cape Town to

Christiania for two hundred marks.

She had wisely refrained from wearing any jewellery, except the thin

gold chain which she was wont to wear next to her skin. It encircled her

high collar in maidenly modesty.

She looked like a young noblewoman who has been held in strict

seclusion, and who is taking her first look into the great world with

shy, inquiring eyes.

His uncle had assigned the seat on her right side to Konrad, and kept

the place nearest the door for himself.

The instant he took his seat at table he began to feel somewhat in his

element.

He uttered hoarse ejaculations and gave orders and was dissatisfied with

everything.

"See here, boy," he said to the waiter, who was placing the

_hors-d'oeuvres_ on the table, "do you call that the right kind of a

carafe for port wine? Don't you know that if port wine doesn't sparkle

in the carafe, it takes away your thirst?"

The waiter, intimidated by his snarling, wanted to go off in search of

another carafe, but Mr. Rennschmidt declared he could not wait, he

needed a "starter."

"I'm still a little constrained," he said apologetically. "I'm not

accustomed to associating with such beautiful and ungracious ladies."

Lilly felt a prick at her heart.

She met a reproachful look from her lover, which seemed to say:

"You mustn't be so dumb. You must be agreeable to him."

In the same mute language Lilly humbly implored his forgiveness.

"I can't. You speak for me."

In his anxiety Konrad began to converse as if he had been paid for

entertaining them. He described the collection of antiques in his

uncle's castle on the Rhine, touched upon the competition of the

Americans, and, passing on to the subject of art in Italy, discussed the

harmful effects of the Lex Pacca, and goodness knows what else.

It was a highly illuminating little discourse, which his uncle seemed to

follow with moderate interest, while squinting at Lilly and smacking his

lips from time to time over a piece of canned tunny. Then Mr.

Rennschmidt said:

"All very true and edifying, my son. But couldn't you also impart some

valuable information as to the state of the whiskey in this place?"

Konrad jumped up to pull the bell rope, but his uncle restrained him.

"Stop--stop--stop. This is my affair.... Here's the port for you....

After all a beautiful woman is a beautiful woman, even if she belongs to

others. Here's to you, beautiful woman."

That sounded like mockery. Did he wish to make sport of her before

repulsing her?

"In fact," he continued, addressing Lilly, "permit me to congratulate

you. You've already worked a perceptible change in him. I see he already

dances beautifully to your tune, eh?"

Whether or no, she had to say something in reply.

"I don't play tunes, and he doesn't dance," she said, making a mighty

effort to pull herself together. "We're not free enough for that."

"Aha, there's one straight from the shoulder for me," he laughed, but

his laugh sounded resentful.

"Lilly didn't mean any harm," Konrad interjected, coming to her rescue.

"And really, we are not having an easy time of it. If Lilly hadn't

helped me every day with her sweet comprehension, I don't think my

strength would have held out."

"All very well and good--or--or, or all very deplorable. But your old

uncle hasn't gotten even a look from her--as advance payment on our

future relationship."

"Oh, if that's all," thought Lilly.

And raising her glass to touch his, she tried to thank him for his

having come around with a little coquettish shamefaced smile.

It filled him with evident satisfaction. He twisted his pointed beard

and ogled her confidentially with his leering eyes as if to extract from

her a sign of secret understanding.

"Thank goodness! Maybe he's not so dreadful after all," she thought. She

drew a breath of relief as she felt the chains of her embarrassment

loosening a bit.

When the waiter returned, a grave discussion arose between him and Mr.

Rennschmidt as to the brands of whiskey the hotel had to offer. It was a

long parley and debate, ending in a call for the hotel-keeper himself,

who went down into the cellar to hunt up a bottle he thought he must

have somewhere with the label of a certain famous house and the date of

a certain famous year.

At length Mr. Rennschmidt was ready again to bestow his attention upon

his beautiful niece to be.

"I'm a sort of barnswallow. I built my nest of mud and such stuff. I

traded in guano, train-oil, Australian blennies, pitch, and other more

or less unclean things. So you can't blame me for wishing to recuperate

by devoting myself to appetizing objects, such as you, my ungracious

lady. All I wish is a little attention in return."

"Oh dear," thought Lilly. "I'll be impertinent for once." So she said:

"Mr. Rennschmidt, you know I'm sitting here like a poor, trembling

student going up for the examinations. I beg of you"--she raised her

clasped hands--"don't play with me like a cat with a mouse."

She had struck the right note.

"Is she opening her mouth at last?" he cried beaming. "And she has a

wonderful little snout, Konrad, one of those mice snouts with long

teeth, in which the upper lip says to the lower lip, 'If you don't come

and kiss, I'll run away.' Isn't it so, Konrad, you stupid fellow, eh?"

Lilly had to laugh heartily, and the _entente cordiale_ was finally

concluded.

And for a moment Konrad's dear tired face brightened with a smile of

reassurance which expanded her heart as with a heaven-sent reward. She

loved him so dearly she could have thrown herself at his uncle's feet

for his sake. With a rising sense of triumph she thought:

"_Now_ he shall see how agreeable I can be to that old horror."

And indeed to make herself agreeable proved to be not so very excessive

a task. When she looked at the old man with his round, crumpled roguish

face, his darting, sly little grey eyes, and the fine, wavy, snow-white

diplomat's wig--it actually was a wig, sharply defined on his forehead

and brushed forward into locks over his ears--she felt more and more

strongly that he was an old acquaintance with whom she had many a time

played pranks and to whom the recollection of those pranks secretly

bound her.

Yet, surely, she had never met him before.

Despite his proletarian exterior his assured manner breathed an air of

gentlemanliness. And the way he constructed the menu was really

wonderful. The sixty-eight-year-old Steinbergerkabinett, which looked

like amber-coloured oil when he poured it into the Rhine wine glasses,

suited the blue trout as perfectly as if it were its native element. And

the next course, the sweetbread patties _a la Montgelas_, was worthy of

what had gone before. Neither Richard nor any member of the crew was so

skilled in the epicurean art as he.

If only he had not kept tossing off one glass of whiskey after the

other.

"My brain has been dulled by long money-making, like a nail hammered on

cast-iron," he said in self-justification. "I must whet it every now and

then, or else it'll get as dull as the edge of a tombstone."

When the Roman punch was served, a brief but hot discussion arose as to

the merits of certain American drinks from which Lilly, with her

knowledge of the whole range of beverages, came out with flying colours.

She even knew accurately the ingredients of Mr. Rennschmidt's favourite

mixture, the "South Sea bowl," a fiery concoction of sherry, cognac,

angostura bitters, the yolks of eggs, and Chateau d'Yquem--in case of

emergency Moselle might be used. She ventured to ask, might she not

prepare the rare mixture for him after dinner; she could do it so

expertly that he would have to admit he had not drunk anything more

delicious between Singapore and Melbourne.

Konrad, who had evidently never suspected her talents in this line,

listened to her with an astonishment which filled her with pride.

She sent him one furtive look after another, which asked:

"Are you satisfied? Am I pleasant enough to him?"

But he failed somehow to respond. He remained silent and abstracted, and

sometimes he seemed to be remote from the company.

"Dream on," she thought blissfully. "_I_ will look out for our

happiness."

The friendship between her and the old man waxed apace.

By the time the wild duck came and with it the glowing Burgundy, which

slipped down their throats like caressing flames, she had already been

calling him uncle.

And he for his part, repeatedly declared that he was "totally wrapped up

in his dear, dear little Lilly."

So this was the test, the cruel test, from which she had thought there

was no concealment, no escape, the test that would bare her, dissect

her, and turn her soul inside out.

She could scarcely contain herself when she thought of it.

Yes, yes. There sat that awful danger, whose moneybags held victory or

defeat--a little monster grown tame, who stroked her fingers with his

horrid wrinkled hands, and fawned on her for a crumb of her favour.

He was really amusing, especially when he told jokes.

What a lot of gossip from the colonies!

She had not heard so many anecdotes in a whole year.

For example there was the story of the German governor, Mr. Von So and

So--she had met him once at Uhl's. He went to his post with his suite,

consisting of his secretary, his valet, and his cook. Six months

afterwards the cook went to him and said: "Governor, it's so and so

far." He gave her two thousand marks and said: "But be sure and hold

your tongue." Then she went to the secretary and said: "Mr. Mueller, it's

so and so far." He gave her three hundred marks and said: "But be sure

and hold your tongue." Then she went to the valet and said: "John, it's

so and so far. We can get married." Three months afterward the valet

went to the governor and said: "Your Excellency, that woman did us all.

The brat's a nigger."

And many another story he told of like nature.

She had to hold her sides with laughter.

"Laugh, Konrad, darling, laugh."

He smiled, but his eyes remained serious, and his forehead tense.

When the champagne was brought they drank "fellowship."

It was horrible to kiss those thick, greedy old lips, but their future

happiness demanded it.

Konrad, too, was to get a kiss. But he refused it. Worse still, he

wanted to prohibit her drinking.

"She isn't careful enough," he muttered. "Please, uncle, don't give her

so much. We have never drunk so much."

But they both laughed at him.

"He's always been a country yokel," the old man teased, "and has never

known what's good. It's too bad for you to throw yourself away on him,

Lilly dear. You ought to take a man like me. Not a booby in corduroy.

He's a regular funeral torch."

But on this subject Lilly brooked no teasing.

"You let my little Konni alone, you old fright. You'd better tell your

old chestnuts. Come along! Forward, march!"

No, she would not permit a word against her sweet little Konni.

The uncle fell to telling his stories again.

Now they were anecdotes in pigeon-English, that lingo which the Chinese

and other interesting personages in the Far East use as a means of

communication with the white sahibs. "Tom and Paddy in the Tea House,"

"The Virtuous Miss Laura in Macao," "The Guide and the Bayadere," each

received a good box on the ear.

"But Konni ought not to hear any more of this, uncle. I don't want my

Konni to be spoiled for me."

So she put her left ear close to the old gentleman's lips, and made a

"whispering cave" with him, as was the wont of members of the "crew"

when they flirted too outrageously or misbehaved in other ways.

Anyone who had thought she was tongue-tied or unable to repay like with

like would have been sadly mistaken. The general's club jokes suffered

from no lack of juiciness, and what she had learned from the "crew" was

certainly of no mean parentage.

It was worth while to exert an extra effort for so appreciative an

audience as "uncle." But Konrad, the innocent, had to submit to having

his ears stuffed with the cotton batting upon which the calville apples

had been served.

After the coffee the old man demanded that Lilly make good her promise

and prepare the South Sea bowl. He was sure her assertion had been a

mere idle boast.

No need to taunt her a second time.

All sorts of bottles were called into requisition, besides the sherry

and the angostura, an old sweet Yquem. It was really a pity to put it

to such uses, so Mr. Rennschmidt suggested taking a glass or two on the

side.

To be sure the eggs broke at the wrong place and spilled over her gown

and the carpet. But that made no difference; it only added to the

pleasure. At any rate, the dear old uncle was paying for everything.

To compensate, the flame of the alcohol lamp leapt in the air all the

more wildly--up to the orchids--up to the sky--it would have delighted

her to drink in the tongues of fire the way witches do.

"Your luck, Konni--_our_ luck, Konni!"

"Don't drink," she heard his voice. It was harsher than usual, and

strange in its severity.

"Country yokel," she laughed, thrusting out her tongue at him.

"Don't drink," the voice admonished a second time. "You are not used to

drinking."

She not used to drinking? How dared he say such a thing? That was

questioning her honour. Yes, it was questioning her honour.

"How do you know what I'm used to?... I'm used to quite different

things. I've sat on this very seat I'm sitting in more than once--more

than ten times--and have drunk much, much more."

"Dear heart, think of what you're saying. It isn't true."

His voice once more sounded soft and gentle, as if he were reproving a

naughty child.

Such a shame. It was enough to make one cry.

"How can you say it is not true? Do you think I'm a liar? Do you think

I'm not familiar with such fashionable places as this? Pshaw! Shall I

prove it to you? Very well. I can. I believe you'll find my name on the

base of this lamp--Lilly Czepanek--Lilly Czepanek. Just look for it,

look for it!"

He started to his feet and fixed his eyes upon the mirror-like surface

defaced by a jumble of characters scratched on it.

But he could not find the L. C. for which he was looking. She had to

come to his assistance. Not here.--Not there. The letters swam before

her eyes. She had to try to catch them like the gold fish in her

aquarium.

Aha! There it was. There it was! L. v. M., with the coronet above. For

at that time she had still dared to use the prohibited name for an

occasional adornment.

"Now you see I was right, Konni. Now you will let me drink, won't you.

Here's to you, you sweet little yokel."

He was so struck by this proof that he sank back in his chair and said

not a word.

But the uncle and she continued to drink and laugh at him.

When she threw a look into the mirror, she saw as through a billowy haze

a red swollen face with rumpled hair under a hat tilted back on the head

and two deep flabby furrows running from her mouth to her chin.

This caused her some disquiet. But she had no time to heed her feeling

because that unspeakable old uncle had a new joke on the carpet.

"Do you know, Lilly dear, the Chinese way of singing the Lorelei?"

Before she had even heard a syllable she burst out into a wild laugh.

He put one of his bowed legs over the other, pretending it was

a Chinese banjo, and played a prelude on the sole of his foot:

"Tink-a-tink-a-tink." Then he began in a nasal, croaking, gurgling

voice, drawing out his l's endlessly:

O my belong too much sorry,

And can me no savy, what kind;

Have got one olo piccy story

No won't she go outside my mind.

When he came to the second verse,

Dat night belang dark and colo,

he tore his wig from his head to heighten the effect; and he now

actually looked the very image of an old, nodding "Chinee," with his

shiny pate and his bright slanting slits of eyes.

It was a fascinating, an overpowering spectacle.

Never in her life, not even on the professional stage, had she seen a

clown's performance so provocative of side-splitting laughter.

She would have died of envy had she not been Lilly Czepanek, the famous

impersonator, who when the spirit moved her, needed but to open her

mouth to evoke a storm of applause.

Her matchless repertoire had lain fallow too long. But the beautiful

Otero had not yet grown old, Tortajada still set your senses a-whirl

with her dancing, and Matchiche had just come into fashion.

Lilly merely had to shove her hat a little further back on her head and

lift her black dress--even a Saharet would have had no cause to be

ashamed of the silk petticoat she had brought in her trunk--and then off

she could go.

And off she went.

Like a whirlwind over the carpet slippery with the yolks of eggs.

"Heigh-ho--ole--ole.

"You must shout ole and clap your hands.

"Ole--e--e!"

The uncle bawled. The floor rocked to and fro in long waves. The lamps

and the mirror danced along. All hell seemed to be let loose.

"Do shout, Konni,--ole--don't be so downcast. Ole."

"Uncle, you have this on _your_ conscience!"

What did he mean by that?

Why did he burst into sobs?

Why was he standing there white as chalk?

"Ole--Ole--e--e--e."

CHAPTER XXI

It was nearly noon when Lilly woke in a glow of happiness.

The uncle won over--the last obstacle removed--the future lying before

her, a land of blossoms and golden fruits.

What a farce and a lark the dreaded examination had been! What a

jumping-jack, what a buffoon he was, that keen, penetrating man of the

world, who had probably ground women's destinies as he would munch betel

nuts.

When she tried to review the events of the evening before, and arrange

them in sequence, it came to her with a slight sense of oppression that

at the end everything had resolved itself into a fog, shot with light

and echoing with song and laughter, just as had happened yonder--in that

other life, when she had romped wildly with Richard and the "crew."

She could not puzzle out how she had mounted the steps and reached her

room.

As the fog lifted a little, she saw peering out of it a pale, set face,

with an expression of pained surprise; she heard an outcry that sounded

like a sob or a groan, and saw herself sobbing next to someone who was

kneeling, who pushed her away with his hands.

Had that happened?

Had she dreamt it?

Why, she had sung and danced so beautifully, she had disclosed her

greatest talents. Could they by any possibility have displeased him? Had

she gone too far in her self-abandonment?

Her anxiety waxed.

She jumped out of bed and dressed herself, possessed by one thought: "To

go to him!"

At twelve o'clock the door-bell rang.

It was, it must be he!

But when she hurried to the door to throw herself into his arms with a

cry of relief, she found, not him, but his uncle, who stood twirling his

hat in his horrid fingers like a petitioner, and looked up at her with

an oily, wry smile, most obnoxious to her.

"Is the examination to begin again?" The question rose in her mind. "Or

is it just going to begin?"

Her welcome died on her lips.

Without speaking she let him in. She experienced a sickish sensation of

vacancy and incorporeality, as if she might melt through the wall into

her room.

The old gentleman did not wait for her to open the door to the "best

room," but opened it himself, and walked in, as if he were an old

acquaintance.

"Where is Konrad?"

"Konrad?" With his little finger he scratched the silk band of his wig.

"Oh, thereby hangs a tale." He drew out his watch with the clinking gold

chain, and studied the dial. "It is just ten minutes after twelve. I

suppose by now he's on his way to the station. Yes, he must be."

"Is--he--going--away?" she asked, her breath beginning to fail.

"Yes, yes, he's going to take a trip. Yes, last night--hm--last night we

talked it over. So now he's going to take a little trip."

"That's absurd," she thought. "How can he go away without me?" But she

checked herself, and entering into the game, asked with apparent

nonchalance, "Where's he off to so suddenly?"

"Oh, just a little trip. Not worth talking about. A favourable opening

presented itself. There happened to be a double cabin vacant on the

steamer leaving from--thingumbob--well, never mind from where--outside

cabin, you know--on the promenade deck--the best situation, you

know--the water doesn't splash in and there's plenty of air--and air's

what you always want, especially during those four days on the Red Sea."

Then it was true. Her suspicions on awakening were being verified more

swiftly than she had thought they would be. It was only the beginning of

the test of her character and intentions.

"What do people do in the Red Sea, uncle?" she asked with her most

innocent smile.

"What do people do in the Red Sea, child? Four thousand years ago the

ancient Hebrews probably asked the same question. And everybody still

asks it when he melts into perspiration there. But that's the only way

of going to India. And I want to go back to India once again. I'm tired

of trotting about on red brick pavements. So I persuaded him to come

along for a little while--you know he's overworked; you'll admit that. I

think it's the best thing to do in such cases, you see."

Lilly felt a lump in her throat, as if all the gold knobs on his watch

chain were choking her.

"Rather a poor joke," she thought, "but goodness knows what he means by

it."

Whether she would or no, she had to keep up the game.

"Konrad ought to have been polite enough to come and say good-by," she

replied, pouting a bit, as if he were about to start off on a trip to

Dresden or Potsdam.

"Why, he wanted to, child; of course he did. But I said to him: 'You

see, my boy,' I said, 'it always means such dreadful excitement. It's

enough to give you an apoplectic stroke.' He agreed, and asked me to

arrange matters with you."

"Well then, let us arrange matters," she answered with the condescending

smile that the farce, whatever its nature, merited.

"He is probably down below in a cab waiting for a signal," she thought.

The old gentleman put his stylish Panama beside him on the floor, leaned

his short body back against Mrs. Laue's plush upholstery, and tried to

assume an expression of sympathy and grief.

The old clown!

"If it were my affair, little one," he began, "I frankly confess I've

gone crazy over you. Wrapped up, as I said yesterday. I know women from

one end of the world to the other, and it is as clear as cocoanut oil to

me: you're first rate stuff. You're fine as silk. But there are people

who take themselves seriously and have great illusions, don't you know?

People utterly without an idea that a human being is a human being,

people who think they're something extra, and want life to dish up extra

tit-bits to them. Oh, those people, I tell you, those people! That's the

way the great disappointments come about--and reproaches--and

despair--and tearing out your hair. He came near giving me a thrashing

last night."

"Whom are you talking about?" Lilly asked, growing more and more

fearful.

"As if I had led you into overshooting the mark! No, indeed. Nothing of

the sort. I don't do such things. I don't set man-traps. And I told him

so ten times over. But the misfortune is, we understood each other too

well. We both belong to the same business. We're like two old

shipmates."

"What do you mean by 'we both'? You and I?" Lilly asked with frigid

astonishment in her tone.

"Yes, you and I, my child. Don't fall overboard. You and I. To be sure,

you're a splendid beauty of twenty-five and I'm an old fool of sixty.

But you and I have gone through the same mill. What need to explain to

you at length? Have you ever searched for diamonds? I don't mean at a

jeweller's--that you probably have. Well, a diamond lies in hard rock,

in funnels, in so-called blue ground. If you come upon a blue ground

funnel, you can imagine what it's like. There you squat. I went digging

for diamonds once--with twenty men--day and night--for weeks and weeks.

The blue ground was there, oh, indeed, it was, but the diamonds had been

washed away. Do you see what I'm driving at? The fine ground is still in

both of us, but what actually makes it fine, the devil has already

extracted."

"Why are you saying all this to me?" Lilly asked. Tears were rising to

her eyes from sheer perplexity, because what he said could not possibly

have anything to do with the great test.

"I'll tell you, little girl. There are people who think there's no going

back on their word. They have to swallow whatever they once put into

their mouths. They won't spit it out even if it is a strychnine pill.

Now _I_, on the other hand, think that nobody need consciously plunge

into misfortune. Neither you nor he. And since it's best to wash the

wool directly on the sheep's body, I came to you to make a little

proposition. You see, here's a check book You're familiar with check

books, I'm sure. On the right side are printed ciphers from five hundred

up to--you can see for yourself. All the ciphers that make the amount

higher than the sum written on the check, are cut off to keep little

swindlers from cheating a man out of a hundred thousand marks with one

stroke of the pen. Now look. This check is dated and signed. All that's

missing is the sum, because I should never permit myself to offer you a

certain amount. I leave it to you to specify what you think you need for

a decent living in the future."

He tore a check from the book and laid it on the table in front of her.

"Thank heaven," thought Lilly, "all my tremours were needless."

It was a clumsy trap. Even a blind man must see that his procedure was

nothing more than a test of her disinterestedness.

So, instead of throwing the old man out of doors--which she should have

and would have done, had he proffered the check in all seriousness--she

smiled and took the check from the table, and methodically tore it into

bits, and with the middle finger of her right hand flicked one little

pile of them after the other into his face.

He jerked about uneasily in his chair.

"Permit me," he said, "permit me--"

"By no means--I will _not_ permit such vile jokes, uncle."

"But you are rejecting a fortune, child. Consider--we've torn you from

your moorings. We've thrown you, as it were, on the street. Upon us

rests the responsibility of seeing to it that you are not driven to

ruin. And if you think that by accepting the check you are lowering

yourself in Konrad's eyes, I can swear to you he doesn't know a thing

about it. And he never will, I'll swear to that also."

She merely smiled.

His little blinking eyes turned bright and staring. Suddenly there was a

cold threat in their look.

"Or--perhaps you intend to hold the boy to his promise and mean to twist

his pledge into a halter about his neck? Is that the sort you are--eh?"

"No, I'm not that sort."

Her smile flitted past him and went to meet her beloved, who must soon,

very soon, come storming up the stairs. Surely he could not endure

waiting down there in the cab so long.

"His word is in his own keeping. He never gave me a pledge. Even if he

wanted to, I should never have accepted it. And even if what you said is

true, he could go on his trip quite calmly--and return quite calmly. I

would never attempt to meet him or reach him by letter, or remind him of

what he is to me and will continue to be as long as I live. But I know

it is _not_ true. He loves me, and I love him. And take care, uncle, not

to play such low tricks with his future wife as to offer blank checks

and the like. If I were to tell him about it, you'd all of a sudden find

you're a lonely old man who can leave his money to a cat and dog

asylum."

Now he must see what a blunder he had committed. His mistake annoyed him

so that he jumped from his seat with a muttered "Pshaw!" and tramped

about the room playing with his watch charm, and murmuring two or three

times something like "a hangman's job."

But she probably misunderstood him.

Finally he seemed to have reached a decision.

He stopped close to her, laid his disgusting hands on her shoulders, and

said:

"Listen, my dear, sweet little girl. We can't part without arriving at a

conclusion. If I weren't such a cursed mangy old pariah-dog, and if over

and above this, I didn't have to be considerate of the boy's feelings,

the matter would be perfectly simple. I should say: 'Little one, if you

want to, come let's go to the nearest magistrate. But hurry, I haven't

much time to lose.' Don't stare at me so. Yes, that's what I mean--with

_me_--with me. You wouldn't need to regret it either. As for Konrad, see

here, you must really say so to yourself--it won't do--we shouldn't hit

it off--it would be harnessing before and aft. Because he is a rising

man. He wants to climb to the top. He is still blessed with faith and

you no longer possess it. Too early in life you tumbled into the great

meat-chopping machine, which finally converts us all into complacent

wormy mush. You yourself wouldn't feel happy. You wouldn't be able to

keep pace. You would lie on him a lifeless cargo, and be conscious of

it, too. I'm not laying so much stress on last night's eye-opener. It's

not the appearance of a coast line that counts. It doesn't matter

whether it's covered with palms or sand. The important thing is the

interior. And in the interior I see steppes--scorched--waste-land--no

birds flying across it--a desert where confidence will not strike root.

Crawl into whatever shelter life offers you, little one. Cling to those

who brought you to the pass you are in. But let the boy go. He's not

meant for you. Be frank, didn't you say so to yourself long ago?"

So that's what it was!

No test--

The end. The end.

Lilly stared into space. She seemed to hear a tread dying away--a step

lower, another step, another step, and another--growing fainter--ever

fainter--as when Konrad had slipped away from her at dawn.

But this time they would never return!

She felt a slight gnawing disenchantment creep about her heart--nothing

more. The worst would come later, she knew from of old.

Then she saw herself dancing and yodeling and telling hoggish jokes with

her hat tilted to one side and her petticoats raised to her knees--a

drunken wench.

She of the "lofty spirit" and "head divine,"--a drunken wench, not a

whit better.

Now she knew why he had stood there white as chalk, why that sob of

distress had burst from his lips.

And the feeling that poured over her in that second like a stream of

boiling water was compounded as much of pity for Konrad as of shame of

herself.

"How does he bear it?" she faltered.

"You can imagine how," he replied, "but I think I can pull him through

it."

"Uncle--I didn't _mean_ to!" she cried with a great sob.

"I know, child, I know. He told me everything."

For an instant wounded pride flared up within her. She stopped, picked

up a few of the scattered bits of paper, and held them out to him in the

hollow of her hand.

"And you dared to offer me this?"

"Why, what was I to do, child? And what _will_ I do with you?"

"Bah!"

She struck at him with both hands; but the next instant threw her arms

about his neck, and wept on his shoulder. That was the place perhaps on

which Konrad's tearful face had also rested the night before.

Mr. Rennschmidt began to speak again. He made various proposals for her

future. He would help her begin a new life, would give her the means for

cultivating her great talent for the stage.

But she shook her head at each of his suggestions.

"Too late, uncle. Waste-land, you yourself said, where confidence will

not strike root. I might aspire to music-hall fame. But to be quite

frank, that wouldn't pay me."

"The damned curs!" he hissed.

"What curs?"

"You know."

She reflected as to whom he could possibly mean.

"There was really only one," she observed. "Oh, yes, and another--and

then one more. And later there were two besides, but they don't count."

"It seems to me that's quite enough, little girl."

He stroked her cheeks, smiling kindly, and she did not find his fingers

so disgusting.

She even had to smile in response, though she fell directly to crying

again.

Mr. Rennschmidt prepared to take leave. She clung to his shoulder; she

did not want to let him go. He was the last bridge that joined her

departing vessel with the land of happiness.

"What message shall I take to him?" he asked.

She drew herself up. Her eyes widened. She wanted to pour out all her

grief. Her squandered love sought for words which would carry it to him

purged and sanctified.

But she found none.

She looked about the room as if help must come from some quarter. The

pictures of the ancient actors smiled upon her. Those who had once been

so eloquent had become dumb, dumb as her own soul. The framed lamp shade

greeted her as if the future she had to pass at Mrs. Laue's side was

greeting her.

"I don't know what to say," she faltered. Then something occurred to her

after all. "Please ask him--please ask him--why he himself didn't come

to say good-by. I know him. He is not a coward."

Mr. Rennschmidt made his queerest face.

"Since you're so remarkably sensible, child, I'll tell you. Of _course_

he wanted to come and say good-by. I even told him I'd try to drag you

to the station."

Without an instant's reflection she made a dash for her hat.

"Stop!"

He had laid his hand on her arm.

The little fat figure grew taller.

"You will _not_ go."

"What! Konni is waiting for me--Konni wants to speak to me--and I am

_not_ to go?"

"You--_will--not--go_, I tell you. If you're the brave girl I took you

to be, you will not nullify the sacrifice you're making. You can reckon

upon it, if he sees you again, you'll both remain hanging on each

other."

Her hat slipped from her hand.

"Then--tell him--I'll love him--forever--forever--he'll be my last

thought on earth--and--and--I don't know what else to say."

He left the room without a word.

Then she collapsed.

CHAPTER XXII

The world went its way, calmly, gaily, busily, as if nothing had

occurred, as if no lost happiness were tossing about on the sea of life,

disappearing farther and farther in the distance; as if no human being

had been thrown into a corner to crouch there and stare at the ground

helplessly with dimmed eyes.

Mrs. Laue was pasting pressed flowers; the fried potatoes were sizzling

in fat, the lamp in the hall was smoking, and the poor people's odour

greeted all who entered its realm.

Lilly did not cry her heart out of her body as when she had been

expelled from Lischnitz; she did not sink into a state of apathetic

brooding, nor wrestle desperately with fate.

All she felt was a dim void stretching endlessly before her, broken now

and again by a sharp outcry like that of an animal bereft of its mate; a

sense of faint-hearted acquiescence, a consciousness of inevitable

imprisonment, of a fearful descent into dark depths, of a dismal death,

lacking strength and dignity.

Between the present and the future, the sort of future that beckoned to

her from every street, rose the railing of the bridge she had tried to

climb after seeing "Rosmersholm." And when she stared into space with

tearless eyes, she saw far below the black, purple-patched water rolling

idly along, and heard the iron rail clink under her sole.

This clinking became stronger, and turned into an accompaniment of

everything that came and went during the uneventful days.

It drilled her brain, hammered at her temples, and tingled in every pore

of her body.

There was a text to the miserable melody.

The text was: "To die!"

Well, then, to die!

What could be simpler? And what more compelling?

But not to-day. To-morrow perchance, or day after to-morrow.

Something might still happen. A letter might arrive, or even he himself.

Or if neither of these contingencies came to pass--who could tell what

miracle fate held in readiness for the morrow?

To let hour after hour of one additional day pass in the same melancholy

monotony.

One evening, a week after Konrad's sudden departure, it happened that

Mrs. Laue entered the best room at an unusual time with an emphatic

manner, and said: "Now, Lilly dear, you cannot go on the same way. If

you were to cry, I shouldn't say anything. But _this_ way you'll never

come back to reason. There's only one sane and natural thing for you to

do, return to your Mr. Dehnicke. If he had an inkling of how things are

with you, he would have come to fetch you long ago. So you'll either sit

right down and write him a nice letter, or to-morrow morning I'll give

up my work and go to see him in his office. I'll get my expenses back."

Lilly felt violently impelled to drive the old woman out of the room,

but she had grown too discouraged to do more than turn away in impotent

repugnance.

"I haven't much time, I must say," continued Mrs. Laue. "I have to

complete the dozen before going to bed. But you can make up your mind

to one thing: if he's not here by ten o'clock to-morrow morning, he'll

come at twelve at the very latest, because by that time I myself will

have gone for him."

Lilly laughed sadly in scorn. So that was the way the miracle looked

which fate held in readiness for the morrow.

Should she submit all over again to a man's puny supremacy? Crawl back

into the cowardly comfort of perfumed imprisonment? Vegetate among inane

festivities, in a sort of doze, or walk the streets when driven by

disgust and boredom?

She would not have the force to resist the next day when he came. She

knew it well. Richard needed merely to look at her once with that

whipped-dog expression which was entirely new to her in him. The very

thought of it filled her with humiliating softness. Something was

already stirring within her that would compel her to throw her arms

about his neck and cry on his shoulder.

It was really not worth while to bide the morrow for so pitiful a

reward.

So--she would die--that very day!

That very day.

It came to her like a cup of intoxication.

With clasped hands she ran about the room weeping, rejoicing.

She would be a heroine like Isolde, a martyr to her love.

And the railing of the bridge was waiting. How it would quiver and hum

when she climbed on it.

Then the buzzing in her head grew louder. The air was filled with a

medley of tones. The walls re-echoed with the refrain--the noise on the

streets, the mighty roar of the city--everything sang:

"Die--die--die."

She tore off her gown and dressed to go out.

At first she thought of wearing one of her two ill-fitting dresses,

because they had come from Konrad, but she could not prevail upon

herself to do so.

"Die in beauty," Hedda Gabler had said.

"Oh, if only I had his picture," thought Lilly, "so that I could take

one last look at his eyes."

But all she had from him were his letters and a few poems. They were to

accompany her on her last walk.

They were lying at the bottom of the leather trunk which was still

hidden in Mrs. Laue's hole of a room, although the need for concealment

was past.

When she rummaged for the little packages among the contents of the

trunk she came by chance upon the old score of the Song of Songs.

She tenderly regarded the yellow stained roll.

She was no longer angry with her Song of Songs or scorned it, as she had

on that unfortunate morning when she had gone to her former home to

break her promise to Konrad.

Once again it became a dear, valuable possession, though neither a

monitor, nor worker of miracles, nor a sanctuary. It still was an old

remnant, but one to be kissed and petted and cried over, because a part

of her own life clung to it.

And some of her blood also.

There were the dark stains.

On the day of her going forth they had fallen upon it and on the day of

her coming home, the deep waters would wash them away.

Then her mind glided past the score back into the hazy past.

Mists seemed to be lifting and curtains to be drawn aside, and her way

seemed to lie behind her like a sharply defined band.

She had been weak. And stupid. And had never considered her own

interests. Every man that had entered her life had done with her what he

would. She had never closed the doors of her soul, never shown her

teeth, never given free play to the power of her beauty; but had always

been ready to serve others, to love them, and make the best of

everything.

As thanks she had been persecuted and beaten and dragged in the mud her

life long. Even the one man who had esteemed her had gone away without

saying good-by.

"But," she thought, "I have never hated a single one of them, and I have

always had the right to regard myself as above the common, however I

have suffered. However I have sinned. And the end was a heaven-sent

gift."

Did it not seem as if this Song of Songs, which lay there debased,

stained, decayed, like her own life, had in truth hovered over her,

blessing her and granting her absolution from her sins, just as in her

early dreams and just as in her rhapsodies to Konrad during that hour of

blissful self-surrender?

"Yes, you shall come along!" she said. "You shall die when I die."

She carefully rolled and wrapped up the crumbling sheets.

Then she found the letters in the trunk, read them once, and several

times again--but she did not understand what she was reading.

* * * * *

It was nearly twelve o'clock when she softly closed the tall door behind

her.

Mrs. Laue was still asleep.

Nobody met her on the stairs, and she managed to leave the house without

being seen.

Since her flight to Konrad she had not been alone on the street at

midnight.

The two long rows of house fronts dipped in garish light--the trolley

poles sparking and flashing between--silent, shadowy figures--it was all

as if she were looking upon it for the first time.

An oppressive fear beset her.

Her legs felt numb as if wooden stilts had been screwed to them upon

which she must hasten on without hesitating or stopping, whether she

would or no. And her heels rapped on the pavement, carrying her on,

irresistibly nearer and nearer to her goal.

At the approach of each passerby she was impelled to hide herself, in

the belief that her appearance betrayed her intentions.

So she chose dark side streets which were being paved and where

withering linden trees scattered rain drops.

Her way led past long rows of brick buildings inhospitably set behind

dark garden walls, past barns and factories.

And her heels kept rapping: "Tap--tap--tap," as if she were wearing a

pedometer which accurately registered every inch shortening her course.

She began to think of roundabout ways of reaching her bridge.

But she cast the temptation from her.

"If it were done, 'twere well it were done quickly," she had read

somewhere.

Forward with clenched teeth!

The Engelbecken lay dark and deserted. Yellow lights glinted on the

invisible waters.

"It would be easier here," she thought, breathless from the oppression

at her heart, and stepped nearer, on the grassy slope.

But she recoiled with a shudder.

It had to be the bridge on the northwest side--fate had willed it so.

It was still a great distance off, about an hour's walk.

She came to livelier streets.

The lamps in front of the dance halls, where fallen women revelled, sent

their garish beams out into the night like tentacles.

On, on she must go!

From the open doors of a basement cafe was wafted a hot garlic-laden

vapour.

What smelled like that?

Oh, yes! The little sausages Mrs. Redlich had given her son as a

farewell dinner.

Directly in front of her a hose as thick as her arm spurted a cleansing

stream over the pavement.

What had she heard hiss and gurgle along the ground like that?

Oh, yes! It had sounded just like that when old Haberland had watered

the lawn, with the copper sprinkler.

Suddenly the idea shot through her brain: "None of this is true. I am

lying in bed between the bookcases of the circulating library, and the

lamp I took from the bracket is smoking back of me,--and it is all in

the book I am reading on the sly after Mrs. Asmussen's dose of medicine

has happily worked."

The city noises swelled and called her back to life.

She had reached the heart of the city, the vortex of Berlin's unwearying

night life.

She passed the Spittelmarkt. Leipziger Strasse unrolled before her, a

stupendous scene, with its endless chain of street lamps. A silvery mist

enveloped it, or, rather, it resembled a gay picture lightly covered by

a layer of mould, dotted with the lights of cafes and cabarets

glimmering red.

The numb feeling in Lilly's legs increased. She moved them without

realising that she was moving them.

She felt nothing but the throbbing of her heart, which shook her whole

body like the vibrations of a mill.

On Friedrichstrasse the people thronged as in the daytime.

Young men rejoicing in the chase followed close upon the heels of their

laughing quarry.

The lamplight shone on the silk stockings of damsels as they tripped

along.

"Those who have once been completely submerged in this world," thought

Lilly, with a shudder of envy, "no longer trouble themselves with

questions of honour and death."

Alas, beyond that brilliant whirl came quiet and darkness again, in

whose shelter a person may die as he will.

And her heels kept beating: "Tap--tap--tap." She could hear them even in

all that noise.

"Couldn't I go to some cafe?" she asked herself. "What harm if some one

were to see me? I should gain a paltry quarter of an hour."

Lights--mirrors--upholstery--curling blue cigarette smoke--a tingling in

her parched throat.

Once--once again! Not a quarter of an hour--a _whole_ hour--and still

longer if she wished it--a poor bit of life which would do nobody any

harm.

But she could find no justification for such cowardice and she did not

want to be ashamed of herself at the very last.

So on--on.

The laughing crowds of the Kranzlerecke fell behind--the dagger-like

lights no longer pricked her.

Lilly scarcely knew where she was going.

She had probably reached one of the quieter cross streets that lead to

the northwest side.

The middle of the empty street was dotted with glistening puddles. The

pluvial autumn wind came sweeping along between the rows of houses. The

dark windows coldly reflected the light of the street lamps. Everything

about her seemed lifeless, extinct. Only at rare intervals a phantom

glided by, and the cats sped from hiding place to hiding place.

Shivering, Lilly pressed the score closer under her arm.

She passed a florist's shop, where the blinds of the show window had not

been drawn. Glancing at her reflection, she was startled to see the

prickly foliage of laurels and cypresses.

What had gleamed like that?

Oh, yes! The Clytie that dreamily smiled down from the proud staircase

of the house of Liebert & Dehnicke.

Now Lilly Czepanek would never mount those laurel-lined stairs in

triumph, nor even crawl to look upon them a repentant sinner.

She reached a bridge.

She crossed it quickly.

That other bridge luring her on lay in remoter solitude, in darker

silence.

"You have too much love in you," some one had once said. "All three

kinds: love of the heart, love of the senses, love springing from pity.

One of them everybody must have. Two are dangerous. All three lead to

ruin."

Who had that been?

Oh, yes! Her first flame, the poor consumptive teacher who had lectured

to the Selecta on the history of art, and whom she and Rosalie Katz had

helped to send to the promised land, the land she herself had never

entered.

He had spoken of blue olive vapours--the sea blackened by the breath of

the sirocco--and shining meadows of asphodel.

"What kind of meadows could they be--meadows of asphodel?"

How fantastic the foreign word sounded and how full of promise.

But her heels said: "Tap--tap--tap," and the railing of the bridge

called to her.

A man spoke to her. Wouldn't she--?

She shook him off like a worm.

She had been given another warning, also with three parts to it.

By whom?

Oh, yes! Mr. Pieper.

She suddenly heard the sententious admonition, in his very words and

tone of voice, as if he had uttered it the day before:

"First, exchange no superfluous glances; second, demand no superfluous

rendering of accounts; third, make no superfluous confessions."

"If I had not exchanged superfluous glances, I should have seen my

promised land. If I had not superfluously demanded the rendering of an

account, I should never have been expelled from Lischnitz. And if I had

not made superfluous confessions--"

What then?

"Konni, Konni," she moaned. Her yearning welled up hot and painful, and

forced her revolving thoughts from her mind.

She walked on reeling.

More streets disappeared in the fog, interrupted at one place by a grass

plot with a hedge about it.

What sort of meadows could they be--meadows of asphodel?

Suddenly she stood at the bridge.

Like a thief in the night it loomed up in the darkness of the wide,

silent place, where the lights of thousands of street lamps dwindled

into tiny sparks.

A pale-faced full moon shone somewhere in the black sky. It was the

illuminated clock of a railway station, the body of which was swallowed

by the darkness.

Half-past one o'clock.

Lilly saw everything as through a spotted veil.

She was going to turn the corner of the wall. Instead, paralysed by

horror, she sank down against it, her heart throbbing powerfully.

"After all I am not going to do it," she said to herself.

"Yet--I will," she answered.

She tried to go on--straight ahead--on the bridge, where the rail

awaited her maliciously. But her legs refused to carry her.

The singing in her ears rose to a roar. She stood on the dark, solitary

bank wavering.

She took the score in both hands, tore at it, and tried to crumple it

into a ball. But it did not give way. Her Song of Songs was stronger

than she.

Suddenly her feet moved of themselves, and carried her on--on--whether

she willed it or not, past the lamps at the entrance to the rail

awaiting her.

Now her fingers grasped the iron top of the railing.

All she could see of the water below was a dark, slimy shimmer. Not even

the lamps were reflected in it.

* * * * *

Now, one leap--and the thing was done.

"Yes, I'll do it, I'll do it," a voice within her called.

But she had to send the Song of Songs ahead. It would be a hindrance to

her as she climbed over.

She threw it--a bit of white flitted by--a splash below--sharp and

distinct, which made her tingle all over like a slap in the face.

When she heard the sound, she knew she would never do it.

No! Lilly Czepanek was not a heroine; she was not martyr to her love;

she was no Isolde, who finds the strongest affirmation of herself in the

desire not to be.

She was nothing but a poor thing who had been crushed and exploited, and

would drag along through life as best she could.

At the same time she began to array all the possibilities of a

livelihood remaining open to her.

She would _not_ return to the old life of dissipation. That was certain.

No matter how much Richard's whipped-dog look might plead and beg.

Anything else would do.

To be sure, she had been completely robbed of her desire to work, and it

seemed very doubtful whether it would ever come back to her again.

But after all: something would present itself which would enable her to

live in peace and virtue.

Millions of human beings ask for nothing better and call it "happiness!"

She sent one more searching look at the lazy waters, in which the Song

of Songs had just disappeared.

Then she turned and went back.

* * * * *

In the spring of the next year the business world of Berlin was

surprised to read in the papers that Mr. Richard Dehnicke, senior member

of the old, well-known firm of Liebert & Dehnicke, manufacturers of art

bronzes, had married the much-talked-of beauty, Lilly Czepanek, and had

gone to Italy to live there temporarily.

Those who knew her were not surprised.

She had always been a dangerous woman, they said.