One evening in October, Inspector Jordan left his house in Broad Street,
buttoned his top coat more closely about him, and walked hastily through
a connecting alley that was so narrow that it seemed as if some one had
taken a big knife and cut the houses in two. His goal was Carolina
Street. It was late, and he was hungry. Doubting whether Gertrude would
have a warm supper ready for him, he went to an inn.
He had spent two full hours there trying to get a rich hops dealer to
take out some insurance. The man had him explain over and over again the
advantages of insurance, studied the tables backwards and forwards, and
yet he was unable to come to a decision. Then the waiter brought him his
dinner. There he sat, smacking his lips with the noise of human
contentment, his great white napkin tied under his chin in such a
fashion that the two corners of it stuck out on either side of his
massive head, giving the appearance of two white ears. He had offended
Jordan's social instincts: he had not thought it worth while to wait for
an invitation.
Among other guests in the inn was Bonengel, the barber. He recognised
Jordan and spoke to him. He took a seat in the background, picked out
the ugliest and greasiest of the waitresses, and ordered a bulky portion
of sausage and sauerkraut.
He told lascivious anecdotes. When the waitress brought him his food,
she tittered, and said: "He is a jolly good fellow, Bonengel is."
Jordan began to eat rapidly, but soon lost his appetite, pushed his
plate to one side, propped his chin on his hands, and stared at the
immobile clouds of tobacco smoke before him.
He had a feeling that it was no longer possible to keep at this work day
after day, year in and year out. Running from one end of the city to the
other, up and down the same stairs, through the same old streets--he
could not do it. Answering the same questions, making the same
assertions, refuting the same objections, praising the same plan in the
same words, feigning the same interest and quieting the same distrust
day after day--no, he could not do it. Disturbing the same people in
their domestic peace, prodding himself on to new effort every morning,
listening to the same curtain lectures of that monster of monsters, the
insatiate stock market, and standing up under the commands of his chief,
Alfons Diruf--no, he was no longer equal to it. It was all contrary to
the dignity of a man of his years.
He was ashamed of himself; and he was fearfully tired.
He thought of his past life. He recalled how he had risen from poverty,
and worked up to the position of a highly respected merchant. That was
when he was in Ulm. There he had married Agnes, the blond daughter of
the railroad engineer.
But why had he never become rich? Other men who were distinctly inferior
to him in shrewdness, diligence, and polish were now wealthy; he was
poor. Three times he had been threatened with bankruptcy, and three
times friends had come to his rescue. Then a partner joined him,
invested some capital in the firm, and the business was once more on its
feet.
But it turned out that this partner was a stranger to loyalty and quite
without conscience. "Jordan is a drag on the business," he would say to
his customers, "Jordan is stupid, Jordan cannot make a calculation." And
the partner never rested until Jordan was paid a set sum and eased out
of the firm.
He then tried his fortune here and there for eight or nine years. "Don't
worry, Jordan," said Agnes, "everything will come out well." But it did
not. Whatever Jordan took hold of, he took hold of at the wrong end at
the wrong time with the wrong people.
He could not get on. Not only because his hand was heavy and his head
too honest, but because he had allowed himself to be befooled by a
chimera.
Early in life he had had a dream, and all his enterprise and industry
were directed toward the fulfilment of this dream. It had been
impossible: he had never been able to save up enough money. Every time
he discussed his favourite wish with Agnes, and told her about the happy
days when he would be able to live his own life and be his own boss, she
encouraged him and tried to help him. But it seemed now that she had
known all along that he had merely been dreaming, and that her
magnanimity had prompted her not to jolt him out of his delusion.
It had always seemed to him that the world of dolls was a world in
itself. He had taken an enchanted delight in picturing the types of
faces, clothes, and hair he would design for his various dolls, big and
little. Dolls of the most variegated charm peopled his fancy: there were
princesses of different degrees of proximity to the throne, fisher maids
and mermaids; there were shepherds and shepherdesses, Casperls and lusty
imps, dolls with heads of porcelain and dolls with heads of wax, all so
faithfully imitated that it would require anthropomorphic skill to
detect that they were not human beings. Their hair was, of course, to be
human hair. Some of them were to wear the costumes of foreign races,
while others were to be dressed up like fairy figures, sprites, and
gnomes. There was to be a Haroun al Raschid and an Oriental Dervish.
The last time he moved his choice fell on Nuremberg. He was attracted to
Nuremberg because it was the centre of the doll industry.
About this time Agnes died, and he was left alone with the three
children for whom he had to make a living. He no longer had the courage
to hope for success or prosperity; even the doll factory had become a
chimera. He had but one ambition: he wished to lay aside ten thousand
marks for each of his three daughters, so that they would be provided
for in any event after his death. The boy, he thought, could take care
of himself.
Up to the present, however, he had not been able to place the half of
this sum in the bank. And now, suppose he lost his position; suppose the
frailties of old age prevented him from making his own living; suppose
he was obliged to draw on the savings of years for his own support. How
could he look his daughters in the face in the evening of his earthly
life?
"The slag hid behind something in the cellar, and when his wife tried to
bring him his pants, she let them fall in the flour bin." This elegant
remark emanated from Bonengel the barber.
His auditors gurgled, the waitress roared.
As Jordan walked home he could hear above the wind the voice of Bonengel
the barber. It sounded like the rattling of a pair of hair-clippers.
He disliked walking up the steps to his front door; they were so narrow;
they creaked as though they were ready to fall down; and he was always
afraid he would meet some blind people. An oculist lived on the first
floor, and he had often seen sightless persons feeling their way around.
A letter was lying on his table. The cover bore the address of the
General Agency of the Prudentia Insurance Co. He walked up and down a
while before opening it. It was his discharge papers.