It is night. The antiquated old square is deserted. The bell in the
church tower has struck eleven; the lights in the windows die out,
slowly, one by one.
The figure of a woman is seen coming up the alley. She is spying
anxiously about, before her and behind her. Finally she stops before the
little house in which Daniel and Gertrude live. Is it a living creature?
Is it not rather an uncanny gnome? The garments hang loose about the
unshapely body; a crumpled straw hat covers the mad-looking face; the
shoulders are raised; the fists are clenched; the eyes are glassy.
Suddenly there is a scream. The woman hastens over toward the church,
falls on her knees, and sinks her teeth with frenzied madness into the
wooden pickets of the fence. After some time she rises, stares up once
more at the windows with distorted lips, and then moves away with slow,
dragging steps.
It was Philippina Schimmelweis. She kept going about the streets in this
fashion until break of day.