The day Dorothea got married, Herr Carovius had gone to his lawyer to
have the will he had drawn up the night before attested to. He had
bequeathed his entire fortune, including his home and the furniture, to
an institution to be erected after his death for the benefit of orphans
of noble birth. Baron Eberhard von Auffenberg had been named as first
director of the institution and sole executor of his will.
Herr Carovius refused to have anything more to do with music. He had a
leather cover made for his long, narrow grand piano, and enshrouded in
this, the instrument resembled a stuffed animal. He looked back on his
passion for music as one of the aberrations of his youth, though he
realised that he was chastising his spirit till it hurt when he took
this attitude.
The method he employed to keep from having nothing to do was
characteristic of the man: he went through all the books of his library
looking for typographical errors. He spent hours every day at this work;
he read the scientific treatises and the volumes of pure literature with
his attention fixed on individual letters. When, after infinite search,
he discovered a word that had been misspelled, or a grammatical slip, he
felt like a fisherman who, after waiting long and patiently, finally
sees a fish dangling on the hook.
Otherwise he was thoroughly unhappy. The beautiful evenness of his hair
on the back of his neck had been transformed into a shaggy wilderness.
He could be seen going along the street in a suit of clothes that was
peppered with spots, while his Calabrian hat resembled a war tent that
has gone through a number of major offensives.
He had again taken to frequenting the Paradise Cafe two or three times a
week, not exactly to surrender himself to mournful memories, but because
the coffee there cost twenty pfennigs, whereas the more modern cafes
were charging twenty-five. His dinner consisted of a pot of coffee and a
few rolls.
It came about that old Jordan likewise began to frequent the Paradise.
For a long while the two men would go there, sit down at their chosen
tables, and study each other at a distance. Finally the day came when
they sat down together; then it became a custom for them to take their
places at the same table, one back in the corner by the stove, where a
quiet comradeship developed between them. It was rare that their
conversation went beyond external platitudes.
Herr Carovius acted as though he were merely enduring old Jordan. But he
never really became absorbed in his newspaper until the old man had come
and sat down at the table with him, greeting him with marked respect as
he did so. Jordan, however, did not conceal his delight when, on
entering the cafe and casting his eyes around the room, they at last
fell on Herr Carovius. While he sipped his coffee, he never took them
off the wicked face of his _vis-a-vis_.
X
Philippina became Dorothea's confidential friend.
At first it was nothing more than Dorothea's desire to gossip that drew
her to Philippina. Later she fell into the habit of telling her
everything she knew. She felt no need of keeping any secret from
Philippina, the inexplicable. The calm attentiveness with which
Philippina listened to her flattered her, and left her without a vestige
of suspicion. She felt that Philippina was too stupid and uncultivated
to view her activities in perspective or pass judgment on them.
She liked to conjure up seductive pictures before the old maid's
imagination; for she loved to hear Philippina abuse the male of the
species. If some bold plan were maturing in her mind, she would tell
Philippina about it just as if it had already been executed. In this way
she tested the possibility of really carrying out her designs, and
procured for herself a foretaste of what was to follow.
It was chiefly Philippina's utter ugliness that made her trust her. Such
a homely creature was in her eyes not a woman, hardly a human being of
either sex; and with her she felt she could talk just as much as she
pleased, and say anything that came into her head. And since Philippina
never spoke of Daniel in any but a derogatory and spiteful tone,
Dorothea felt perfectly safe on that ground.
She would come into the kitchen, and sit down on a bench and talk: about
a silk dress she had seen for sale; about the fine compliments Court
Councillor Finkeldey had paid her; about the love affairs of these and
the divorce proceedings of those; about Frau Feistelmann's pearls,
remarking that she would give ten years of her life if she also had such
pearls. In fact, the word she used most frequently was "also." She
trembled and shook from head to foot with desires and wishes, low-minded
unrest and lusts that flourish in the dark.
Often she would tell stories of her life in Munich. She told how she
once spent a night with an artist in his studio, just for fun; and how
on another occasion she had gone with an officer to the barracks at
night simply on a wager. She told of all the fine-looking men who ran
after her, and how she dropped them whenever she felt like it. She said
she would let them kiss her sometimes, but that was all; or she would
walk arm in arm with them through the forest, but that was all. She
commented on the fact that in Munich you had to keep an eye out for the
police and observe their hours, otherwise there might be trouble. For
example, a swarthy Italian kept following her once--he was a regular
Conte--and she couldn't make the man go on about his business, and you
know he rushed into her room and held a revolver before her face, and
she screamed, of course she did, until the whole house was awake, and
there was an awful excitement.
When Daniel endeavoured to put a stop to her wastefulness, she went to
Philippina and complained. Philippina encouraged her. "Don't you let him
get away with anything," said she, "let him feel that a woman with your
beauty didn't have to marry a skinflint."
When she began to go with Edmund Hahn, she told Philippina all about it.
"You ought to see him, Philippina," she whispered in a mysterious way.
"He is a regular Don Juan; he can turn the head of any woman." She said
he had been madly in love with her for two years, and now he was going
to gamble for her; but in a very aristocratic and exclusive club, to
which none but the nicest people belonged. "If I win, Philippina, I am
going to make you a lovely present," she said.
From then on her conversation became rather tangled and incoherent. She
was out a great deal, and when she returned she was always in a rather
uncertain condition. She had Philippina put up her hair, and every word
she spoke during the operation was a lie. One time she confessed that
she had not been in the theatre, as Daniel had supposed, but at the
house of a certain Frau Baeumler, a good friend of Edmund Hahn. They had
been gambling: she had won sixty marks. She looked at the door as if in
fear, took out her purse, and showed Philippina three gold pieces.
Philippina had to swear that she would not give Dorothea away. A few
days later Dorothea got into another party and got out of it
successfully, and Philippina had to renew her oath. The old maid could
take an oath with an ease and glibness such as she might have displayed
in saying good morning. In the bottom of her heart she never failed to
grant herself absolution for the perjury she was committing. For the
time being she wished to collect, take notes, follow the game wherever
it went. Moreover, it tickled and satisfied her senses to think about
relations and situations which she knew full well she could never
herself experience.
Dorothea became more and more ensnared. Her eyes looked like
will-o'-the-wisps, her laugh was jerky and convulsive. She never had
time, either for her husband or her child. She would receive letters
occasionally that she would read with greedy haste and then tear into
shreds. Philippina came into her room once quite suddenly; Dorothea,
terrified, hid a photograph she had been holding in her hand. When
Philippina became indignant at the secrecy of her action, she said with
an air of inoffensive superiority: "You would not understand it,
Philippina. That is something I cannot discuss with any one."
But Philippina's vexation worried her: she showed her the photograph.
It was the picture of a young man with a cold, crusty face. Dorothea
said it was an American whom she had met at Frau Baeumler's. He was said
to be very rich and alone.
Every evening Philippina wanted to know something about the American.
"Tell me about the American," she would say.
One evening, quite late, Dorothea came into Philippina's room with
nothing on but her night-gown. Agnes and little Gottfried were asleep.
"The American has a box at the theatre to-morrow evening. If you call
for me you can see him," she whispered.
"I am bursting with curiosity," replied Philippina.
For a while Dorothea sat in perfect silence, and then exclaimed: "If I
only had money, Philippin', if I only had money!"
"I thought the American had piles of it," replied Philippina.
"Of course he has money, lots of it," said Dorothea, and her eyes
flashed, "but--"
"But? What do you mean?"
"Do you think men do things without being compensated?"
"Oh, that's it," said Philippina reflectively, "that's it." She crouched
on a hassock at Dorothea's feet. "How pretty you are, how sweet," she
said in her bass voice: "God, what pretty little feet you have! And what
smooth white skin! Marble's got nothing on you." And with the carnal
concupiscence of a faun in woman's form she took Dorothea's leg in her
hand and stroked the skin as far as the knee.
Dorothea shuddered. As she looked down at the cowering Philippina, she
noticed that there was a button missing on her blouse. Through the
opening, just between her breasts, she saw something brown. "What is
that on your body there?" asked Dorothea.
Philippina blushed. "Nothing for you," she replied in a rough tone, and
held her hand over the opening in her blouse.
"Tell me, Philippina, tell me," begged Dorothea, who could not stand the
thought of any one keeping a secret from her: "Possibly it is your
dowry. Possibly you have made a savings bank out of your bosom?" She
laughed lustily.
Philippina got up: "Yes, it is my money," she confessed with reluctance,
and looked at Dorothea hostilely.
"It must be a whole lot. Look out, or some one will steal it from you.
You will have to sleep on your stomach."
Daniel came down from his study, and heard Dorothea laughing. Grief was
gnawing at his heart; he passed hastily by the door.