appeared to be without expression, unfathomable and dumb—they were directed upon him, but without fixity or aim, vague, and as though they did not see him.
“Shall I tell you a story?” she suddenly asked in a quiet, veiled voice.
“Tell it,” he replied. He had sunk in a sitting position on the edge of the bed, the overcoat rested upon his knees, and his folded hands lay upon it. His mouth stood a trifle open, and his eyes were half closed. But his blood pulsed warmly and mildly through his body, and there was a soft humming in his ears.
She had sunk down in the wardrobe and had clasped with her delicate arms one of her knees, which she had drawn up, while the other leg dangled outside. Her small breasts were pressed together by the upper part of her arms, and the taut skin of her knee shone. She told her story—told it in a soft voice, while the candle flame executed silent dances.
“A couple were walking across the heath, and her head lay upon his shoulder. The herbs sent forth a strong scent, but the cloudy mists of evening were already rising from the ground.” Thus it began. And sometimes there were verses, which rhymed in so incomparably light and sweet a way that we are able to achieve it only now and then during nights of fever in a half-sleep. But the thing did not come to a good close. The end was as sad as when two hold each other in an inextricable embrace, and while their lips are pressed together, one of them thrusts a broad knife into the body of the other, just above the belt, and for good reasons. But that was the way it ended. And then, with a gesture of infinite quiet modesty, she lifted the right-hand corner of the grey stuff which constituted the back wall of the wardrobe, and was no longer there.
From now on he found her in his wardrobe every night and listened to her.—How many evenings? How many days, weeks, or months did he remain in this dwelling and in this city?—It would do no one any good if the number were put down here. Who would take any joy in a paltry figure?—And we know that several doctors had granted Albrecht van der Qualen only a few months more.
She told him stories. And they were melancholy stories, void of comfort; but they sank like a sweet burden upon his heart and let it beat more slowly and happily. Often he forgot himself.—His blood rebelled within him, he stretched out his hands to her, and she did not resist him. But then he would not find her in the wardrobe for several nights, and when she returned; she would tell no stories for several more nights, and then slowly began again, until he forgot himself once more.
How long did this last—who knows? Who knows, moreover, whether Albrecht van der Qualen really awakened that afternoon and betook himself to the unknown city; whether he did not rather remain sleeping in his first-class compartment, to be borne by the Berlin-Rome express with tremendous speed across the mountains? Who among us would presume to give a definite answer to this question, upon his own responsibility? That is quite uncertain. “All things must float in the air—”
The Path to the Cemetery
The path to the cemetery ran always parallel to the highway, always side by side, until it had reached its goal; that is to say, the cemetery. On the other side there were human habitations, new structures of the suburbs, part of which were still in process of completion, and then came fields. As to the highway itself, this was flanked by trees, by knotty beeches of a good old age, and the road was half paved and half bare earth. But the path to the cemetery was thinly strewn with pebbles, which gave it the character of an agreeable footpath. A small, dry ditch, filled with grass and wildflowers, extended between the two.
It was spring, and almost summer already. The whole world smiled. God’s blue skies were covered with masses of small, round, compact little clouds, dotted with many snow-white little clumps which had an almost humorous look. The birds twittered in the beeches, and a mild wind swept across the fields.
A wagon from the neighbouring village crept towards the city; it rolled partly upon the paved, partly upon the unpaved part of the highway. The driver let his legs dangle on both sides of the shaft and whistled execrably. In the back part of the wagon there sat a little yellow dog with its back to him, and along its pointed little nose looked back with an unutterably grave and collected mien at the way it had just come. It was an incomparable, a most diverting little dog, worth its weight in gold; but it plays no part in this affair and so we must turn our faces from it.—A detachment of soldiers went marching by. They came from the garrison near by, marched in their own dust, and sang. A second wagon crept from the direction of the city towards the next village. The driver slept, and there was no little dog, for which reason this vehicle is entirely without interest. Two journeymen came striding along, the one hunchbacked, the other a giant in stature. They went barefooted, carrying their boots on their backs, called out cheerily to the sleeping driver, and strode on bravely. The traffic was moderate, regulating itself without complications or accidents.
The way to the cemetery was trodden by a solitary man; he walked slowly, with lowered head, and supported himself on a black stick. The man was called Piepsam, Lobgott (Praisegod) Piepsam and nothing else. We proclaim his name with a certain emphasis because subsequently he acted in a most peculiar manner.
He was dressed in black, for he was on the way to the graves of his
