There is an occasional death among the “serious cases,” who lie in their rooms and do not make their appearance either at mealtimes or in the drawing-room … and no one, not even the occupant of the adjoining room, is aware of it. The waxen guest is removed in the dead of night, and the activities of Einfried continue undisturbed: the rubdowns, the electric treatments, the injections, the showers, baths, exercises, sweating, deep breathing, all in different places and with the most up-to-date equipment.
Yes, everything is full of life, even here. The institute is in bloom. At the entrance to the side wing, the porter sounds the large bell when new guests arrive. Dr. Leander, together with Fräulein von Osterloh, accompanies in all formality to their cabs those who are leaving. Just what kind of creature has not put up at Einfried! There is even an author here, an eccentric man, who bears the name of some mineral or jewel, and is stealing days from the Lord God. …
Furthermore, besides Dr. Leander, there is a second physician, for the minor cases and the hopeless ones. But his name is Müller, and he is really not worth mentioning.
II
In the beginning of January the wholesale merchant Klöterjahn—of the firm A. C. Klöterjahn & Co.—brought his wife to Einfried; and Fräulein von Osterloh received them after their long journey in the reception-room on the ground floor, which was fitted out in a marvellously pure Empire style like nearly all of the distinctive old house. Almost immediately Dr. Leander also appeared; he bowed, and a conversation was begun, in the course of which both parties came to an understanding.
Outside, out in the winter, was the park with its covered flowerbeds, its snowed-up grottoes, and lonely little temples. And two servants were bringing in the trunks of the new guest from the cab which stood in the street in front of the big iron door—since there was no approach up to the house.
“Slowly, Gabriele, take care, my angel, and keep your mouth closed,” Herr Klöterjahn had said as he helped his wife through the park; and whoever saw them could not help being deeply moved by this take care
—which was spoken in English—even though it cannot be denied that Herr Klöterjahn might have said it in plain, simple German.
The driver who had brought them from the station to the sanatorium, a crude, ignorant man without any of the finer feelings, had bitten his tongue in powerless caution while the wholesale merchant was helping his wife to descend; yes, it even seemed as though these two sturdy bays, shivering in the silent cold and with their eyes rolled back, were following the anxious procedure with suspense, full of misgiving for so much frail gracefulness and such tender charm.
The young woman was suffering with her trachea, as it had been expressly stated in the first letter which Herr Klöterjahn had sent to the head physician of Einfried from the shore of the Baltic—and, thank God, it was not her lungs! But even if it had been her lungs, this new patient could not have had a sweeter or a nobler look, could not have appeared more removed or incorporeal, than now. Close by her robust husband, she followed the conversation, lying back faint and weary in the white lacquered armchair, with its strong straight lines.
Her lovely pale hands, entirely bare except for a slender wedding-ring, were lying in her lap, in the folds of a dark heavy woollen coat. And she wore a tight-fitting silver-grey shirtwaist, with a close high collar covered with velvet embroidery. But these warm, heavy stuffs only made the unutterable weariness of her little head seem all the more appealing. Her light brown hair was gathered low in the back; it was combed smooth; and only near the right temple one stray curling strand fell across her forehead, not far from the place over her distinctly traced eyebrow where a peculiar tiny vein, pale blue and sickly, branched across the clearness and purity of an almost transparent forehead. This little blue vein over the one eye commanded in a disturbing fashion the whole fine oval of her face. It protruded more noticeably as soon as the woman began to speak, and gave an effect of exertion to her face, or even of distress, awakening uncertain apprehensions. Nevertheless, she spoke, and smiled. She spoke easily and amiably in a lightly veiled voice, and she smiled with her somewhat listless eyes. Yes, now and then they showed the least inclination to bulge, and the corners, on either side of the narrow bridge of her nose, lay in a deep shadow. Her beautiful wide mouth was pale, and yet it seemed brilliant, owing to the fact, perhaps, that her lips were demarcated with such exceptional sharpness and clarity. She would cough occasionally. At such times she put her handkerchief to her lips and examined it afterwards.
“Don’t cough, Gabriele,” Herr Klöterjahn said. “You know how Dr. Hinzpeter back home warned you especially against it, darling, and all you have to do is just hold back, my angel. As I said,” he repeated, “it is the trachea. When it began, I really thought it was the lungs, and God knows I was frightened. But it wasn’t the lungs, nah, not on your life; we don’t fall for anything like that, eh, Gabriele? He, he!”
“Beyond a doubt,” Dr. Leander said, and glistened on them with his glasses.
Whereupon Herr Klöterjahn requested coffee, coffee and rolls—and he had such a vivid way of pronouncing it half swallowed, that you couldn’t help feeling an appetite.
He got what he
