He was unsociable, and found nothing in common with a single soul there. It was only once in a great while that an engaging, amiable, and overflowing mood came upon him; and this always happened when Herr Spinell was under some aesthetic urgency, when the sight of something beautiful or other, the composition of two colours, a nobly formed vase, or the mountains in the sunset, surprised him into open admiration. “How beautiful!” he would say at such times, laying his head to one side and raising his shoulders while he opened his hands and twisted his nose and lips. “God, just look, how beautiful!” And under the emotion of such a moment he was capable of throwing his arms blindly about the neck of the most distinguished person, whether man or woman.
There always lay on his table, visible to anyone who entered his room, the book which he had written. It was a moderate-sized novel, provided with a thoroughly amazing cover and printed on a sort of filter paper for coffee. As to the type, each letter looked like a Gothic cathedral. Fräulein von Osterloh had read it in an idle hour, and found it “refined,” which was her way of passing judgment of “godlessly boring.” Everything happened in worldly salons, in luxurious boudoirs, full of grotesques, antique furniture, expensive porcelains, invaluable fabrics, and artistic ornaments of all sorts. The most loving emphasis was laid upon the descriptions of such things; and through it you could always see Herr Spinell, with his nose twisted, saying: “How beautiful!” … Furthermore, it could not help seeming queer that he had written no other books besides this one, since he still seemed to be writing with passion. He spent the major portion of the day in his room writing, and mailed an extraordinary number of letters, almost always one or two daily. Although it was very strange and amusing how seldom he received a letter in return. …
V
Herr Spinell sat opposite Herr Klöterjahn’s wife at the table. The first meal they all ate together, he appeared a bit late in the large dining-hall on the ground floor of the side wing, spoke in a weak voice to everyone in general, and took his place—whereupon Dr. Leander introduced him to the newcomers without much ceremony. He bowed, and then began eating in a visibly embarrassed manner, manipulating his knife and fork somewhat affectedly in large, white, beautifully formed hands which came out of two narrow sleeves. Gradually he came to feel more at ease, and cast calm sidelong glances at Herr Klöterjahn and his wife. Also, in the course of the meal, Herr Klöterjahn offered a few questions and remarks about the situation and climate of Einfried; his wife dropped in a word here and there in her catching way, and Herr Spinell answered politely. His voice was soft and quite pleasant; but he had a somewhat impeded and sipping manner of talking, as though his teeth were in the way of his tongue.
After dinner, when everyone had gone into the drawing-room, and Dr. Leander came to pay his compliments to the new guests in particular, Herr Klöterjahn’s wife inquired about the person who had sat opposite them.
“What is the gentleman’s name?” she asked. “Spinelli? I did not catch the name.”
“Spinell, not Spinelli, Madam. No, he is not an Italian, but was merely born in Lemberg, so far as I know …”
“And did you say he was a writer? Or just what?” Herr Klöterjahn asked. He had his hands deep in the pockets of his comfortable English trousers, leaned one ear to the doctor, and, as is the case with a good many people, opened his mouth to listen.
“Indeed, I don’t just know … he writes …” Dr. Leander answered. “He has, I believe, published a book, a kind of novel, but I really don’t know anything …”
This repeated “don’t know” indicated that Dr. Leander didn’t take much stock in the writer, and declined all responsibility for him.
“But that is certainly very interesting!” Herr Klöterjahn’s wife put in. She had never before seen an author face to face.
“Oh, yes,” Dr. Leander answered accommodatingly. “He is supposed to have a certain amount of reputation …” Whereupon nothing more was said about the author.
But a little later, after the new guests had retired and Dr. Leander was about to leave the drawing-room, Herr Spinell intercepted him and made inquiries on his part also.
“What is the name of these two?” he asked. “Of course, I didn’t quite catch it.”
“Klöterjahn,” Dr. Leander answered, and went on his way.
“What is the man’s name?”
“Their name is Klöterjahn!” and Dr. Leander was gone. He took no stock at all in this author.
VI
Had we not reached the place where Herr Klöterjahn had gone back home? Indeed, he was again on the Baltic, with his business and his child, this inconsiderate and lively little creature which had cost his mother so many pains and a slight defect in the trachea. But as for her, the young wife, she stayed on at Einfried, and the Magistratsrätin Spatz attached herself to her as an elder friend. But that did not keep Herr Klöterjahn’s wife from mixing agreeably with the
