“He certainly is. And he looks so comically like my husband!”
“Ah! … Yes, so it all happened that way. And now you are no longer called Eckhof, but something else, and you have a sturdy little Anton, and you are ailing somewhere in the trachea.”
“Yes. … And you are an out-and-out enigmatical man, Herr Spinell, I can assure you …”
“Yes, heaven knows you are that!” said the Rätin Spatz, who was still at hand.
Herr Klöterjahn’s wife often occupied herself deeply with this conversation. Noncommittal as it had been, still it had something concealed at bottom which nourished her preoccupations with herself. Was this the harmful influence which was affecting her? Her weakness increased, and often fever set in—a quiet flame which always left her in a mood of extravagance, thoughtful and contented, and with a vague sense of injury. When she was not forced to remain in bed, Herr Spinell would step across to her with extreme caution on the tips of his large feet, and remain standing about two steps distant, one leg placed behind the other, and the upper part of his body bent slightly forward. He would speak to her in a voice softened with worship, as if his sheer devotion would pick her up tenderly and lay her on a bed of clouds, where no harsh sound, no earthly irritation, could ever reach her. At such times she would remember the way Herr Klöterjahn had of saying: “Slowly, Gabriele, take care, my angel, and keep your mouth closed!” he said it as though he were slapping you on the shoulder with crude good humour. But she would dismiss this recollection hastily, and lie back purged and weak in the bed of clouds Herr Spinell was so kind as to prepare for her.
One day she went back abruptly to the conversation they had had about her parents and her girlhood.
“And it is really true, Herr Spinell,” she said, “that you could have seen the crown?”
And although this talk had occurred fourteen days ago, he knew immediately what she meant, and he assured her with emotion that back there at the spring, as she was sitting there with her six girl friends, he would have seen the little crown glittering—would have seen it glittering in her hair.
A few days later one of the patients asked her out of politeness how her little Anton was doing back home. She sent a swift glance towards Herr Spinell, who was standing near her, and then answered somewhat peevishly: “How is he? Both he and my husband are doing very well, thank you.”
VIII
Toward the end of February, one chilly day which was even clearer and more brilliant than all that had preceded it, a general feeling of good nature pervaded Einfried. The ladies and gentlemen with heart trouble were speaking to one another with flushed cheeks, the diabetic general was humming like a child, and the gentlemen with the uncontrollable legs were quite beside themselves. What was it all about? Nothing less than that a general excursion had been arranged for, a sleigh-ride through the hills in vehicles with jangling bells and snapping whips. Dr. Leander had decided on this as an entertainment for his patients.
Naturally, the “serious cases” had to stay behind. Those miserable serious cases! Everyone got together and pledged themselves to keep the whole thing a secret from them; it felt quite pleasant to be able to exercise a little sympathy and consideration. But even some who very easily could have taken part in the outing did not do so. As to Fräulein von Osterloh, she was excused without a word. Anyone as loaded with household duties as she could not afford to think of sleigh-rides. Her presence was needed in Einfried. And, in short, she stayed. But all were distressed when Herr Klöterjahn’s wife declared she preferred not to go. Dr. Leander tried in vain to urge her into taking the invigorating ride. But she claimed she was indisposed, that she had a headache, felt somewhat tired; and there was nothing to do but accept it. But the cynic and wit found occasion for the remark, “Just watch; now the decrepit baby won’t go with us, either.”
And he turned out to be right, since Herr Spinell let it be known that he intended working that afternoon—he liked to apply the word “work” to his doubtful activities. But not a single soul was put out by his absence, and the disappointment was no greater when the Rätin Spatz decided to keep her younger friend company since riding made her seasick.
Immediately after the midday meal, which had been served today even before twelve, the sleighs drew up in front of Einfried, and the patients began moving across the park in lively groups, eager, excited, and bundled up snugly. Herr Klöterjahn’s wife was standing with the Rätin Spatz behind the glass door which opened on the terrace, and Herr Spinell was observing the departure from the window of his room. Amid laughing and joking, miniature battles would arise over the best seats; Fräulein von Osterloh, a fur boa around her neck, was running from one sleigh to another to shove baskets of food under the seats; Dr. Leander, his fur cap pulled down over his eyes, reviewed the whole scene once more with his glistening spectacles, then took his place and gave the sign to start. … The horses leaped forward, a woman or two let out a shriek as she fell over backwards, the bells jangled, the short-handled whips snapped and let their long cords drag in the snow behind the runners, and Fräulein von Osterloh stood at the gate waving her handkerchief until the sleighs glided out of sight at a bend in the road and the cheerful noise died away. Then she hurried back through the park to attend to urgent matters, the two women left the glass door, and almost at the same time Herr Spinell left his place of
