At this point Herr Klöterjahn tried to recover his wind. He had become very angry by now, kept continually piercing the air with the index finger of his right hand and soiling the manuscript in his left hand most wretchedly. Between his blond English side-whiskers, his face was frightfully red, and his cloudy forehead was rent with swollen veins like choleric lightning.
“You hate me,” he went on, “and you would detest me if I were not the stronger. Yes, so I am, by God; I’ve got my heart in the right place, while yours for the most part is in your shoes. And I’d pound the life out of you and your ‘mind and the word,’ you sneaking idiot, if it weren’t against the law. But I don’t mean to say by that, my friend, that I’m going to take your invectives and let it go at that. And when I get home and show that ‘common name’ to my lawyer, we’ll see if you don’t get the surprise of your life. My name is a good one, sir, because I have made it good, and if anyone would lend a penny on yours—well, you can decide that question for yourself, you prowling loafer! You have to be dealt with by law! You are a menace to the community! You put people out of their heads! … But you don’t need to imagine that you have succeeded this time, you patronizing sneak! I am not usually put to rout by individuals such as you. My heart is in the right place …”
Herr Klöterjahn was now really aroused to the utmost. He shouted, and claimed over and over that his heart was in the right place.
“ ‘They were singing.’ Bosh. They weren’t singing! They were darning. And besides, as far as I caught, they were talking about a recipe for potato-cakes. And when I mention that ‘decay’ and ‘dissolution’ to my father-in-law, he’ll get his attorney after you as well, be sure of that. … Did you see the picture? Did you see it? Naturally I saw it, but I don’t appreciate such things, which explains why I didn’t catch my breath and flee. I don’t barely graze on women’s faces; I look right at them, and if they please me, and want me, I take them. My heart is in the right pl—”
There was a knock. Nine or ten sharp raps on the door one after the other … a slight persistent commotion of anxiety which silenced Herr Klöterjahn. And a voice which wouldn’t stop, driven to impropriety by distress, kept saying in the greatest haste: “Herr Klöterjahn, Herr Klöterjahn, oh, is Herr Klöterjahn there?”
“Wait outside,” Herr Klöterjahn growled. “What is it? I am busy here.”
“Herr Klöterjahn,” said the faltering, breaking voice, “you must come … the doctors are there, too … oh, it is terribly sad …”
He got to the door with one stride and flung it open. The Rätin Spatz was standing outside. She held her handkerchief over her mouth, and big, elongated tears were dropping into it by twos.
“Herr Klöterjahn,” she broke out. “It is so terribly sad. … She brought up so much blood, so awfully much. … She was sitting up very quietly in bed humming a bit of music to herself, and then it came, O God, so much of it …”
“Is she dead?” Herr Klöterjahn shrieked. He grabbed the Rätin by the shoulder and began shaking her in the doorway. “No, not quite, no? Not quite yet; she can still see me … Did she bring up a little blood again? From the lungs? I’ll admit, it might be from the lungs … Gabriele!” he spoke suddenly, his eyes beginning to fill, and it was evident what a good, kindly, warm, human feeling broke over him. “Yes, I’m coming!” and he pushed the Rätin out of the room and down the corridor. From quite a distance down the twisting hallway could be heard a rapidly vanishing “Not quite, no? … From the lungs? …”
XII
Herr Spinell was standing in the same place he had stood during Herr Klöterjahn’s so rudely interrupted visit. He was gazing at the open door. Finally he made a few steps forward and listened intently. But everything was quiet, so that he closed his door and went back to his room.
For a while he looked at himself in the mirror. Then he went over to the writing-desk, took a little flask and a glass out of one of the pigeonholes, and poured himself a cognac—and nobody could blame him. Then he stretched out on the sofa and closed his eyes.
The upper shutter of his window was open. Outside in the park of Einfried the birds were twittering; and in these frail, pert little noises spring found its full, penetrative expression. Once Herr Spinell spoke to himself softly. “Infallible calling …” Then he twisted his head back and forth and sucked the air through his teeth, as though he were suffering with neuralgia.
It was impossible for him to rest and collect himself. We are not made for such heavy experiences as that! … Through a process of the spirit which it would take too long to analyse, Herr Spinell came to the conclusion that he would get up and move about a bit, walk for a while in the open air. He took his hat and left the room.
As he stepped out of the house and the soft, aromatic air surrounded him, he turned his head and let his eyes wander slowly along the wall until they came to a certain window. It was covered with a curtain; his gaze clung there for a while, earnest and gloomy. Then he put his hands behind his back and began walking along the gravel path. He
