The room they entered was moderately large and was filled by an awesome shimmering, swaying brightness, engendered by twenty or twenty-five lighted candles. A young girl, with a white turned-over collar and cuffs relieving her simple dress, stood close beside the door and gave her hand to all who entered. This was Maria Josefa, Daniel’s sister, with her innocent but foolish face. The short-story writer knew her. He had met her at a literary tea. She had sat there upright, with her cup in her hand, and had spoken of her brother with a clear voice full of devotion. She worshipped Daniel.
The short-story writer’s eyes wandered about the room in search of him.
“He is not here,” said Maria Josefa. “He is absent, I don’t know where. But he will be here among us in spirit and follow the proclamations, word for word, when they are read.”
“Who is going to read them?” asked the short-story writer, in a low, reverent voice. He was really in earnest about it. He was a well-meaning and modest person, venerating all the phenomena of life, and quite willing to learn and to revere what was worthy of being revered.
“A disciple of my brother’s,” answered Maria Josefa, “whom we are expecting from Switzerland. He is not here yet. He will be on hand at the right moment.”
Opposite the door a large chalk drawing was visible in the candlelight. It stood upon the table, its upper edge leaning against the slanting ceiling. The drawing, which was done in a bold, violent manner, represented Napoleon, standing in a clumsy and despotic attitude in front of a fireplace warming his jack-booted feet. At the right of the entrance rose an altar-like shrine, upon which, between candles burning in silver candelabra, stood a painted holy figure, with outspread hands, and eyes turned upward. A prie-dieu stood in front of this, and on approaching it one observed, leaning upright against one of the feet of the holy figure, a small amateur photograph. This showed a young man of about thirty years with a tremendously high, pale, retreating forehead and a smooth-shaven, bony face, like that of a bird of prey, full of concentrated spirituality.
The writer of short stories paused for a while before this picture of Daniel; then he ventured cautiously farther into the room. Behind a large, round table, into whose polished yellow surface, surrounded by a wreath of laurel, the same sword-bearing eagle which had been seen on the invitations was burned, towered a severe, narrow chair of a spiry Gothic design like a throne and supreme seat among a number of low wooden stools. A long bench of rude carpentry, covered with some cheap stuff, extended along the roomy niche formed by wall and roof, and in this niche there was a low window. Presumably because the squat tiled stove had proved to be overheated, the window was open, and presented a view of a segment of blue night, in the depths and distance of which the irregularly spaced gas-lamps lost themselves as yellow, glowing dots in ever greater intervals.
Opposite the window the room narrowed down to a kind of alcove-like chamber, which was lighted more brightly than the other part of this attic, and appeared to be used partly as study, partly as chapel. At the back of this room there was a couch, covered by a thinnish, washed-out stuff. To the right, one could see a curtained book-rack, on top of which burned candles in candelabra and oil-lamps of antique shape. To the left was set a white-covered table, upon which stood a crucifix, a seven-branched candlestick, a goblet filled with red wine, and a piece of plum-cake upon a plate.
In the foreground of this alcove there stood upon a low platform a column of gilded plaster, surmounted by an iron candelabrum; the capital of the column was covered by an altar-cloth of bloodred silk. And upon this rested a pile of manuscript sheets of folio size: Daniel’s proclamations. A light-coloured wallpaper bedecked with little Empire wreaths covered the walls and the slanting part of the ceiling. Death-masks, rose wreaths, a large, rusty sword, hung upon the walls, and besides the large picture of Napoleon, there were portraits, of various sorts, of Luther, Nietzsche, Moltke, Alexander the Sixth, Robespierre, and Savonarola distributed about the room.
“All this has been lived!” said Maria Josefa, peering into the respectfully restrained visage of the short-story writer to see what effect these furnishings had produced. But in the meantime other guests had come, quietly and solemnly, and people began to seat themselves on benches and chairs, in hushed expectancy. In addition to those who had arrived first, there now sat there a fantastic draughtsman, with senile, infantile face, a limping lady, who was accustomed to introduce herself as one devoted to “erotics,” and an unmarried young mother of noble birth, who had been cast out by her family. She was without any intellectual interests whatever, and had found hospitality in these circles solely upon the ground of her motherhood. There were also an elderly authoress and a deformed musician—all in all some twelve persons. The short-story writer had withdrawn into the window niche, and Maria Josefa sat on a chair close to the door, her hands lying upon her knees, side by
