I

THE 2nd of March 1903 was a bad day for August Esch, who was thirty years old and a clerk; he had had a row with his chief and found himself dismissed before he had time to think of giving notice. He was irritated, therefore, but less by the fact of his dismissal than by his own lack of resourcefulness. There were so many things that he could have flung in the man’s face: a man who didn’t know what was happening under his very nose, a man who believed the insinuations of a fellow like Nentwig and had no idea that the said Nentwig was pocketing commissions right and left—unless, indeed, he was shutting his eyes deliberately because Nentwig knew something shady about him. And what a fool Esch had been to let the pair of them catch him out like that: they had fallen foul of him over an alleged mistake in the books that wasn’t a mistake at all, now that he came to think of it. But they had bullied him so insolently that it had simply turned into a shouting match, in the middle of which he suddenly found himself dismissed. At the time, of course, he hadn’t been able to think of anything but guttersnipe abuse, whereas now he knew exactly how he could have scored. “Sir,” yes, “Sir,” he should have said, drawing himself up to his full height, and Esch now said “Sir” to himself in a sarcastic voice, “have you the slightest idea of the state your business is in …?” yes, that’s what he should have said, but now it was too late, and although he had gone and got drunk and slept with a girl he hadn’t got rid of his irritation, and Esch swore to himself as he walked along beside the Rhine towards the town.

He heard steps behind him and, turning, caught sight of Martin, who was swinging along between his crutches with the foot of his game leg braced against one of them. If that wasn’t the last straw! Esch would gladly have hurried on, at the risk of getting a wallop over the head from one of the crutches—serve him right too if he did get one over the head—but he felt it would be a low-down trick to play on a cripple, and so he stood waiting. Besides, he would have to look round for another job, and Martin, who knew everybody, might have heard of something. The cripple hobbled up, let his crooked leg swing free, and said bluntly: “Got the sack?” So he had heard of it already? Esch replied with bitterness: “Got the sack.” “Have you any money left?” Esch shrugged his shoulders: “Enough for a day or two.” Martin reflected: “I know of a job that might suit you.” “No, you won’t get me into your union.” “I know, I know; you’re too high and mighty for that.… Well, you’ll join some day. Where shall we go?” Esch was going nowhere in particular, so they proceeded to Mother Hentjen’s. In the Kastellgasse Martin stopped: “Have they given you a decent reference?” “I’ll have to call for it to-day.” “The Central Rhine people in Mannheim need a shipping clerk, or something in that line … if you don’t mind leaving Cologne,” and they went in. It was a fairly large, dingy room that had been a resort of the Rhine sailors probably for hundreds of years; though except for the vaulted roof, blackened with smoke, no sign now indicated its antiquity. The walls behind the tables were wainscoted in brown wood half-way up, to which was fixed a long bench that ran round the room. Upon the mantelpiece was an array of Munich quart-jugs, among which stood an Eiffel Tower in bronze. It was embellished with a red-and-black-and-white flag, and when one looked more closely the words “Table reserved” could be deciphered on it in faded gold-lettering. Between the two windows stood an orchestrion with its folding-doors open, showing its internal works and the roll of music. Actually the doors should have remained closed, and anyone who wished to enjoy the music should have inserted a coin in the slot. But Mother Hentjen did nothing shabbily, and so the customer had merely to thrust his hand into the machinery and pull the lever; all Mother Hentjen’s customers knew how to work the apparatus. Facing the orchestrion the whole of the shorter back wall was taken up by the buffet, and behind the buffet was a huge mirror flanked on either side by two glass cabinets containing brightly hued liqueur bottles. When in the evening Mother Hentjen took her post behind the buffet, she had a habit of turning round to the mirror every now and then to pat her blond coiffure, which was perched on her round, heavy skull like a hard little sugar-loaf. On the counter itself stood rows of large wine and Schnapps bottles, for the gay liqueur bottles in the cabinet were seldom called for. And finally, between the buffet and the glass cabinet, a zinc washing-basin with a tap was discreetly let into the wall.

The room was unheated, and its coldness stank. The two men chafed their hands, and while Esch sat down dully on a bench Martin put his hand into the works of the orchestrion, which blared out The March of the Gladiators into the cold atmosphere of the room. In spite of the din they could presently hear a wooden stair creaking under someone’s footsteps, and the swing door beside the buffet was flung open by Frau Hentjen. She was still in her morning working-garb, an ample blue-cotton apron was tied over her dress, and she had not yet donned her evening corset, so that her breasts lay like two sacks in her broad-checked dimity blouse. Her hair, however, was still as stiff and correct as ever, crowning like a sugar-loaf her pale, expressionless face, which gave no indication of her age. But everybody knew that Frau Gertrud Hentjen had thirty-six years to her credit, and that for a long, long time—they had reckoned a little while ago that it must certainly be fourteen years—she had been the relict of Herr Hentjen, whose photograph, yellow with age, gazed out over the Eiffel Tower between the restaurant licence and a moonlit landscape, all three in fine black frames with gold scroll-work. And although with his little goat’s beard Herr Hentjen looked like a snippet of a tailor, his widow had remained faithful to him; at least nobody could say anything against her, and whenever anyone dared to approach her with an honourable proposal she would remark with disdain: “Yes, the business would suit him to a T, no doubt. No, I’d rather carry on alone, thank you.”

“Morning, Herr Geyring. Morning, Herr Esch,” she said. “You’re early birds to-day.” “We’ve been long enough on our legs, though, Mother Hentjen,” replied Martin, “if one works one must eat,” and he ordered wine and bread and cheese; Esch, whose mouth and stomach were still wry with the wine he had drunk yesterday, took Schnapps. Frau Hentjen sat down with the men and asked after their news. Esch was monosyllabic, and although he was not in the least ashamed of his dismissal, it annoyed him that Geyring should publish the fact so openly. “Yes, another victim of capitalism,” the trade-union organizer concluded, “but now I must get to work again; of course the Duke here can spread himself at his ease now.” He paid and insisted on settling for Esch’s Schnapps at the same time—“One must support the unemployed”—grasped his crutches, which he had propped beside him, braced his left foot against the wood, and swung himself out through the door between his two supports with a great clatter.

After he had gone the two of them remained silent for a little; then Esch jerked his chin towards the door: “An anarchist,” he said. Frau Hentjen shrugged her plump shoulders: “And what if he is? He’s a decent man.” “He’s a decent man, right enough,” Esch corroborated, and Frau Hentjen went on: “but they’ll lay him by the heels again sooner or later: he’s done time for six months already …” then: “Well, it’s all in his day’s work.” Once more they became silent. Esch was wondering whether Martin had been a cripple since his childhood; misbegotten, he thought to himself, and said: “He would like to land me among his socialist friends. But I’m not having any.” “Why not?” asked Frau Hentjen without interest. “It doesn’t suit my plans. I want to get to the top of the tree; law and order are necessary if you want to get to the top.” Frau Hentjen could not but agree with that: “Yes, that’s true, you must have law and order. But now I must go to the kitchen. Will you be having dinner with us to-day, Herr Esch?” Esch might as well dine here as anywhere else, and after all why should he wander about in the icy wind? “Strange that the snow hasn’t come yet,” he said, “the dust fairly blinds you.” “Yes, it’s dismal outside,” said Frau Hentjen. “Then you’ll just stay here?” She disappeared into the kitchen, the swing door vibrated for a little longer, and Esch dully followed its vibrations until it finally came to rest. Then he tried to sleep. But now the coldness of the room began to strike into him; he walked up and down with a heavy and rather unsteady tread and took up the newspaper that lay on the buffet; but he could not turn the pages with his stiff fingers; his eyes too were painful. So he resolved to seek out the warm kitchen; with the newspaper in his hand he walked in. “I suppose you’ve come to have a sniff at the saucepans?” said Frau Hentjen, suddenly remembering that it was cold in the eating-room, and as it was her custom not to put on a fire there until the afternoon she suffered him to bear her company. Esch watched her bustling about the hearth and had a longing to seize her beneath the breasts, but her reputation for inaccessibility checked his desire at once. When the kitchenmaid who helped Frau Hentjen with her work went out he said: “I can’t understand your liking to live alone.” “Aha!” she replied, “you’re beginning that song too, are you?” “No,” said Esch, “it isn’t that. I was just wondering.” Frau Hentjen’s face had taken on a strangely frozen expression; it was as though she were disgusted at some thought, for she shook herself so violently that her breasts quivered, and then went about her work with the bored and empty face with which she always confronted her customers. Esch, sitting at the window, read his newspaper and afterwards looked out into the yard, where the wind was raising little cyclones of dust.

Later the two girls who acted as waitresses in the evening arrived, unwashed and unslept. Frau Hentjen, the two waitresses and the little kitchenmaid and Esch took their places round the kitchen table, stuck out their elbows, hunched themselves over their plates, and ate their dinner.

Esch had drawn up his application for the Mannheim post; he now needed only the reference to enclose with it. Actually he was glad that things had turned out as they had. It wasn’t good for a man to vegetate all the time in one place. He felt he must get out of Cologne, and the farther the better. A fellow must keep his eyes open; as a matter of fact he had always done that.

In the afternoon he went to the office of Sternberg & Company, wholesale wine merchants, to get his reference. Nentwig kept him waiting at the counter, and sat at his desk, fat and slouching, totting up columns. Esch tapped impatiently with his strong finger-nails on the counter. Nentwig got up: “Patience, patience, Herr Esch,” and he stepped to the barrier and said condescendingly: “Oh, about your reference?—that can’t be so very urgent. Well? Date of birth? Date of employment here?” With his head averted Esch supplied this information and Nentwig took it down. Then Nentwig dictated to the stenographer and brought the reference. Esch read it through. “That isn’t a reference,” he said, handing the paper back. “Oh! Then what is it?” “You must certify to my ability as a book-keeper.” “You—a book-keeper! You’ve shown us what you can do in that line.” Now the moment of reckoning had come: “It’s a very special kind of book-keeper that’s needed for the inventories you draw up, I happen to know.” Nentwig was taken aback: “What do you mean?” “I mean what I say.” Nentwig changed his tune, became friendly: “You only harm yourself with your obstreperousness; here you had a good post, and you had to get into a row with the chief!” Esch tasted victory and began to roll it on his tongue: “I mean to have a talk with the chief later.” “For all I care you can say what you like to the chief,” Nentwig countered. “Well, what do you want me to put in your reference?” Esch decreed that he should be described as “conscientious, reliable and thoroughly versed in all matters relating to book-keeping.” Nentwig wanted to be rid of him. “It isn’t true, of course, but as far as I’m concerned—” He turned again to the stenographer to dictate the new version. Esch grew red in the face: “Oh, so it isn’t true? … then please add: ’We heartily recommend him to any employer who may be in need of his services.’ Have you got that?” Nentwig bowed elaborately: “Delighted, I’m sure, Herr Esch.” Esch read the new copy through and was appeased. “The chief’s signature,” he commanded. But this was too much for Nentwig, who shouted: “So mine isn’t good enough for you?” “If the firm authorizes you I’ll let that pass,” was Esch’s large and magnanimous reply, and Nentwig signed.

Esch stepped out into the street and made for the nearest pillar-box. He whistled to himself; he felt rehabilitated. He had his reference, good; it was in the envelope with his application to the Central Rhine Company. The fact that Nentwig had given in showed that he had a bad conscience. So the inventories were faked then, and the man should be handed over to the police. Yes, it was simply one’s duty as a citizen to give him in charge straight away. The letter dropped into the post-box with a soft, muffled thud, and Esch, his fingers still in the aperture, considered whether he should go at once to the police headquarters. He wandered on irresolutely. It had been a mistake to send off the reference, he should have given it back to Nentwig; to force a reference out of a man and then give him in charge wasn’t decent. But now it was done, and besides, without a reference he had little chance of getting a post with the Central Rhine Shipping Company—there would be absolutely nothing left for him but to go back to his old job in Sternberg’s again. And he saw a vision of the chief discovering the fraud, and Nentwig languishing in prison. Yes, but what if the chief himself was involved in the swindle? Then of course the public interrogation would bring the whole concern toppling down. And then there would be another bankruptcy, but no post for a book-keeper. And in the newspapers people would read: “Revenge of a dismissed clerk.” And finally he would be suspected of collusion. And then he would be left without a reference and without a job, for nobody would take him on. Esch congratulated himself on the shrewdness with which he drew all the consequences, but he was furious. “A fine bloody firm!” he swore under his breath. He stood in the Ring in front of the Opera House, cursing and swearing into the cold wind which blew the dust into his eyes, and could not come to any decision, but finally resolved to postpone the affair; if he didn’t get the post with the Central Rhine there would still be time left to act the part of Nemesis. He went through the darkening evening, his hands buried in the pockets of his shabby overcoat, actually went, indeed, as a matter of form, as far as the police headquarters. There he stood looking at the policemen on guard, and when a police wagon drove up he waited until all the prisoners had got out, and felt disappointed when the policeman finally slammed to the door without Nentwig’s having put in an appearance. He remained standing for a few moments, then he turned resolutely and made for the Alt Markt. The two faint vertical lines on his cheeks had deepened. “Wine faker,” he muttered in a fury, “vinegar tout.” And morose and disillusioned over his poisoned victory, he ended the day by getting drunk again and sleeping with another girl.

In her brown-silk dress, which she was accustomed usually to don only in the evening, Frau Hentjen had been spending the afternoon with a woman friend, and now, as always on her return, she was put into a bad temper by the sight of the house and the restaurant in which for so long she had been compelled to pass her life. Certainly the business allowed her to lay by a little now and then, and when she was praised and flattered by her women friends for her capability she experienced a faintly pleasant sensation which made up for a good deal. But why wasn’t she the owner of a linen-draper’s shop, or a ladies’ hairdressing saloon, instead of having to deal every evening with a pack of drunken louts? If her corset had not prevented her she would have shaken herself with loathing when she caught sight of her restaurant; so intensely did she hate the men who frequented it, these men that she had to serve. Though perhaps she hated still more the women who were always such fools as to run after them. Not a single one of her women friends belonged to the kind that took up with men, that trafficked with these creatures and like animals lusted for their embraces. Yesterday she had caught the kitchenmaid in the yard with a young lad, and the hand which had dealt the buffet still tingled pleasantly; she felt she would like to have it out with the girl again. No, women were probably still worse than men. She could put up only with her waitresses and all the other prostitutes who despised men even though they had to go to bed with them; she liked to talk to these women, she encouraged them to tell her their stories in detail, and comforted and pampered them to indemnify them for their sufferings. And so a post in Mother Hentjen’s restaurant was highly prized, and her girls looked upon it as well worth the best they could give in return and did all they could to retain it. And Mother Hentjen was delighted with such devotion and love.

Her best room was up on the first floor; really too big, with its three windows on the narrow street it took up the full breadth of the house above the restaurant; in the back wall, corresponding to the buffet downstairs, there was an alcove shut off by a light curtain which was always drawn. If one drew aside the curtain and let one’s eyes get used to the darkness, one could make out the twin marriage-beds. But Frau Hentjen never used this room, and nobody knew whether it had ever been used. For a room of such a size was difficult to heat except at a considerable cost, and so Frau Hentjen could not be blamed for choosing the smaller room above the kitchen as her bed- and sitting-room, employing the chill and gloomy parlour only for storing food that might go bad. Also the walnuts which she was accustomed to buy in autumn were stored here and lay strewn in heaps about the floor, upon which two broad green strips of linoleum were laid crosswise.

Still feeling angry, Frau Hentjen went up to the parlour to fetch sausage for her customers’ suppers, and as anger makes one careless she stumbled into some of the nuts, which rolled before her feet with an exasperatingly loud clatter. It exasperated her still more when one cracked beneath her foot, and while she picked up the nut so that it might not be altogether wasted, and carefully detached the kernel from the splintered pieces of shell, and stuck the white fragments with the bitter pale-brown skin into her mouth, she kept meanwhile screaming for the kitchenmaid; at last the brazen trollop heard her, came stumbling up the stairs, and was received with a torrent of incoherent abuse: of course a girl that flirted with half-grown louts would be stealing nuts too—the nuts had been stored beside the window and now they were just inside the door, and nuts didn’t walk across a floor of their own accord—and Frau Hentjen was preparing to raise her fist, and the girl had ducked and put up her arm, when a piece of shell caught in her mistress’s teeth, who contented herself with spitting it out contemptuously; then, followed by the sobbing maid, she descended to the kitchen.

When she entered the restaurant, where already a thick cloud of tobacco smoke was hanging, she was overcome again, as almost every evening, by that apprehensive torpor which was so incomprehensible to her and yet so difficult to overcome. She went up to the mirror and mechanically patted the blond sugar-loaf on her head and pulled her dress straight, and only when she had assured herself that her appearance was satisfactory did her composure return. Now she looked round and saw the familiar faces among her customers, and although there was more profit on the drinks than on the food, she prized the eaters among her customers above the drinkers, and she stepped out from behind the buffet and went from table to table asking whether the food was to their liking. And she summoned the waitress almost with elation when a customer demanded a second helping. Yes, Mother Hentjen’s cooking had no need to fear examination.

Geyring was already there; his crutches were leaning beside him; he had cut the meat on his plate into small pieces and now ate mechanically while in his left hand he held one of his Socialist papers, a whole bundle of which were always sticking out of his pocket. Frau Hentjen liked him, partly because, being a cripple, he did not count as a man, partly because it was not to shout and drink and make up to the waitresses that he came, but simply because his post demanded that he should keep in touch with the sailors and dock workers; but above all she liked him because evening after evening he had his supper at her restaurant and praised up her food. She sat down at his table. “Has Esch been here yet?” asked Geyring. “He’s got the job with the Central Rhine, starts work on Monday.” “And it’s you that got it for him, I’m sure, Herr Geyring,” said Frau Hentjen. “No, Mother Hentjen, we haven’t got the length yet of filling posts through the union … no, not by a long way … well, that’ll come too in time. But I put Esch on the track of it. Why shouldn’t one help a nice lad, even if he isn’t one of ourselves?” Mother Hentjen showed little sympathy with this sentiment: “You just eat that up, Herr Geyring, and you’ll have an extra titbit from myself as well,” and she went over to the buffet and brought on a plate a moderate-sized slice of sausage which she had garnished with a sprig of parsley. Geyring’s wrinkled face of a boy of fourteen smiled at her in gratitude, showing a mouthful of bad teeth, and he patted her white, plump hand, which she immediately drew back with a slight return of her frozen manner.

Later Esch arrived. Geyring looked up from his paper and said: “Congratulations, August.” “Thanks,” said Esch. “So you know already?—there was no difficulty, a reply by return engaging me. Well, I must thank you for putting me on to it.” But his face beneath the short, dark, cropped hair had the wooden empty look of a disappointed man. “A pleasure,” said Martin, then he shouted over to the buffet: “Here’s our new paymaster.” “Good luck, Herr Esch,” replied Frau Hentjen dryly, yet she came forward after all and gave him her hand. Esch, who wished to show that all the credit was not due to Martin, pulled his reference out of his breast-pocket: “It wouldn’t have gone so smoothly, I can tell you, if I hadn’t made Sternberg’s give me such a good reference.” He heavily emphasized the “made,” and then added: “A measly firm.” Frau Hentjen read the reference absently: “A splendid reference.” Geyring too read it and nodded: “Yes, the Central Rhine must be glad they’ve got hold of such a first-class fellow.… I’ll really have to get the Chairman, Bertrand, to fork out a commission for my services.”

“An excellent book-keeper, excellent, what?” Esch preened himself. “Well, it’s nice when anyone can have such things said about him,” Frau Hentjen agreed. “You may feel very proud of yourself, Herr Esch; you’ve every right to: do you want anything to eat?” Of course he did, and while Frau Hentjen looked on complacently to see that he enjoyed his food, he said that now he was going farther up the Rhine he hoped to get one of the travelling jobs; that would mean going as far as Kehl and Basel. Meanwhile several of his other acquaintances had come up, the new paymaster ordered wine for them all, and Frau Hentjen withdrew. With disgust she noticed that every time Hede, the waitress, passed the table, Esch could not help fondling her, and that finally he ordered her to sit down beside him, so that they might drink to each other. But the score was a high one, and when the gentlemen broke up after midnight, taking Hede with them, Frau Hentjen pushed a mark into her hand.

Nevertheless Esch could not feel elated over his new post. It was as though he had purchased it at the cost of his soul’s welfare, or at least of his decency. Now that things had gone so far and he had already drawn an advance for his travelling expenses from the Cologne branch of the Central Rhine, he was overcome anew by the doubt whether he shouldn’t give Nentwig in charge. Of course in that case he would have to be present at the official inquiry, could not therefore leave the town, and would almost certainly lose his new job. For a moment he thought of solving the problem by writing an anonymous letter to the police, but he rejected this plan: one couldn’t wipe out one piece of rascality by committing another. And on top of it all he was beginning to resent his own twinges of conscience; after all he wasn’t a child, he didn’t give a damn for the parsons and their morality; he had read all sorts of books, and when Geyring had recently begged him yet again to join the Social Democratic Party he had replied: “No, I won’t have anything to do with you anarchists, but I’ll go with you this far: I’ll turn Freethinker.” The thankless fool had replied that that didn’t matter a damn to him. That was what people were like: well, Esch wouldn’t give a damn either.

Finally he did the most reasonable thing: he set off for Mannheim at the appointed time. But he felt violently uprooted, he had none of his accustomed pleasure in travelling, and as a safeguard he left part of his belongings in Cologne: he even left his bicycle behind. Nevertheless his travelling allowance put him in a generous mood. And standing with his beer-glass in his hand and his ticket stuck in his hat on Mainz platform, he thought of the people whom he had left, felt he wanted to show them a kindness, and, a newspaper man happening to push his barrow past at that moment, he bought two picture postcards. Martin in particular deserved a line from him; yet one did not send picture postcards to a man. So first he scribbled one to Hede: the second was destined for Frau Hentjen. Then he reflected that it might seem insulting to Frau Hentjen, who was a proud woman, to receive a postcard by the same post as one of her employees, and as he was in a reckless mood he tore up the first one and posted only the one to Frau Hentjen, containing his warmest greetings to her and all his kind friends and acquaintances and Fräulein Hede and Fräulein Thusnelda from the beautiful town of Mainz. After that he felt again a little lonely, drank a second glass of beer, and let the train carry him on to Mannheim.

He had been instructed to report to the head office. The Central Rhine Shipping Company Limited occupied a building of its own not far from the Mühlau Dock, a massive stone edifice with pillars in front of the door. The street in which it stood was asphalted, good for cycling; it was a new street. The heavy door of wrought-iron and glass—it would certainly swing smoothly and noiselessly on its hinges—stood ajar, and Esch entered. The marble vestibule pleased him; over the stair hung a glass sign-plate on whose transparent surface he read the words: “Board Room” in gold letters. He made straight for it. When his foot was on the first stair he heard a voice behind him: “Where are you going, please?” He turned round and saw a commissionaire in grey livery; silver buttons glittered on it and the cap had a strip of silver braid. It was all very elegant, but Esch felt annoyed—what business was it of this fellow’s?—and he said curtly: “I was asked to report here,” and made to go on. The other did not weaken: “To see the Chairman?” “Why, who else, do you think?” replied Esch rudely. The stair led up to a large, gloomy waiting-room on the first floor. In the middle of it stood a great oaken table, round which were ranged a few upholstered chairs. It was certainly very splendid. Once more a man with silver buttons appeared and asked what he wanted. “The Chairman’s office,” said Esch. “The gentlemen are at a board meeting,” said the attendant. “Is it important?” Driven to the wall, Esch had to tell his business; he drew out his papers, the letter engaging him, the receipt for his travelling allowance. “I’ve some references with me too,” he said, and made to hand over Nentwig’s reference. He was somewhat taken aback when the fellow did not even look at it: “You’ve no business with this up here … ground floor, through the corridor, then the second stair—inquire down below.”

Esch remained standing where he was for a moment; he grudged the attendant his triumph and asked once more: “So this isn’t the place?” The attendant had already turned away indifferently: “No, this is the Chairman’s waiting-room.” Esch felt anger rising up in him; they made too much of a blow with their Chairman, their upholstered furnishings and their silver-buttoned attendants; Nentwig too would no doubt like to play this game; well, their fine Chairman was probably not so very different from Nentwig. But, willy-nilly, Esch had to go back the same road again. Down below the commissionaire was still at his post. Esch looked at him to see whether he was angry; but as the commissionaire merely gazed at him indifferently he said: “I want the engagement bureau,” and asked to be shown the way. After taking a couple of steps he turned round, jerked his thumb towards the staircase, and asked: “What’s the name of your boss up there, the Chairman?” “Herr von Bertrand,” said the commissionaire, and there was almost a respectful ring in his voice. And Esch repeated, also somewhat respectfully: “Herr von Bertrand”: he must have heard the name at some time or other.

In the engagement bureau he learned that he was to be employed as stores clerk in the docks. As he stepped out into the street again a carriage halted before the building. It was a cold day; the powdery snow, drifted by the wind, lay on the kerb and against the corners of the wall; the horse kept striking a hoof against the smooth asphalt. It was obviously impatient and with reason. “A carriage, no less, for the Chairman,” Esch said to himself, “but as for us, we have to walk.” Yet all the same he liked all this elegance, and he was glad that he belonged to it. After all, it was one in the eye for Nentwig.

In the warehouse of the Central Rhine Shipping Company the office was a glass-partitioned box at the end of a long line of sheds. His desk stood beside that of the customs officer, and at the back glowed a little iron stove. When one was bored with one’s work, or felt lonely and forsaken, one could always watch the trucks being loaded and unloaded. The sailings were to begin in a few days, and on all the boats there was a great bustle. There were cranes which revolved and lowered their hooks as though to pick something or other cautiously out of the ships’ entrails, and there were others which projected over the water like bridges that had been begun but never completed. Of course these sights were not new to Esch, for he had seen exactly the same in Cologne, but there he had been so used to the long row of storage sheds that he had never thought of them, and if he had forced himself to consider them, the buildings, the cranes and the landing-stages would have appeared almost meaningless, put there to serve human needs that were inexplicable. But now that he himself was concerned in these things they had grown into natural and purposive structures, and this gladdened him. While formerly he had at the most been surprised, occasionally indeed even irritated, that there should be so many export firms, and that the sheds, all alike, on the quays, should bear so many separate names, now the different businesses took on an individuality which one could recognize from the appearance of their stout or lean storekeepers, their gruff or pleasant stevedores. Also the insignia of His Majesty the Emperor of Germany’s customs officers at the gates of the closed dock quarter flattered him: they made him vaguely conscious that here one lived and moved on foreign soil. It was both a constricted and a free life that one led in this sanctuary where wares could lie untaxed; it was frontier air that one breathed behind the iron gratings of the customs barriers. And even although he had no uniform to wear, and was, so to speak, only a private official, yet by virtue of his association with these customs and railway officials Esch had himself become almost an official figure, particularly as he carried in his pocket an official pass allowing him to wander at liberty through this exclusive province, and was already greeted with a welcoming salute by the watchman at the main gate. When he returned that salute he threw his cigarette away with a lordly sweep in obedience to the prohibition against smoking that was stuck up everywhere, and proceeded with long and important strides—a strict non-smoker himself, ready at any moment to come down upon any too familiar civilian for an infringement of the rule—to the office, where the storekeeper had already laid his list upon the desk. Then he drew on his grey-woollen mittens that left the finger-tips free, for without them his hands would have frozen in the musty coldness of the shed, looked over the lists, and checked the piled-up packing-cases and bales. Should a packing-case be in the wrong place he did not fail to throw the storekeeper, whose province it was to supervise the deliveries, a severe or at least an impatient look, so that he might give the docker responsible for it a proper talking-to. And when later the customs officer in his round stepped into the glass partition and said how warm it was in here, unfastening the collar of his tunic and pleasantly yawning in his chair, by that time the lists were checked and the contents copied into the books, and there was no difficulty about the rest; the two men sat at the table and lazily went over the papers. Then the customs officer, rapidly as ever, endorsed the lists with his blue pencil, took up the duplicates and locked them in his desk, and if there was nothing more to be done they proceeded together to the canteen.

Yes, Esch had made a good exchange, even if justice had suffered in the process. Still, he could not help wondering—and it was the only thing that disturbed his contentment—whether there mightn’t be some way after all of duly giving Nentwig in charge; for only then would everything be in order.

Customs Inspector Balthasar Korn came from a very matter-of-fact part of Germany. He was born on the frontier-line between Bavaria and Saxony, and had received his earliest impressions from the hilly town of Hof. His mind was divided between a matter-of-fact desire for coarse amusements and a matter-of-fact parsimony, and after he had worked his way up to a sergeant’s rank in active military service, he had seized the opportunity offered by a paternal Government to its faithful soldiers, and had obtained his transfer to the customs. A bachelor, he lived in Mannheim with his sister Erna, also unmarried, and as the empty best bedroom in his house was a standing offence in his eyes, he prevailed upon August Esch to give up his expensive room in the hotel and accept cheaper lodgings with him. And although he did not entirely approve of Esch, seeing that Esch as a Luxemburger could not boast of military service, yet he would not have been displeased to find in Esch a husband for his sister as well as an occupant for the spare bedroom; he was not sparing in unequivocal hints, and his sister, who was no longer young, accompanied them with bashful and tittering signs of protest. Indeed he actually went so far as to jeopardize his sister’s good name, for he did not scruple to address Esch before the others in the canteen as “Herr Brother-in-Law,” so that everybody must think that his friend already shared his sister’s bed. Yet Korn did this not exclusively for the sake of having his joke; rather his intention was to compel Esch, partly by constantly accustoming him to the idea, partly through the pressure of public opinion, to transform into solid actuality the fictitious part which he was thus called on to play.

Esch had not been unwilling to move into Korn’s house. Though he had knocked about so much he felt lonely. Perhaps the numbered streets of Mannheim were to blame, perhaps he missed the smells of Mother Hentjen’s restaurant, perhaps it was that scoundrel Nentwig that still troubled him; at any rate he felt lonely and stayed on with the brother and sister, stayed on although he was quick to observe how the wind blew, stayed on although he had no intention of having anything to do with that elderly virgin; he was not impressed in the least by the great display of lingerie which Erna had gathered together in the course of the years, and which she showed him with considerable pride, nor did even the savings-bank book which she once let him see, showing a balance of over two thousand marks, attract him. But Korn’s efforts to lure him into the trap were so amusing that they were worth taking some risk for; of course one had to be wary and not let oneself be caught. As for example: Korn would rarely let him pay for their drinks when they forgathered in the canteen before they went home together; and after they had heartily cursed the quality of the Mannheim beer Korn was not to be dissuaded from turning in for Munich beer at the Spatenbräu cellar. Then, if Herr Esch hastily put his hand into his pocket, Korn would again refuse to let him pay: “You’ll have your revenge yet, Herr Brother-in-law.” But when they were sauntering down Rheinstrasse the customs inspector would punctually halt before certain of the lighted shop-windows and clap Esch on the shoulder with his great paw: “My sister has been wanting an umbrella like that for a long time: I’ll have to buy it for her birthday,” or: “Every house should have a gas-iron like that,” or: “If my sister had a wringer she would be happy.” And when Esch made no reply to all these hints Korn would become as furiously angry as he had once been at recruits who refused to understand how to handle their rifles, and the more silent Esch was as they walked on, the more furious grew his burly companion’s rage at the impudently knowing expression on Esch’s face.

But it was by no means parsimony that made Esch dumb on those occasions. For although he was thrifty and fond of picking up small gains, yet the thorough and righteous book-keeping which in his soul he believed in did not allow him to accept goods without payment; service demanded counter-service, and goods must be paid for; nevertheless he thought it unnecessary to have a purchase forced on him in too great a hurry; indeed it would have seemed to him almost clumsy and inconsiderate to crown Korn’s breezy demands with actual success. So for the time being he had hit upon a curious kind of revenge which allowed him to repay his obligations to Korn and at the same time show that he was in no hurry to marry; after dinner he would invite Korn out for a little evening’s entertainment which took them to those beer-shops where there were barmaids, and unavoidably ended for them both in the so-called disreputable streets of the town. It sometimes cost a good deal of money to foot the bill for both of them—even if Korn could not get out of tipping his girl himself—yet the sight of Korn on the way home afterwards, walking along morosely, chewing at his black, bushy moustache, which was now limp and dejected, growling that this loose life Esch was leading him into must be put an end to: that was well worth all the expense. And besides, Korn was always in such a bad temper with his sister next morning that he went out of his way to wound her in her tenderest feelings, accusing her of never having been able to catch a man. And when thereupon she maintained hotly that she had had hosts of admirers, he would remind her contemptuously of her single estate.

One day Esch managed to wipe off his debt to a considerable extent. While he was on his way through the company’s stores his vigilant eye was caught by the curiously shaped packing-cases and properties of a theatrical outfit, which were just being unloaded. A clean-shaven gentleman was standing by in great agitation, shouting that his valuable property, which represented untold wealth, was being handled as roughly as if it were firewood, and when Esch, who had been looking on gravely with the air of a connoisseur, threw a few pieces of superfluous advice to the labourers, and in this unmistakable fashion gave the gentleman to know that he was in the presence of a man of knowledge and authority, the formidable volubility of the stranger was turned upon him and they soon found themselves engaged in a friendly conversation, in the course of which the clean-shaven gentleman, raising his hat slightly, introduced himself as Herr Gernerth, the new lessee of the Thalia Theatre, who would be particularly flattered—in the meanwhile the work of unloading had been completed—if the Shipping Inspector and his esteemed family would attend the opening performance, and begged to present him with the necessary tickets at reduced prices. And when Esch agreed with alacrity, the manager put his hand in his pocket and actually wrote out three free tickets for him on the spot.

Now Esch was sitting with the Korns in the variety theatre at a table covered with a white cloth. The programme opened with a novel attraction, the moving pictures or, as they were called, the cinematograph. These pictures, however, did not meet with much applause from the audience, or indeed from the public in general at that time, not being regarded as serious and genuine entertainment, but merely as a prelude to it; nevertheless this modern art-form really held one’s attention when a comedy was put on showing the comic effects of laxative pills, the critical moments being emphasized with a ruffle of drums. Korn roared with mirth and brought down the flat of his hand on the table; Fräulein Korn put her hand over her mouth and giggled, throwing stolen coquettish glances at Esch through her fingers, and Esch was as proud as though he himself were the inventor and producer of this highly successful entertainment. The smoke from their cigars ascended and melted into the cloud of tobacco smoke which very soon floated under the low roof of the hall traversed by the silvery beam of the limelight which lit up the screen. During the interval, which came after an act imitating the whistling of birds, Esch ordered three glasses of beer, though it cost considerably more here in the theatre than anywhere else, but he was relieved when it proved to be flat and stale and they decided to give no further orders, but to have a drink in the Spatenbräu after the performance. He felt once more in a generous mood, and while the prima donna was being passionate and despairing to the best of her ability he said significantly: “Ah, love, Fräulein Erna, love.” But when, after the vociferous applause which greeted the singer from all sides, the curtain rose again, the whole stage glittered as with silver, and little nickel-plated tables stood about, and all the other glittering apparatus of a juggler. On the red-velvet cloths with which the various stands were either hung or completely draped stood balls and flasks, little flags and banners, and also a great pile of white plates. On a ladder running up to a point—it too shone with nickel-plating—hung some two dozen daggers whose long blades glittered no less brilliantly than all the shining metal round them. The juggler in his black dress-suit was supported by a female assistant, whom he brought on, it was clear, simply to display her striking beauty to the public, and also the spangled tights she wore must have been designed merely to that end, for all that she had to do was to hand the juggler the plates and the flags, or to fling them to him in the midst of his performance whenever, as a signal, he clapped his hands. She discharged this task with a gracious smile, and when she threw him the hammer she emitted a short cry in some foreign tongue, perhaps to draw the attention of her master to her, perhaps also to beg for a little affection, which her austere tyrant, however, sternly denied her. And although he must certainly have known that he ran the risk of losing the audience’s sympathy by his hard-heartedness, he did not accord his beautiful helper even a single glance, and only when he had to acknowledge the applause with a bow did he indicate by a casual wave of his hand in her direction that he allowed her a certain percentage of it. But then he walked to the back of the stage, and quite amicably, as though the affront which he had just put upon her had never happened, they lifted up together a great black board which, noticed by nobody, had been waiting there all the time, brought it forward to the waiting array of shining paraphernalia, set it up on end, and fastened it securely to the ladder. Thereupon, mutually encouraging each other with short cries and smiles, they pushed the black board, now set up vertically, to the front of the stage, and secured it to the floor and the wings with cords which suddenly appeared from nowhere. After they had seen to this with profound solemnity, the beautiful assistant once more emitted her short cry and skipped over to the board, which was so high that, stretching her arms upwards, she could scarcely touch the top edge. And now one saw that two handles were fixed into the board near the top, and the assistant, who stood with her back against the board, seized hold of those handles, and this somewhat constrained and artificial posture gave her, as she stood sharply outlined in her glittering and flimsy attire against the black board, the look of someone being crucified. Yet all the same she still went on smiling her gracious smile, even when the man, after regarding her with sharp half-shut eyes, went up to her and altered her position, altered it so slightly as to be unnoticeable, it is true, yet in such a way that the spectators became aware that everything depended on that fraction of an inch. All this was done to the subdued strains of a waltz, which immediately broke off at a slight sign from the juggler. The theatre became quite still; an extraordinary isolation, divested even of music, lay on the stage up there, and the waiters did not dare to walk up to the tables with the beer and food they were carrying, but stood, themselves tense with excitement, by the yellow-lighted doors at the back; guests who were on the point of eating put back their forks, on which they had already spitted some morsel, on their plates, and only the limelight, which the operator had directed full on the crucified girl, went on whirring. But the juggler was already testing one of the long daggers in his murderous hand; he bent his body back and now it was he who sent out the discordant exotic cry, while the dagger flew whistling from his hand, whizzed straight across the stage, and quivered in the black wood with a dull impact beside the body of the crucified girl. And now, faster than one could follow him, he had both hands full of glittering daggers, and while his cries became more rapid and more brutal, indeed, veritably bestial, the daggers whizzed in more and more rapid succession through the quivering air, struck with ever more rapid impact on the wood, and framed the girl’s face, which still smiled, numb and yet confident, appealing and yet challenging, brave and yet apprehensive. Esch could almost have wished that it was himself who was standing up there with his arms raised to heaven, that it was himself being crucified, could almost have wished to station himself in front of that gentle girl and receive in his own breast the menacing blades; and had the juggler, as often happened, asked whether any gentleman in the audience would deign to step on to the stage and place himself against the black board, in sober truth Esch would have accepted the offer. Indeed the thought of standing up there alone and forsaken, where the long blades might pin one against the board like a beetle, filled him with almost voluptuous pleasure; butin that case, he thought, correcting himself, he would have to stand with his face to the board, for a beetle was never spitted from the under side: and the thought of standing with his face to the darkness of the board, not knowing when the deadly daggers might fly, transfixing his heart and pinning it to the board, had so extraordinary and mysterious a fascination for him, grew into a desire so novel, so powerful and satisfying, that he started as out of a dream of bliss when with a flourish of drums and fanfares the orchestra greeted the juggler, who had triumphantly dispatched the last of the daggers, and the girl skipped out of her frame, which was now complete, and both of them with a graceful pirouette, holding hands and executing spacious gestures with their free arms, bowed to the audience, now released from its ordeal. It was the fanfare of the Last Judgment, when the guilty were to be trodden underfoot like worms; why shouldn’t they be spitted like beetles? Why, instead of a sickle, shouldn’t Death carry a long darning-needle, or at least a lance? One always lived in fear of being awakened to the Last Judgment, for even if one had once upon a time almost thought of joining the Freethinkers, yet one had a conscience. He heard Korn saying: “That was great,” and it sounded like blasphemy: and when Fräulein Erna remarked that, if they asked her, she would take good care not to be set up there almost naked and have knives thrown at her before the whole audience, it was too much for Esch, and in the most ungentle manner he flung away her knee, which was leaning against his; one shouldn’t take people like these to see a superior entertainment; interlopers without a conscience, that’s what they were; and he was not in the least impressed by the fact that Fräulein Erna was always running to her confessor; indeed the life of his Cologne friends seemed to him by far more secure and respectable.

In the Spatenbräu Esch drank his dark beer in silence. He was still in the grip of an emotion that could only be called yearning. Especially when it took shape as a need to send a picture postcard to Mother Hentjen. It was of course only natural that Erna should add a line: “Kind regards from Erna Korn,” but when Balthasar too insisted on contributing and beneath his, “Regards, Korn, Customs Inspector,” scored in his firm hand a black definitively conclusive flourish, it was like a sort of homage to Frau Hentjen, and it softened Esch so much that he became unsure of himself: had he really quite fulfilled his obligation to give an honest return for the Korns’ kindness? Actually, to round off the evening, he should steal across to Erna’s door, and if he had not thrust her away so ungently just now the door would certainly have been left unbarred. Yes, properly regarded, that was the right and fitting conclusion to the evening, yet he did nothing to bring it about. A sort of paralysis had fallen on him; he paid no further attention to Erna, did not seek her knee with his, and nothing happened either on the way home or afterwards. For some reason or other his conscience was troubling him, but finally he decided in his mind that he had done enough after all, and that it might even lead to trouble if he showed too much attention to Fräulein Korn; he felt a fate hovering over his head with threateningly upraised lance ready to strike if he should go on behaving like a swine, and he felt that he must remain true to someone, even though he did not know who it was.

While Esch was still feeling the stab of conscience in his back so palpably that he declared he must have sat in a cold draught, and every night rubbed himself as far as he could reach with a pungent embrocation, Mother Hentjen was rejoicing over the two picture postcards which he had sent her, and stuck them, before they should go for final preservation into her picture-postcard album, in the mirror frame behind the buffet. Then in the evening she took them out and showed them to the regular customers. Perhaps she did this also lest anybody might say of her that she was carrying on a secret correspondence with a man; for if she let the postcards go the round of the restaurant then they were no longer directed merely to her, but to the establishment, which was only incidentally personified in her. For this reason too she was glad that Geyring undertook the task of replying; yet she would not hear of Herr Geyring going to any expense, so she herself procured next day a particularly beautiful panorama card, as it was called, three times the length of an ordinary postcard, showing the whole of Cologne stretching along the dark-blue banks of the Rhine, and leaving space for a great number of signatures. At the top she wrote: “Many thanks for the beautiful postcards from Mother Hentjen.” Then Geyring gave the command: “Ladies first,” and Hede and Thusnelda signed their names. And then followed the names of Wilhelm Lassmann, Bruno May, Hoelst, Wrobek, Hülsenschmitt, John, the English mechanic Andrew, the sailor Wingast, and finally, after several more, all of which were not decipherable, the name of Martin Geyring. Then Geyring wrote out the address: “Herr August Esch, Head Book-keeper, Shipping Depot, Central Rhine Shipping Company Limited, Mannheim,” and handed the finished product to Frau Hentjen, who, after reading it through carefully, opened the cash drawer to take from the large wire basket in which the bank-notes lay the necessary postage stamp. To her now the enormous card, with the long list of signatures, seemed almost too marked an honour for Esch, who had not been after all among the best patrons of the restaurant. But as everything she did she liked to do thoroughly, and as on the huge card there still remained, in spite of all the names, enough empty space not only to offend her sense of proportion, but also to provide the desired chance of putting Esch in his place by filling it in with a name of more humble rank, Mother Hentjen bore the card to the kitchen for the maid to sign her name, doubly pleased that in this way she could give pleasure to the poor girl without its costing anything.

When she returned to the restaurant Martin was sitting at his usual place in the corner near the buffet, buried in one of the Socialist journals. Frau Hentjen sat down beside him and said jestingly, as she often did: “Herr Geyring, you’ll get my restaurant a bad name yet if you use it all the time for reading your seditious papers.” “I’m disgusted enough myself with these scribblers,” was the answer, “fellows like us do all the work, and these chaps only scribble a lot of nonsense.” Once more Frau Hentjen felt a little disappointed in Geyring, for she had never given up the hope that he would yet come out with something revolutionary and full of hatred on which she might feed her own resentment against the world. She had often glanced into the Socialist papers, but really what she found there had seemed to her pretty tame, and so she hoped that Geyring’s living speech would have more to give her than the printed word. So to a certain extent she was pleased that Geyring too did not think much of the newspaper writers, for she was always pleased when anyone did not think much of anyone else; yet, on the other hand, he still continued to disappoint her expectations. No, these anarchists didn’t get you very far, there wasn’t much help in a man like Geyring who sat in his trade-union bureau just like a police sergeant in his office, and Frau Hentjen was once more firmly convinced that the whole structure of society was simply a put-up job among the men, who laid their heads together to injure and disappoint women. She made one more attempt: “What is it that you don’t like in your papers, Herr Geyring?” “They write such stuff,” growled Martin, “turn the people’s heads with their revolutionary rant, and then we’ve got to pay for it.” Frau Hentjen did not quite understand this; besides, she was no longer interested. Mainly out of politeness she sighed: “Yes, life isn’t easy.” Geyring turned over a page and said absently: “No, life isn’t easy, Mother Hentjen.” “And a man like you, always on the go, always at it from early morning till late at night.…” Geyring said almost with satisfaction: “There won’t be any eight-hour day for men like me for a long time yet: everybody else will get it first.…” “And to think that they try to make it harder for you!” said Frau Hentjen in amazement, shaking her head and throwing a glance at her coiffure in the mirror behind the buffet. “Yes, they can make a fine noise in the Reichstag and the newspaper, our friends the Jews,” said Geyring, “but when it comes to the real work of organization they turn tail.” Frau Hentjen could understand this: she agreed indignantly: “They’re everywhere, these Jews; they have all the money and no woman is safe from them, they’re just like bulls.” The old expression of petrified loathing overspread her face. Martin looked up from his paper and could not help smiling: “It isn’t as bad as all that, surely, Mother Hentjen.” “So now you’re sticking up for the Jews next?” there was a hint of hysterical aggressiveness in her voice, “but you always stick up for one another, you men,” and then quite unexpectedly: “a girl in every port.” “That may be, Mother Hentjen,” laughed Martin, “but you won’t find such good cooking as Mother Hentjen’s anywhere in a hurry.” Frau Hentjen was appeased: “Not even in Mannheim, maybe,” she said, handing Geyring the picture postcard that he was to send off to Esch.

Gernerth, the theatre manager, now belonged to Esch’s intimate circle of friends. For Esch, an impetuous man, had bought another ticket the very day after the first performance, not merely because he wanted to see that brave girl again, but also that he might look up a somewhat astonished Gernerth after the performance and introduce himself as a paying client; while doing this he once more thanked the manager for a lovely evening’s enjoyment, and Gernerth, who saw a request for more free tickets in the offing, and was already preparing to refuse them, could not but feel touched. And heartened by his cordial reception Esch simply remained sitting; thus achieving his second object, for he was presented to the juggler Herr Teltscher and also to his brave companion Ilona, who, it turned out, were both of them of Hungarian birth, at least Ilona was, and she had very little command over German, while Herr Teltscher, whose professional name was Teltini, and who employed English on the stage, came from Pressburg.

Herr Gernerth, on the other hand, was an Egerlander, and this was a matter for great joy to Korn, the first time that the two men met; for the towns of Eger and Hof were close neighbours, and Korn could not but regard it as an extraordinary coincidence that two men who were almost landsmen should meet in Mannheim of all places. Still his expressions of joy and surprise were more or less rhetorical, for in less desirable circumstances the fact that he was meeting almost a landsman would have left him quite indifferent. He invited Gernerth to visit his sister and himself, partly perhaps because he could not bear the idea of his presumptive brother-in-law having private acquaintanceships of his own, and Herr Teltscher too was presently invited to a repast of coffee and cakes.

So now on a dull Sunday afternoon they all sat at the round table, on which beside the bulging coffee-pot the cakes, contributed by Esch, were piled up artistically in a pyramid, while outside the rain poured down the window-panes. Herr Gernerth began, trying to set the conversation going: “You’ve a very nice place here, Herr Customs Inspector, roomy, lots of light.…” And he looked out through the window at the dreary suburban street, in which lay great puddles of rain. Fräulein Erna remarked that it was really too small for their circumstances, yet a fireside of one’s own was the only thing that could make life sweet. Herr Gernerth became elegiac: no place like home, yes, she might well say that, but for an artist it was an unfulfillable dream; no, for him there could be no home; he had a flat, it was true, a pleasant and comfortable flat in Munich, where his wife lived with the children, but he was almost a stranger to his family by this time. Why didn’t he take them with him? It was no life for children, on tour all the time. And besides—No, his children would never be artists, his children wouldn’t. He was obviously an affectionate father, and Esch as well as Fräulein Erna felt touched by his goodness of heart. And perhaps because he felt lonely Esch said: “I’m an orphan, I can scarcely remember my mother.” “Poor fellow!” said Fräulein Erna. But Herr Teltscher, who did not seem to relish this lugubrious talk, now made a coffee-cup revolve on the tip of his finger so that they could not help laughing, all but Ilona who sat impassively on her chair, recuperating, it seemed, from the perpetual smiles with which she had to embellish her evenings. At close quarters she was by no means so lovely and fragile as she had been on the stage, but might even have been called plump; her face was slightly puffy, there were heavy pouches covered with freckles under her eyes, and Esch, now become mistrustful, began to suspect that her beautiful blond hair, too, might not be genuine, but only a wig; yet his suspicions faded whenever he looked at her body, for he could not help seeing the knives whizzing past it. Then he noticed that Korn’s eyes too were caressing that body, and so he tried to attract Ilona’s attention, asked her whether she liked Mannheim, whether she had seen the Rhine before, with similar geographical inquiries. Unfortunately his attempts were unsuccessful, for Ilona only replied now and then and at the wrong point: “Yes, very nice,” and wished, it seemed, to have nothing to do either with him or with Korn; she drank her coffee heavily and seriously, and even when Teltscher spluttered something at her in their sibilant native idiom, obviously something disagreeable, she scarcely listened. Meanwhile Fräulein Erna was telling Gernerth that a happy family life was the most beautiful thing in the world, and she gave Esch a little nudge with her toe, either to encourage him to follow Gernerth’s example, or perhaps merely to withdraw his attention from the Hungarian girl, whose beauty, however, she praised none the less; for the greedy longing with which her brother was regarding the girl had not escaped her vigilant glance, and she considered it preferable that the lovely charmer should fall to her brother rather than to Esch. So she stroked Ilona’s hands and praised their whiteness, rolled up the girl’s sleeve and said that she had a lovely fine skin, Balthasar should only look at it. Balthasar put out his hairy paw to feel it. Teltscher laughed and said that every Hungarian woman had a skin like silk, whereupon Erna, who also had a skin of her own, replied that it was all a matter of tending one’s complexion, and that she washed her face every day in milk. Certainly, said Gernerth, she had a marvellous, indeed an international, complexion, and Fräulein Erna’s withered face parted in a smile, showing her yellow teeth and the gap where one tooth was missing in her left upper jaw, and blushed to the roots of the hair at her temples, which hung down thin and brown and a little faded, from her coiffure.

Twilight had fallen; Korn’s fist grasped Ilona’s hand more and more firmly, and Fräulein Erna was waiting until Esch, or Gernerth at least, should do the same with hers. She hesitated to light the lamp, chiefly because Balthasar would have radically disapproved of the disturbance, but at last she was forced to get up so as to fetch the blue carafe of home-brewed liqueur which stood ostentatiously on the sideboard. Proudly announcing that the recipe was her own secret she served out the brew, which tasted like flat beer, but was applauded as delicious by Gernerth; in his admiration he even kissed her hand. Esch remembered that Mother Hentjen did not like Schnapps drinkers, and it filled him with particular satisfaction to think that she would have had all sorts of hard things to say of Korn, for he was tossing down one glass after another, smacking his lips each time, and sucking the drops from his dark, bushy moustache. Korn poured out a glass for Ilona too, and it may have been her imperturbable indifference and impassivity that made her allow him to lift the glass to her mouth and raise no objection even when he took a sip from it himself, dipping his moustache into it, and declaring that it was a kiss. Evidently Ilona did not understand what he had said, but on the other hand Teltscher must know what was happening. Incomprehensible that he should look on so calmly. Perhaps he was suffering inwardly, and was simply too well-bred to create a scene. Esch had a strong desire to do it for him, but then he remembered the rough tone in which Teltscher had ordered the brave girl to hand him things on the stage; perhaps he was deliberately trying to humiliate her? Something or other should be done, somebody ought to shield Ilona! But Teltscher merely clapped him jovially on the shoulder, calling him colleague and brother, and when Esch looked at him questioningly pointed to the two couples and said: “We must stick together, we young bachelors.” “I’ll have to take pity on you, I see,” said Fräulein Erna, changing places so that she sat now between Gernerth and Esch, but Herr Gernerth said in an offended tone: “That’s how we poor artists are always being slighted … for these commercial fellows.” Teltscher declared that Esch shouldn’t allow this, for it was only in the commercial class that solidity and breadth of vision were still to be found. The theatrical industry itself might even be regarded as a branch of commerce, and indeed as the most difficult of the lot with all respect to Herr Gernerth, who was not only his manager, but in a sense his partner, besides being in his own way a very capable man of business, even if he didn’t exploit possible avenues of success as he might. He, Teltscher-Teltini, could see that very well, for before he felt drawn to an artist’s life he had been in commerce himself. “And what’s been the end of it all? Here I sit, when I might have lots of first-class engagements in America.… And I ask you, is my turn a first-class one, or isn’t it?” A vague memory rose up rebelliously in Esch; what reason had they to praise up the commercial classes so much? The precious solidity they talked of wasn’t so solid as they thought. He said so frankly, and ended: “Of course there’s a great difference, for instance, between Nentwig and von Bertrand, the Chairman of our company; they’re both in commerce, but the one is a swine and the other … well, he’s something different, something better.” Korn growled contemptuously that Bertrand was a renegade officer, everybody knew that, he needn’t give himself airs. Esch was not displeased to hear this; so the difference between them wasn’t so very great after all! But that didn’t alter matters; Bertrand was something better, and in any case these were speculations which he had no desire to pursue too far. Meanwhile Teltscher went on talking about America; over there one could soon come to the top, over there one didn’t need to work oneself to skin and bone for nothing as one did here. And he quoted: “America, you lucky land.” Gernerth sighed: yes, if he had only had enough of the commercial spirit things would be different now; he had been very rich once himself, but in spite of all his business acumen he had kept the childlike trustfulness of the artist and had been cheated out of all his capital, almost a million marks, by pure fraud. Yes, Herr Esch might well look at him, Gernerth had once been a rich man! Tempi passati. Well, he would make his pile again. He had the idea of a theatrical trust, a huge limited liability company for whose shares people would yet be falling over one another. One had simply to march with the times and get hold of capital. And once more kissing Fräulein Erna’s hand he asked his glass to be filled again, and said with the air of a connoisseur: “Delicious,” still clasping her hand, which remained willingly and contentedly surrendered to him. But Esch, overwhelmed by all that he had heard, and now sunk in thought, scarcely noticed that Fräulein Erna’s shoe was pressing against his, and saw only as from a distance and in the darkness Korn’s yellow hand which lay on Ilona’s shoulder and made it easy to guess that Balthasar Korn had put his powerful arm round Ilona’s neck.

But then finally the lamp had to be lit, and now the conversation became general, only Ilona remaining silent. And as it was time to leave for the theatre, and they did not want to break up, Gernerth invited his hosts to attend the performance. So they got ready and took a tram to the theatre. The two ladies went inside and the men smoked their cigars on the platform at the back. Cold drops of rain spattered now and then into their heated faces, refreshing them pleasantly.

The name of the tobacconist from whom August Esch usually bought his cheap cigars was Fritz Lohberg. He was a young man about the same age as Esch, and this may have been the reason why Esch, who was always in the company of people older than himself, treated him as if he were a fool. Nevertheless the fool must have had some slight importance for him, and really it should have given Esch himself matter for thought that just in this shop he should feel so much at home as to become a regular customer. True, the shop lay on the way to his work, yet that was no reason why he should feel at home in it so immediately. Certainly it was very spick-and-span, a pleasant place to dawdle in: the light, pure fragrance of tobacco that filled it gave one an agreeable titillation in the nose, and it was nice to run one’s hand over the polished counter, at one end of which, beside the glittering nickel-plated automatic cash register, invariably stood several open sample boxes of light-brown cigars and a little stand containing matches. If one made a purchase one received a box of matches free, a stylishly ample one. Further, there was a huge cigar-cutter which Herr Lohberg always had at hand, and if one wanted to light one’s cigar on the spot, then with a sharp little click he snipped off the end that one held out to him. It was a good place to spend one’s time in, bright and sunny and hospitable behind its plate-glass windows, and during these cold days full of a sort of pleasant smooth warmth that lay on the white floor-tiles and was a welcome change from the dusty, overheated atmosphere of the glass cage in the warehouse. But while that was sufficient reason for liking to come here after one’s work or during the lunch-hour, it had no further significance. At these times one was full of praise for neatness and order, and grumbled at the filth one had to slave among; yet one did not intend this quite seriously, for Esch knew quite well that the perfect orderliness which he kept in his books and his goods lists couldn’t be imposed on piles of packing-cases and bales and barrels, no matter how good the foreman might be at his job. But here in this shop, on the other hand, a curiously satisfying sense of order, an almost feminine precision, ruled, and this seemed all the stranger to Esch because he could scarcely picture to himself, or only with discomfort, girls selling cigars; in spite of all its cleanliness it was a job for men, a thing suggesting good-fellowship; yes, this was what friendship between men should be like, and not careless and perfunctory like the casual helpfulness of a trade-union secretary. But these were things which Esch really did not bother his mind about; they occurred to him only by the way. On the other hand, it was both funny and curious that Lohberg shouldn’t be content with a job that suited him so well and in which he might have been happy, and still funnier were the grounds that he offered for his dissatisfaction, and in advancing which he showed so clearly that he was a fool. For although he had hung over the automatic cash register a board with the inscription: “Smoking has never harmed anybody”; although his boxes of cigars were accompanied by neat cards which displayed not only his business address and the names of the different brands, but also a little couplet: “Smoke good and pure tobacco every day, And you will have no doctors’ bills to pay,” yet he himself did not believe in these sentiments; indeed he smoked his own cigarettes simply from a sense of duty and because his conscience pricked him, and, in perpetual dread of so-called smoker’s cancer, constantly felt in his stomach, his heart, his throat, all the evil symptoms of nicotine-poisoning. He was a lank little man with a dark shadow of a moustache and lifeless eyes which showed a great deal of white, and his somewhat coy charm and bearing were just as incompatible with his general principles as the business which he carried on and had no thought of exchanging for another; for he was not content to regard tobacco as a popular poison undermining the national well-being, perpetually reiterating that the people must be saved from this virus; no, he was also an advocate of a spacious, natural, genuinely German way of life, and it was a great disappointment to him that he could not live in the open air, a deep-chested, blond giant. For this deprivation, however, he partly compensated himself by subscribing to anti-alcoholic and vegetarian associations, and so beside the cash register there was always lying a pile of pamphlets on such subjects, most of them sent to him from Switzerland. No doubt about it, he was a pure fool.

Now Esch, who smoked cigars and drank wine and treated himself to huge portions of meat whenever he had the chance, might not have been so deeply impressed by Herr Lohberg’s arguments, in spite of the persuasive phrases about saving the people which always recurred in them, if he had not been struck by a curious parallelism between them and the principles of Mother Hentjen. Of course Mother Hentjen was a sensible woman, even an unusually sensible woman, and so her opinions had nothing in common with Lohberg’s jargon. Yet when Lohberg, true to the Calvinistic convictions which reached him from Switzerland along with his pamphlets, inveighed like a priest against sensual indulgence and in the same breath pleaded like a Socialist orator addressing a Freethinking audience for a free and simple life in the bosom of nature; when in his own modest way he let it be understood that there was something amiss with the world, a glaring error in the books which could only be put right by a wonderful new entry, in all this confusion only one thing was absolutely clear, that Mother Hentjen’s restaurant was in the same case as Lohberg’s tobacconist shop: she had to depend for her living on the men who boozed at her tables, and she too hated her business and her customers. No doubt about it, it was a queer coincidence, and Esch half thought of writing to Frau Hentjen to tell her about it, it would interest her. But he dropped the idea when he reflected that Frau Hentjen might think it odd, perhaps even feel insulted, to be compared with a man who, in spite of all his virtues, was an idiot. So he saved it up until he should see her; in any case he would soon have to go to Cologne on business.

All the same the case of Lohberg was well worth mentioning; and one evening, while Esch was sitting at dinner with Korn and Fräulein Erna, he gave way to his desire to talk about it.

Of course the two Korns knew of Lohberg. Korn had already been in his shop several times, but he had observed none of the man’s peculiarities. “One wouldn’t think it to see him,” he said, after an interval of silent thought, and agreed with Esch that the man was a fool. But Fräulein Erna seemed to be seized with a violent aversion to this spiritual double of Frau Hentjen, and inquired sharply whether Frau Hentjen perchance was Herr Esch’s long and carefully concealed lady-love. She must be a very virtuous lady, no doubt, but Fräulein Erna thought all the same that she herself was just as good. And as for Herr Lohberg’s virtuous scruples, of course it wasn’t nice when a man made the curtains stink with his perpetual smoking as her brother did. Yet on the other hand one knew at least that there was a man about the house. “A man that does nothing but drink water …” she searched for words, “would sicken me.” And then she inquired, did Herr Lohberg even know what it was to have a woman? “He’s still an innocent, I suppose, the fool,” said Esch, and Korn, foreseeing that there was sport to be had out of him yet, exclaimed: “A pure Joseph!”

Whether for this purpose, or because he wished to keep an eye on his lodger, or simply by pure chance, Korn too now became a regular customer of Lohberg’s, and Lohberg shrank every time that the Herr Customs Inspector noisily entered his shop. His fear was not without cause. A few evenings later the blow fell; shortly before closing time Korn appeared with Esch and commanded: “Make yourself ready, my lad; to-night you’re going to lose your innocence.” Lohberg rolled his eyes helplessly and pointed to a man in the uniform of the Salvation Army who was standing in the shop. “Fancy dress?” said Korn, and Lohberg stammeringly introduced the man: “A friend of mine.” “We’re friends too,” replied Korn, holding out his paw to the Salvation Army soldier. He was a freckled, somewhat pimply, red-haired youth, who had learned that one must be friendly to every soul one meets; he smiled in Korn’s face and rescued Lohberg: “Brother Lohberg has promised to testify in our ranks to-night. I’ve come to fetch him.” “So, you’re going out to testify? Then we’ll come too.” Korn was enthusiastic. “We’re all friends.” “Every friend is welcome,” said the joyful Salvation Army man. Lohberg was not consulted; he had the look of a thief caught in the act, and closed up the shop with a guilty air. Esch had followed the proceedings with great amusement, yet as Korn’s high-handedness annoyed him he clapped Lohberg jovially on the shoulder, reproducing the very gesture that Teltscher had often expended on him.

They made for the Neckar quarter. In Käfertalerstrasse they could already hear the beating of the drums and tambourines, and Korn’s feet, as if remembering their time in the army, fell into step. When they came to the end of the street they saw the Salvation Army group standing at the corner of the park in the dying twilight. Watery sleet had fallen, and where the group was gathered the snow had melted into black slush which soaked through one’s boots. The Lieutenant was standing on a wooden bench and cried into the falling darkness: “Come to us and be saved, poor wandering sinners, the Saviour is near!” But only a few had answered his call, and when his soldiers, with drums and tambourines beating, sang of the redeeming love and made their chorus resound: “Lord God of Sabaoth save, Oh, save our souls from Hell,” hardly anybody in the crowd standing round joined in, and it was obvious that the majority were merely looking on out of curiosity. And although the honest soldiers sang on lustily, and the two girls struck their tambourines with all their might, the crowd grew thinner and thinner as the light faded, and soon they were left alone with their Lieutenant, their only audience now being Lohberg, Korn and Esch. Yet even now Lohberg was probably ready to join in the hymn, and indeed he would certainly have done so without feeling either embarrassed or intimidated by Esch and Korn if Korn had not kept on digging him in the ribs and saying: “Sing, Lohberg!” It wasn’t a very pleasant situation for Lohberg, and he was glad when a policeman arrived and ordered them to move on. They all set out for the Thomasbräu cellar. And yet it was almost a pity that Lohberg hadn’t joined in the singing, yes, then perhaps a minor miracle might have happened, for it wouldn’t have taken much to make Esch too lift up his voice in praise of the Saviour and His redeeming love; indeed only a slight impetus would have been required, and perhaps the sound of Lohberg’s voice would have provided it. But one can never be sure of those things afterwards.

Esch himself could not make out what had happened to him at the open-air meeting: the two girls had beaten their tambourines when the officer standing on the bench gave the signal, and that had reminded him strangely of the commands which Teltscher gave Ilona on the stage. Perhaps it was the sudden dead silence of the evening that had affected him, for there at the outskirts of the city the sounds of the evening broke off as abruptly as the music in the theatre; perhaps it was the motionlessness of the black trees that gazed up into the darkening sky; and then behind him in the square the arc-lamps had flared out. It was all incomprehensible. The biting coldness of the wet snow had pierced through his shoes; but that was not the only reason why Esch would have liked to be standing up there on the bench pointing out the way of salvation, for his old strange feeling of orphaned isolation had returned again, and suddenly it had become dreadfully clear to him that some time he would have to die in utter and complete loneliness. A vague and yet unforeseen hope had risen in him that things would go better, far better, with him if he could but stand up there on the bench; and he saw Ilona, Ilona in the Salvation Army uniform, gazing up at him and waiting for his redeeming signal to strike the tambourine and cry “Hallelujah!” But Korn was standing beside him, grinning out from between the great upturned collars of his damp customs cloak, and at the sight of him Esch’s hopes had ignominiously melted away. Esch’s mouth twisted wryly, his expression became contemptuous, and all at once he was almost glad to be orphaned and alone. In any case he too was relieved that the policeman had moved them on.

Lohberg was walking in front with the pimply Salvation Army man and one of the girls. Esch trudged behind. Yes, whether a girl like that beat a tambourine or threw plates, one only had to order her to do it, it was just the same, only the clothes were different. They sang about love in the Salvation Army as in the theatre. “Perfect redeeming love,” Esch had to laugh, and he decided to sound the good Salvation Army girl on this question. When they were nearing the Thomasbräu cellar the girl stopped, planted her foot on a ledge projecting from the wall, bent down, and began to tie the laces of her wet, shapeless boots. As she stood there bent double, her black hat almost touching her knee, she looked lumpish and hardly human, a monstrosity, yet with a certain, as it were, mechanical effectiveness of structure, and Esch, who in other circumstances would have requited such a posture with a clap on the part most saliently exposed, was a little alarmed that no desire to do so awoke in him, and it almost seemed as though another bridge between him and his fellow-creatures had been broken, and he felt homesick for Cologne. That day in the kitchen he had wanted to take hold of Mother Hentjen under the breasts; yes, he would not have been put off had Mother Hentjen bent down and laced her shoes. But as all men have the same thoughts, Korn, who felt on good terms with all the world, now pointed to the girl: “Any chance with her, do you think?” Esch threw him a furious glance, but Korn did not stop: “Among themselves they’re probably hot enough, the soldiers.” Meanwhile they had reached the Thomasbräu cellar, and they walked into the bright, noisy room, which smelt pleasantly of roast beef, onions and beer.

Here, at any rate, Korn met with a disappointment. For the Salvation Army people were not to be prevailed upon to sit down at the same table; they said good-bye and gathered at one end of the room to distribute the War Cry. Esch too would have preferred not to be left alone with Korn; some remnant of hope still fluttered in his soul that these people might be able to bring back to him what he had felt under the darkening trees and yet had not been able to grasp. But it was a good thing, on the other hand, that they were now beyond the reach of Korn’s raillery, and it would have been still better if they had taken Lohberg with them, for Korn was now anxious to get his own back and was beginning his joke at Lohberg’s expense by trying to make the helpless fellow violate his principles with the aid of a portion of steak and onions and a great jug of beer. But the ninny stood his ground, merely saying in a quiet voice: “You shouldn’t joke with a fellow’s convictions,” and touched neither the meat nor the beer, and Korn, once more disappointed, had to be content with morosely devouring them himself, so that they might not be wasted. Esch contemplated the dark residue of beer at the bottom of his jug; absurd to think that one’s salvation could depend on whether one drank that up or not. All the same he felt almost grateful to the mild and obstinate fool. Lohberg sat there smiling meekly, and sometimes one almost expected tears to start to his great eyes with the exposed whites. Yet when the Salvation Army people in their round of the tables drew near again he stood up and it looked as though he were about to shout something to them. Against Esch’s expectations he did not do so, but simply remained standing where he was. Then suddenly he uttered without warning or reason a single word, a word quite incomprehensible to everyone who heard it; he uttered loudly and distinctly the word “Redemption,” and then sat down again. Korn looked at Esch and Esch looked at Korn. But when Korn put his finger to his brow and twirled it to indicate that Lohberg was weak in the head, the whole situation changed in the most extraordinary and terrifying manner, for it was as though the word of redemption, now set free, hovered over the table maintained in its detachment by an invisibly revolving mechanism, detached even from the mouth that had uttered it. And although Esch’s contempt for Lohberg remained undiminished, yet it seemed now that the kingdom of salvation did exist, could exist, must exist, if only because Korn, that dead lump of flesh, was sitting on his broad hindquarters in the Thomasbräu cellar, quite incapable of sending his thoughts even as far as the next street corner, far less of losing them in the infinite spaces of freedom. And although, in spite of these ideas, Esch refused to act the prig, but instead rapped with his jug on the table and ordered another beer, yet he too became silent like Lohberg; and when on rising to leave Korn proposed that they should take the pure Joseph to visit the girls, Esch refused to second him, left a completely disappointed Balthasar Korn standing on the pavement, and escorted the tobacconist home, quite pleased that Korn should shout insults after them. It had stopped snowing, and in the warm wind that had risen Korn’s rude words fluttered past like light spring blossoms.

Driven by that extraordinary oppression which falls on every human being when, childhood over, he begins to divine that he is fated to go on in isolation and unaided towards his own death; driven by this extraordinary oppression, which may with justice be called a fear of God, man looks round him for a companion hand in hand with whom he may tread the road to the dark portal, and if he has learned by experience how pleasurable it undoubtedly is to lie with another fellow-creature in bed, then he is ready to believe that this extremely intimate association of two bodies may last until these bodies are coffined: and even if at the same time it has its disgusting aspects, because it takes place under coarse and badly aired sheets, or because he is convinced that all a girl cares for is to get a husband who will support her in later life, yet it must not be forgotten that every fellow-creature, even if she has a sallow complexion, sharp, thin features and an obviously missing tooth in her left upper jaw, yearns, in spite of her missing tooth, for that love which she thinks will for ever shield her from death, from that fear of death which sinks with the falling of every night upon the human being who sleeps alone, a fear that already licks her as with a tongue of flame when she begins to take off her clothes, as Fräulein Erna was doing now; she laid aside her faded red-velvet blouse and took off her dark-green skirt and her petticoat. Then she drew off her shoes; but her stockings, on the other hand, as well as her white, starched under-petticoat, she kept on; indeed she could not even summon the resolution to undo her corsets. She was afraid, but she concealed her fear behind a knowing smile, and by the light of the flickering candle-flame on the bedside-table she slipped, without undressing further, into bed.

Now it came to pass that she heard Esch walking several times through the lobby, in doing which he made a greater noise than the necessary arrangements he was engaged in should have required. Perhaps these arrangements themselves were not indeed altogether necessary, for what need could there be to fetch water to his room twice? And the water-jug was surely not so heavy that he had to set it down with a bang in the passage immediately outside Erna’s door. But every time that Fräulein Erna heard anything she resolved not to be outdone and made a noise too; stretched herself till the bed creaked, even pushed deliberately with her toes against the foot of it and sighed an audible “This is nice,” as if she were sleepy; also she coughed and cleared her throat in pursuit of her purpose. Now Esch was an impetuous man, and after they had telegraphed to each other in this way for a little while he walked resolutely into her room.

There lay Fräulein Erna in bed and smiled knowingly and slyly and yet a little invitingly at him with her missing tooth, and really she did not attract him very much. All the same he paid no attention to her protest: “But Herr Esch, you mustn’t stay here,” but remained calmly where he was; and he did this not merely because he was a man of coarse appetites, like most men, he did it not merely because two people of different sexes living on intimate terms in the same house can scarcely escape the automatic functioning of physical attraction, and with the reflection “Why not, after all,” will eventually yield casually to it, he did it not only because he divined that her feelings were much the same as his and so discounted her words, he did it therefore not simply in obedience to a low impulse, even if we add jealousy to it, the jealousy which any man might feel on seeing a woman flirting with Herr Gernerth; no, Esch did it because he was a man for whom it was essential that this pleasure, which people imagine one seeks for its own sake, should serve also a higher purpose, a purpose which he could scarcely name and yet felt bound to obey, but which nevertheless was nothing but the compulsion to put an end to a tremendous fear that extended far beyond himself, even if sometimes it might seem to be merely the fear that befalls the commercial traveller when, far from his wife and children, he lies down in his lonely hotel bed; the fear and desire of the traveller who resorts to the plain and elderly chambermaid, sometimes heart-broken by the squalor of the affair, and generally filled with remorse of conscience. Of course when Esch banged down his water-jug hard on the floor he was no longer thinking of the loneliness which had descended upon him since he had left Cologne, nor was he thinking of the isolation that had lain on the stage before Teltscher let fly the whistling, glittering daggers. Yet now that he sat on the edge of Fräulein Erna’s bed and bent over her in desire, he wanted more from her than is currently construed as the satisfaction of an average sensual man’s lust, for behind the very palpable, indeed banal, immediate object of desire, yearning was hidden, the yearning of the captive soul for redemption from its loneliness, for a salvation which should embrace himself and her, yes, perhaps all mankind, and most certainly Ilona, a salvation which Erna could not vouchsafe him, because neither she nor he knew what he wanted. So the rage which seized him when she refused him the final favour and gently said: “When we’re man and wife,” was neither merely the rage of the thwarted male, nor simple fury at the discovery of the trick she had played him in only half-undressing; it was more, it was despair, even if the words with which, sobered now, he rudely replied, were by no means high-sounding: “Well, it’s all off, then.” And although her refusal seemed to him a sign from God warning him to be chaste, he left the house immediately and went to a more willing lady. And that deeply wounded Erna.

From that evening there was open war between Esch and Fräulein Erna. She let no opportunity pass of provoking his desire, and he no less eagerly seized every pretext to renew his attempt and to lure the recalcitrant one into his bed without promise of marriage. The battle began in the morning when she brought his breakfast into his room before he was properly dressed, a lascivious kind of mothering that maddened him; and it ended in the evening in indifference, whether she had barred her door or let him in. Neither of them ever mentioned the word love, and the fact that open hatred did not break out between them, but was dissembled in spiteful jests, was due simply to the other fact that they had not yet possessed each other.

Often he thought that with Ilona things must be different and better, but strangely enough his thoughts did not dare to rise to her. She was something better, much in the same way as the Chairman of the company, Bertrand, was something better. And Esch did not even mind very much that one of Erna’s tricks was to frustrate any chance of his meeting Ilona, indeed he was even glad of this, bitterly as he resented all her silly fuss and her tittering facetiousness. Meanwhile Ilona was about the place almost every day, and between her and Erna a sort of friendship had grown up, yet what they could find in each other was incomprehensible to Esch; if when he got home he smelt the cheap and powerful scent which Ilona used, and which always excited him, he was sure to find the two ladies in an extraordinary dumb dialogue; for Ilona knew scarcely a word of German and Fräulein Erna was forced to fall back on fondling her friend, stationing her before the mirror and admiringly patting and rearranging her coiffure and her dress. But generally Esch found himself excluded. For Erna now set herself to conceal from him even the presence of her friend in the house. So one evening he happened to be sitting quite innocently in his room when the door-bell rang. He heard Erna opening the door and would not have thought anything further about the matter if he had not suddenly heard the key of his door being turned. Esch made a spring for the door; he was locked in! The trollop had locked him in! And although he should simply have ignored the stupid joke, it was too much for him, and he began to bawl and bang on the door, until at last Fräulein Erna opened it and slipped into the room with a giggle. “Well,” she said, “now I can attend to you … we have a visitor, I may say, but Balthasar is looking after her all right.” Esch rushed out of the house in a rage.

When he returned late at night the lobby again reeked of Ilona’s perfume. So she must have come back again, or rather she must still be here, for now he saw her hat hanging on the hat-rack. But where could she be? The parlour was dark. Korn was snoring next door. She simply couldn’t have gone away without her hat! Esch listened at Erna’s door; the agitating and oppressive thought came into his mind that the two women were lying in there side by side. He cautiously tried the door-handle; the door did not yield, it was barred as always when Fräulein Erna really wanted to sleep. Esch shrugged his shoulders and walked noisily to his room. But he could not rest in bed; he peered out into the passage; the perfume still hung in the air and the hat was still there. Something wasn’t in order, one could feel that, and Esch stole through the house. It seemed to him that he could hear whispering in Korn’s room; Korn wasn’t the man to speak in a whisper, and Esch listened more intently: then suddenly Korn groaned, unmistakably he groaned, and Esch, a fellow who had no occasion to fear a man like Korn, fled back to his room in his bare feet as though something dreadful were pursuing him. He even felt he wanted to put his hands to his ears.

Next morning Erna awakened him out of a leaden sleep, and before he could bring out his question she said: “Hsh! I’ve a surprise for you. Get up at once!” He hastily put on his clothes, and when he walked into the kitchen, where Erna was busy, she took him by the hand and led him on tiptoe to her room, opened the door slightly and asked him to look in. There he saw Ilona; her round white arm, which still did not show any dagger wounds, was hanging over the edge of the bed, the heavy pouches under her eyes showed distinctly on her somewhat puffy face, and she was asleep.

Now Ilona frequently arrived at a late hour at the flat, and this lasted for a comparatively long time before Esch grasped the fact that she spent the night with Balthasar Korn and that Erna was shielding her brother’s love affair, in a sense, with her own body.

Martin called on him at his work. It was extraordinary, the ease with which this pariah, whom every gate-keeper had orders to keep out, always managed to get himself admitted everywhere quite openly and swung at his ease on his crutches through places of business, nobody stopping him, many saluting him affectionately, partly no doubt because one was shy of appearing unkind to a cripple. Esch was not particularly pleased to receive a visit from a trade-union secretary at his work; Martin could just as well have waited for him outside, but on the other hand one could rely on his discretion; he knew the right time to come and the right time to go; he was a decent fellow. “ ’Morning, August,” he said. “I just wanted to see how you were getting on. You’ve a nice job here, made a good exchange.” Did the cripple want to remind him that he had him to thank for being in this accursed Mannheim? All the same Martin could not be held responsible for the affair between Ilona and Korn, and so Esch simply replied in a morose voice: “Yes, a good exchange.” And somehow it rang true. For now that Martin reminded him of his former job and Nentwig, Esch was jolly glad that he had nothing more to do with Cologne. Like a thief he still kept Nentwig’s misdemeanour concealed, and the fact that one might come across the man’s ugly mug at any street corner in Cologne took away all pleasure at the thought of returning there. Cologne or Mannheim, there was nothing to choose between them. Was there really any place where one could be rid of all this rottenness? Nevertheless he asked how things were in Cologne. “Later,” said Martin, “I haven’t time just now; where are you having your dinner?” And as soon as Esch told him he swung himself hastily away.

By now Esch really felt glad at meeting Martin again, and as he was an impatient fellow he could scarcely wait for the dinner-hour to come. Spring had arrived overnight, and Esch left his greatcoat in the office; the flagstones between the sheds were bright with the cool sunshine, and in the corners of the buildings young tender grass had suddenly appeared between the cobbles. As he passed the unloading stage he laid his hand on the iron bands with which the clumsy grey wooden erection was clamped together, and the iron too felt warm. If he shouldn’t be transferred to Cologne he must arrange to have his bicycle sent on soon. He breathed in the air deeply and easily, and the food had quite a different taste; perhaps because the windows of the restaurant were open. Martin related that he had come to Mannheim on strike business; otherwise he would have taken his time. But something was happening in the South German and Alsatian factories, and such things soon spread: “For all I care they can strike as much as they like, only we can’t afford any nonsense just now. A strike of the transport workers would be pure madness at the moment … we’re a poor union and there’s no money to be had from the central office … it would be a complete wash-out. Of course it’s no use talking to a docker: if a donkey like that makes up his mind to go on strike nothing will stop him. But sooner or later they’ll have my blood yet.” He said all this indulgently, without bitterness. “Now they’re raising the cry again that I’m being paid by the shipping companies.” “By Bertrand?” asked Esch with interest. Geyring nodded: “By Bertrand too, of course.” “A proper swine,” Esch could not help saying. Martin laughed. “Bertrand? He’s a very decent fellow.” “Oho, so he’s a decent fellow? Is it true that he’s a renegade officer?” “Yes, he’s supposed to have quit the service—but that only speaks in the man’s favour.” Oho, that spoke in the man’s favour, did it? Nothing was clear and simple, thought Esch in anger, nothing was clear and simple, even on a lovely spring day like this: “All I would like to know is why you stick to this job of yours.” “Everybody must stay where God has put him,” said Martin, and his old-young face took on a pious look. Then he told Esch that Mother Hentjen sent her greetings and that everybody was looking forward to seeing him soon.

After dinner they went along to Lohberg’s shop. They were in no hurry, and so Martin rested in the massive oaken chair that stood beside the counter and was as bright and solid as everything else in the shop. Accustomed to pick up anything in print that came within his reach, Martin glanced through the anti-alcoholic and vegetarian journals from Switzerland. “Dear, dear!” he said, “here’s almost a comrade of mine.” Lohberg felt flattered, but Esch spoilt his pleasure for him: “Oh, he’s one of the teetotal wash-outs,” and to crush him completely he added: “Geyring has a big meeting to-night, but a real one—not a meeting of the Salvation Army!” “Unfortunately,” said Martin. Lohberg, who had a great weakness for public demonstrations and oratorical performances, proposed immediately to go. “I advise you not to,” said Martin. “Esch at least mustn’t go, it might go badly with him if he were seen there. Besides, there’s bound to be trouble.” Esch really had no anxiety about endangering his post, yet strangely enough to attend the meeting seemed to him an act of treachery towards Bertrand. Lohberg, on the other hand, said boldly: “I’ll go in any case,” and Esch felt shamed by the teetotal ninny; no, it would never do to leave a friend in the lurch; if he did he would never dare to face Mother Hentjen again. But meanwhile he said nothing about his decision. Martin explained: “I fancy that the shipping companies will send an agent provocateur or two; it’s all to their interest that the strike should be as violent as possible.” And although Nentwig was not a shipper, but only the greasy head clerk in a firm of wine merchants, to Esch it seemed that the rascal had his greasy fingers in this piece of perfidy too.

The meeting took place, as was usual in such cases, in the public room of a small tavern. A few policemen were standing before the entrance keeping an eye on those who went in, who on their side pretended not to notice the policemen. Esch arrived late; as he was about to enter someone tapped him on the shoulder, and when he turned round he saw it was the inspector of the dock police squad: “Why, what takes you here, Herr Esch?” Esch thought quickly. Actually simple curiosity; he had learned that Geyring, the trade-union secretary, whom he had known in Cologne, was to speak, and as in a way he was connected with shipping he felt interested in the whole business. “I advise you against it, Herr Esch,” said the inspector, “and just because you’re in a shipping firm; it will look fishy, and it can’t do you any good.” “I’ll just look in for a minute,” Esch decided, and went in.

The low room, adorned with portraits of the Kaiser, the Grand Duke of Baden, and the King of Württemberg, was crammed full. On the raised platform stood a table covered with a white cloth, behind which four men were sitting; Martin was one of them. Esch, at first a little envious because he too was not sitting in such a prominent position, was surprised next moment that he had noticed the table at all, so great was the uproar and disorder in the room. Indeed it was some time before he noticed that a man had mounted on a chair in the middle of the hall and was shouting out an incomprehensible rigmarole, emphasizing every word—he seemed to love particularly the word “demagogue”—with a sweeping gesture, as though to fling it at the table on the platform. It was a sort of unequal dialogue, for the only reply from the table was the thin tinkle of a bell which did not pierce the din; yet it finally had the last say when Martin, supporting himself on his crutches and the back of his chair, got up, and the noise ebbed. True, it wasn’t very easy to grasp what Martin, with the somewhat weary and ironical fluency of a practised speaker, was saying, but that he was worth twice all these people bawling at him Esch could see. It almost looked as though Martin had no wish to get a hearing, for with a faint smile he stopped and let the shouts of “Capitalist pimp!” “Twister!” and “Kaiser’s Socialist!” pass over him, until suddenly, amid the whistling and cat-calls, a sharper whistle was heard. In the sudden silence a police officer appeared on the platform and said curtly: “In the name of the law I declare this meeting closed; the hall must be cleared.” And while Esch was being borne through the door by the crush he had time to see the police officer turning to Martin.

As if by arrangement the most of the audience had made for the side-door of the tavern. But that did not help them much, for meanwhile the whole place had been encircled by the police, and every one of them had either to explain his presence or go to the police station. At the front entrance the crush was not so great; Esch had the good luck to encounter the dock inspector again and said hastily: “You were right, never again,” and so he escaped interrogation. But the affair was not yet ended. The crowd now stood before the place quite quietly, contenting themselves with swearing softly at the committee, the union and Geyring. But all at once the rumour flew round that Geyring and the committee were arrested and that the police were only waiting for the crowd to disperse to lead them away. Then suddenly the feeling of the crowd swung round; whistles and cat-calls rose again, and the crowd made ready to rush the police. The friendly police inspector gave Esch a push: “You’d better disappear now, Herr Esch,” and Esch, who saw that there was nothing else he could do, withdrew to the nearest street corner, hoping at least to run up against Lohberg.

Before the hall the noise still went on for a good while. Then six mounted police arrived at a sharp trot, and because horses, who although docile are yet somewhat insane creatures, exert on many human beings a sort of magical influence, this little equestrian reinforcement was decisive. Esch looked on while a number of workers in handcuffs were led away amid the terrified silence of their comrades, and then the street emptied. Wherever the police, now become rough and impatient, saw two men standing together, they drove them harshly away, and Esch, considering with good reason that he would be handled just as ruthlessly, vacated the field.

He went to Lohberg’s house. Lohberg had not yet returned, and Esch remained waiting before his door in the warm spring night. He hoped that they hadn’t led Lohberg away too in handcuffs. Although really that would have been a good joke. Lord! what would Erna say if she saw this paragon of virtue before her in handcuffs? Just when Esch was about to give up his watch Lohberg arrived in a terribly excited state, and almost weeping. Bit by bit, and very disconnectedly, Esch managed to discover that at first the meeting had proceeded quite quietly, even if the audience had shouted all sorts of abuse at Herr Geyring, who had spoken very well. But then a man had got up, obviously one of those agents provocateurs whom Herr Geyring himself had mentioned at dinner-time, and had made a furious speech against the rich classes, the State and even the Kaiser himself, until the police officer threatened to close the meeting if anything else of that nature was said. Quite incomprehensibly Herr Geyring, who must have known quite well what sort of a bird he had to deal with, had not unmasked the man as an agent provocateur, but had actually come to his assistance and demanded freedom of speech for him. Well, after that it grew worse and worse, and finally the meeting was broken up. The committee and Herr Geyring were under arrest; he could vouch for that, for he had been among the last to leave the hall.

Esch felt upset, indeed more upset than he would admit. All that he knew was that he must have some wine if he was to bring order into the world again; Martin, who was against the strike, was arrested by police who were in with the shipping companies and a renegade officer, police who, in the most infamous manner, had seized an innocent man—perhaps because Esch himself had not handed Nentwig over to them! Yet the inspector had acted in a very friendly way towards him, actually had shielded him. Sudden anger at Lohberg overcame him; the confounded fool was probably so taken aback simply because he had expected harmless and uplifting twaddle about brotherhood and did not understand that things could turn to deadly earnest. Suddenly all this brotherhood twaddle seemed disgusting to Esch; what was the use of all these brotherhoods and associations? They only made the confusion greater and probably they were the cause of it; he brutally let fly at Lohberg: “For God’s sake put away that cursed lemonade of yours, or I’ll sweep it off the table … if only you drank honest wine you would be able at least to give a sensible answer to a plain question.” But Lohberg only looked at him with his great uncomprehending eyes, in whose whites little red veins now appeared, and was in no state to resolve Esch’s doubts, doubts which next day became much worse when he heard that as a protest against the arrest of their union secretary the transport and dock workers had gone on strike. Meanwhile Geyring was sentenced to await his trial for the crime of sedition.

During the performance Esch sat with Gernerth in the so-called manager’s office, which always reminded him of his glass cage in the bonded warehouse. On the stage Teltscher and Ilona were going through their act, and he heard the whizzing knives striking against the black board. Above the writing-table was fixed a little white box marked with a red cross, supposed to contain bandages. For a long time it had certainly contained none, and for decades nobody had even opened it, yet Esch was convinced that at any moment Ilona might be carried in to have her bleeding wounds bound. But instead Teltscher appeared, slightly perspiring and slightly proud of himself, and wiping his hands on his handkerchief said: “Real work, good honest work … must be paid for.” Gernerth made some calculations in his notebook: “theatre rent, 22 marks; tax, 16 marks; lighting, 4 marks; salaries …” “Oh, stow that!” said Teltscher. “I know it all by heart already. I’ve put four thousand crowns into this business and I’ll never see them again … I’ll just have to grin and bear it.… Herr Esch, don’t you know anybody who would buy me out? He can have a twenty-per-cent rebate, and I’ll give you ten-per-cent commission over and above.” Esch had already heard these outbursts and these offers and no longer paid any attention to them, although he would gladly have bought out Teltscher to get rid both of him and Ilona.

Esch was in an ill humour. Since Martin’s imprisonment life had become radically darker: the fact that his skirmishing with Erna had grown burdensome and intolerable was really secondary; but that Bertrand had bribed the police, and that the police had behaved abominably, was more than exasperating, and Ilona’s relations with Korn, no longer concealed either by them or by Erna, were repulsive in his sight. It was disgusting. The very thought of it repelled him: Ilona, after all, was something superior. Yes, better that he should know nothing about her, and that she should disappear out of his life for ever. And Bertrand as well, along with his Central Rhine Shipping Company. This became quite clear to Esch for the first time now that Ilona came in in her outdoor clothes and silently and seriously sat down without being accorded a glance by the two men. Korn would presently appear to take her away; lately he had been going in and out here quite at his ease.

Ilona had been overcome by a genuine passion for Balthasar Korn, perhaps because he reminded her of some sergeant whom she had loved in her youth, perhaps simply because he was such a complete contrast to the adroit, sickly, blasé Teltscher, who in spite of his sickliness was so essentially brutal. Frankly, Esch did not waste any thought on such things; enough that a woman whom he himself had renounced, because she was destined for a better fate, was now being degraded by a man like Korn. But Teltscher’s attitude was quite inexplicable. The fellow was clearly a pimp, and yet that wasn’t a thing to trouble one’s head about. Besides, the whole business could not bring him in very much; Korn certainly was generous enough, and in the new clothes which he had given her Ilona really looked superb, so superb that Fräulein Erna no longer regarded her brother’s expensive love affair with by any means the same favour as at first; but in spite of all this Ilona would accept no money from Korn, and he had literally to force his presents on her; so deeply did she love him.

Korn appeared at the door and Ilona flung herself on his uniformed breast with Eastern words of endearment. No, it was past endurance! Teltscher laughed: “See that you enjoy yourself,” and as they went out together he shouted after her in Hungarian a few words, obviously spiteful, which earned him not only a glance full of hatred from Ilona, but also a half-joking, half-serious threat from Korn that he would give the Jewish knife-thrower a beating yet. Teltscher paid no attention to this, but returned to his beloved business speculations: “We must provide something that isn’t too expensive and that will draw the crowd.” “Oh, what an epoch-making discovery, Herr Teltscher-Teltini,” said Gernerth, making calculations in his notebook again. Then he looked up: “What do you say to wrestling matches for women?” Teltscher whistled reflectively through his teeth: “Might be considered: of course that can’t be done either without money.” Gernerth scribbled in his notebook. “We’ll need some money, but not so very much; women don’t cost much. Then tights … we’ll have to get someone interested in it.” “I’m willing to teach them,” said Teltscher, “and I can be the referee too. But here in Mannheim?” he made a contemptuous gesture, “there’s no closing one’s eyes to the fact that business is bad here. What do you say, Esch?” Esch had formed no definite opinion, but the hope rose within him that with a change of scene Ilona might be saved from Korn’s clutches. And as it lay nearest to his heart, he replied that Cologne seemed to him a splendid place for staging wrestling matches; in the previous year wrestling matches had been given there in the circus, serious ones of course, and the place had been packed. “Ours will be serious too,” Teltscher decided. They talked it over from all sides for a while longer, and finally Esch was empowered to discuss the matter, on his approaching visit to Cologne, with the theatrical agent, Oppenheimer, whom Gernerth would have written to in the interval. And if Esch should succeed in hunting up some money for the undertaking, it would not only be a friendly service, but he might get a percentage on it himself.

Esch knew at the moment of nobody likely to invest money. But in secret he thought of Lohberg, who might almost be regarded as a rich man. But would a pure Joseph have any interest in wrestling matches for women?

The arrests that had been made in advance of the strike had deprived the dock labourers of all their leaders, yet after ten days the strike was still lingering on. There were indeed some blacklegs, but they were too few to handle the railway freights, and since shipping in any case was partially paralysed, they were employed only on the most urgent work. In the bonded warehouses a Sabbath quiet reigned. Esch was annoyed, because it was unlikely that he could get away until the strike was over, and he lounged idly round the sheds, leaned against the door-posts, and finally sat down to write to Mother Hentjen. He gave her the details of Martin’s arrest and told her about Lohberg, but he did not even mention Erna and Korn, for the mere thought of doing so disgusted him. Then he procured a fresh batch of picture postcards and addressed them to all the girls he had slept with in recent years, and whose names he could remember. Outside in the shadow the foremen and stevedores stood in a group, and behind the half-open sliding doors of an empty goods truck some men were playing cards. Esch wondered whom he should write to next, and tried to count in his head all the women he had ever had. He could not be sure of the total, and it was as if a column in his books would not balance properly, so to get it right he began to make a list of the names on a piece of paper, entering the month and year after each. Then he added them up and was satisfied, more especially as Korn came in boasting, as usual, what a fine woman Ilona was, and what a fiery Hungarian. Esch pocketed his list and let Korn go on talking; he would not be able to talk like that for much longer. Only let the strike once come to an end, and the Herr Customs Inspector would have to run all the way to Cologne for his Ilona, perhaps even farther still, to the end of the world. And he was almost sorry for the man because he did not know what was in store for him. Balthasar Korn went on boasting happily of his conquest, and when he had said his say about Ilona he drew out a pack of cards. In brotherly amity they sought out a third man and settled down to play for the rest of the day.

In the evening Esch looked in on Lohberg, who was sitting in his shop with a cigarette in his mouth before a pile of vegetarian journals. He laid these aside when Esch came in and began to talk about Martin. “The world,” he said, “is poisoned, not only with nicotine and alcohol and animal food, but with a still worse poison that we can hardly even recognize … it’s just like boils breaking out.” His eyes were moist and looked feverish; he gave one an unhealthy impression; it seemed possible that there really was some poison working within him. Esch stood, lean and robust, in front of him, but his head was empty after so much card-playing and he did not catch the sense of these idiotic remarks, he hardly realized that they referred to Martin’s imprisonment; everything was wrapped in a fog of idiocy, and his only definite wish was to have the affair of the theatre partnership cleared up once and for all. Esch didn’t like hole-and-corner methods: “Will you go shares in Gernerth’s theatre?” The question took Lohberg quite by surprise, and opening his eyes wide he merely said: “Eh?” “I’m asking you, are you willing to go shares in the theatre business?” “But I have a tobacco business.” “You’ve been lamenting all this time that you don’t like it, and so I thought you might want a change.” Lohberg shook his head: “So long as my mother’s alive I’ll have to keep on the shop; the half of it’s hers.” “Pity,” said Esch, “Teltscher thinks that putting on women wrestlers would bring in a hundred-per-cent profit.” Lohberg did not even ask what the theatre had to do with wrestling, but merely said in his turn: “Pity.” Esch went on: “I’m as tired of my trade as you are of yours. They’re on strike now and there’s nothing to do but sit about, it’s enough to make one sick.” “What do you want to do, then? Are you going into the theatre business too?” Esch thought it over; that meant simply being tied to a stool in some dusty manager’s office beside Gernerth and Teltscher. The artists didn’t appeal to him now that he had been behind the scenes; they weren’t much better than Hede or Thusnelda. He had really no idea what he wanted to do; the day had been so stale. He said: “Clear out, to America.” In an illustrated journal he had seen pictures of New York; these now came into his head; there had been also a photograph of an American boxing match and that brought him back to the wrestling. “If I could make enough money out of it to pay my fare I’d go to America.” He was himself astonished to find that he meant it seriously, and now began seriously counting up his resources: he had nearly three hundred marks; if he put them into the wrestling business he could certainly increase them, and why shouldn’t he, a strong, capable man with book-keeping experience, try his luck in America as well as here? At the very least he would have seen a bit of the world. Perhaps Teltscher and Ilona might actually come to New York on that engagement Teltscher was always talking about. Lohberg interrupted his train of thought: “You have some knowledge of languages, but I haven’t, unfortunately.” Esch nodded complacently; yes, with his French he could manage somehow, and English couldn’t be so very much of a mystery; but Lohberg didn’t need to know languages in order to go shares in promoting wrestling bouts. “No, not for that, but for going to America,” Lohberg replied. And although to Lohberg it was almost inconceivable that any man, let alone himself, should live in any town but Mannheim, both Esch and he felt almost like fellow-travellers as they discussed the cost of the voyage and how the money could be raised. This discussion brought them back, by a natural concatenation of thought, to the chances of making money through women wrestlers, and after much hesitation Lohberg came to the conclusion that he could quite well abstract a thousand marks from his business and invest them with Gernerth. Of course that wouldn’t be enough to buy out Teltscher, but it was quite good for a start, especially when Esch’s three hundred were counted in.

The day had ended better than it began. As he went home Esch brooded over the problem of raising the rest of the money, and Fräulein Erna came into his mind.

Strong as was Erna’s temptation to bind Esch to her by financial obligations, she remained firm even here to her principle of parting with nothing except to her affianced husband. When she archly intimated this resolve Esch was indignant: what kind of a man did she think he was? Did she imagine he wanted the money for himself? But even as he said this he felt that it was beside the point; that it was not really the money that was in question, and that Fräulein Erna was much more in the wrong than she could ever be made to understand; of course the money was only a means of ransoming Ilona, of shielding defenceless girls from ever having knives hurled at them again; of course he didn’t want it for himself. But even that was by no means all, for over and above that he wanted nothing from Ilona herself—not he, not at the cost of other people’s money—and he was quite glad, too, to be in that position; he didn’t give a fig for Ilona, he was thinking of more important things, and he had every right to be angry when Erna supposed him to be self-seeking, every right to tell her rudely: well, she could keep her money, then. Erna, however, took his rudeness as an admission of guilt, exulted in having unmasked him, and giggled that she knew all about that, thinking meanwhile of a commercial traveller in Hof, who had not only enjoyed her favours, but had involved her in the more serious loss of fifty marks.

It was altogether a good day for Fräulein Erna. Esch had asked her for something which she could refuse him, and besides she was wearing a pair of new shoes that made her feel gay and looked well on her feet. She was ensconced on the sofa, and as a saucy and slightly mocking gesture she let her feet peep from under her skirt, and swung them to and fro; she liked the faint creaking of the leather and the pleasant tension across her instep. She had no desire to abandon this delightful conversation, and in spite of the rude end that Esch had put to it she asked again what he wanted so much money for. Esch once more remarked that she could keep it; Lohberg had been glad enough to get a share in the business. “Oh, Herr Lohberg,” said Fräulein Erna, “he has plenty, he can afford it.” And with that waywardness which characterizes many phases of love, and in virtue of which Fräulein Erna would have given herself to any chance comer rather than to Herr Esch, who was to be granted nothing except in wedlock, she was very eager now to infuriate him by giving the money to Lohberg instead of to him. She swung her feet to and fro. “Oh, well, in partnership with Herr Lohberg, that’s a different story. He’s a good business man.” “He’s an idiot!” said Esch, partly from conviction and partly from jealousy, a jealousy that pleased Fräulein Erna, for she had reckoned on it. She turned the knife in the wound: “I wouldn’t give it to you.” But her remark was strangely ineffective. What did it matter to him? He had given up Ilona, and it was really Korn’s business to redeem her from those knives. Esch looked at Erna’s swinging feet. She would open her eyes if she were told that her money was really to be applied in helping her brother’s affair. Of course even that wouldn’t do what was needed. Perhaps it was really Nentwig who should be made to pay. For if the world was to be redeemed one must attack the virus at its source, as Lohberg said; but that source was Nentwig, or perhaps even something hiding behind Nentwig, something greater—perhaps as great and as securely hidden in his inaccessibility as the chairman of a company—something one knew nothing about. It was enough to make a man angry, and Esch, who was a strong fellow and not in the least afflicted with nerves, felt inclined to stamp on Fräulein Erna’s swinging feet to make her quiet. She said: “Do you like my shoes?” “No,” retorted Esch. Fräulein Erna was taken aback. “Herr Lohberg would like them … when are you going to bring him here? You’ve simply been hiding him … out of jealousy, I suppose, Herr Esch?” Oh, he could bring the man round at once if she was so anxious to see him, remarked Esch, hoping privately that they would come to an understanding about the theatre business. “No need for him to come at once,” said Fräulein Erna, “but why not this evening for coffee?” All right, he’d arrange that, said Esch, and took himself off.

Lohberg came. He held his coffee-cup with one hand and stirred in it mechanically with the other. He left his spoon in the cup even while he was drinking, so that it hit him on the nose. Esch spread himself insolently, asking if Balthasar and Ilona were coming, and making all kinds of tactless remarks. Fräulein Erna took no notice of him. She regarded with interest Herr Lohberg’s rachitic head and his large white eyeballs; truly, he looked as if it would not take much to make him cry. And she wondered if, in the heat and ardour of love, he would be moved to tears; it annoyed her to think that her brother had pushed her into an unsatisfactory relation with Esch, a brute of a man who upset her, while only two or three houses farther away there was a well-established tradesman who blushed whenever she looked at him. Had he ever had a woman, she wondered, and to satisfy these speculations and to provoke Esch she skilfully piloted the conversation towards the subject of love. “Are you another of these born bachelors, Herr Lohberg? You’ll repent it when you’re old and done and have nobody to look after you.”

Lohberg blushed. “I’m only waiting for the right girl, Fräulein Korn.”

“And she hasn’t turned up yet?” Fräulein Korn smiled encouragingly and pointed her toe under the hem of her skirt. Lohberg set down his cup and looked helpless.

Esch said tartly: “He hasn’t tried yet, that’s all.”

Lohberg’s convictions came to his support: “One can only love once, Fräulein Korn.”

“Oh!” said Fräulein Korn.

That was clear and unambiguous. Esch was almost ashamed of his unchaste life, and it seemed to him not improbable that this great and unique love was what Frau Hentjen had felt for her husband, and perhaps that was why she now expected chastity and restraint from her customers. All the same it must be dreadful for Frau Hentjen to have to pay for her brief wedded bliss by renouncing love for ever afterwards, and so he said: “Well, but what about widows, then? At that rate, a widow shouldn’t go on living … especially if she has no children …” and because he was observant of what he read in the illustrated papers he added: “Widows ought in that case really to be burned, so that … so that they might be redeemed, in a manner of speaking.”

“You’re a brute, Herr Esch,” said Fräulein Erna. “Herr Lohberg would never say such things.”

“Redemption is in God’s hands,” said Herr Lohberg, “if He grants anyone the great gift of love it will last for all eternity.”

“You’re a clever man, Herr Lohberg, and lots of people would be the better of taking your words to heart,” said Fräulein Erna, “the very idea of letting oneself be burned for any man! The impudence …”

Esch said: “If the world was as it should be it could be redeemed without any of your silly organizations … yes, you can both look incredulous,” he almost shouted, “but there would be no need for a Salvation Army if the police locked up all the people who deserved to be locked up … instead of the ones that are innocent.”

“I wouldn’t marry any man unless he had a pension, or could leave something for his widow, some kind of security,” said Fräulein Erna, “that’s only what one is entitled to expect from a good man.”

Esch despised her. Mother Hentjen would never think of talking in such a way. But Lohberg said: “It’s a bad provider who doesn’t set his house in order.”

“You’ll make your wife a happy woman,” said Fräulein Erna.

Lohberg went on: “If God blesses me with a wife, I hope I can say with confidence that we shall live in true Christian unity. We shall renounce the world and live for each other.”

Esch jeered: “Just like Balthasar and Ilona … and every evening she gets knives chucked at her.”

Lohberg was indignant: “A man who drinks cheap spirits can’t appreciate crystal-clear water, Fräulein Korn. A passion of that kind isn’t love.”

Fräulein Erna took the crystalline purity as a reference to herself and was flattered: “That dress he gave her cost thirty-eight marks. I found that out in the shop. To fleece a man like that … I could never bring myself to do it.”

Esch said: “Things need to be set right. An innocent man sits in jail, and another runs around as he pleases; one ought either to do him in or do oneself in.”

Lohberg soothed him down: “Human life isn’t to be lightly taken.”

“No,” said Fräulein Erna, “if anyone should be done in it’s a woman who has no feelings where men are concerned … as for me, when I have a man to look after I’m a woman of feeling.”

Lohberg said: “A genuine Christian love is founded on mutual respect.”

“And you would respect your wife even if she weren’t as educated as yourself … but more a creature of feeling, as a woman should be.”

“Only a person of feeling is capable of receiving the redeeming grace and ready for it.”

Fräulein Erna said: “I’m sure you’re a good son, Herr Lohberg, one that is capable of feeling gratitude for all his mother has done for him.”

That made Esch angry, angrier than he knew: “Good son or no … I don’t give that for gratitude; as long as people look on while injustice is being done there’s no grace in the world … why has Martin sacrificed himself and been put in jail?”

Lohberg answered: “Herr Geyring is a victim of the poison that’s destroying the world. Only when they get back to nature will people stop hurting each other.”

Fräulein Erna said that she too was a lover of nature and often went for long walks.

Lohberg went on: “Only in God’s good air, that lifts our hearts up, are men’s nobler feelings awakened.”

Esch said: “That kind of thing has never got a single man out of jail yet.”

Fräulein Erna remarked: “That’s what you say … but I say, a man with no feelings is no man at all. A man as faithless as you are, Herr Esch, has no right to put in his word.… And men are all the same.”

“How can you think so badly of the world, Fräulein Korn?”

She sighed: “The disappointments of life, Herr Lohberg.”

“But hope keeps our hearts up, Fräulein Korn.”

Fräulein Erna gazed thoughtfully into space: “Yes, if it weren’t for hope …” then she shook her head: “Men have no feelings, and too much brains is just as bad.”

Esch wondered if Frau Hentjen and her husband had spoken in that strain when they got engaged. But Lohberg said: “In God and in God’s divine Nature is hope for all of us.”

Erna did not want to be outdone: “I go regularly to church and confession, thank God …” and with triumph she added: “Our holy Catholic faith has more feeling in a way than the Protestant religion—if I were a man I would never marry a Protestant.”

Lohberg was too polite to contradict her:

“All ways to God are equally worthy of respect. And those whom God has joined will learn from Him to live peaceably together … all that is needed is good will.”

Lohberg’s virtue once more disgusted Esch, although he had often compared him with Mother Hentjen because of that same virtue. He burst out: “Any idiot can talk.”

Fräulein Erna said with disdain: “Herr Esch, of course, would take anybody he came across, he doesn’t bother about such things as feelings or religion; all he asks is that she should have money.”

He simply couldn’t believe that, said Herr Lohberg.

“Oh, you can take my word for it, I know him, he has no feelings, and he never thinks about anything … the kind of thoughts you have, Herr Lohberg, aren’t to be found in everybody.”

But if that were so he was sorry for Herr Esch, remarked Lohberg, for that meant he would never find happiness in this world.

Esch shrugged his shoulders. What did this fellow know about the new world? He said contemptuously: “First set the world right.”

But Fräulein Erna had found the solution: “If two people worked together, if your wife, for instance, were to help you in your business, then everything else would be all right, even if the man was a Protestant and the wife a Catholic.”

“Of course,” said Lohberg.

“Or if two people should have something in common, a common interest, as they say … then they must stand by each other, mustn’t they?”

“Of course,” said Lohberg.

Fräulein Erna’s lizard eye glanced at Esch as she said: “Would you have any objections, Herr Lohberg, if I joined you in the theatre business that Herr Esch was speaking of? Now that my brother has lost his senses I at least must try to bring in some money.”

How could Herr Lohberg have any objection! And when Fräulein Erna said that she would invest the half of her savings, say about a thousand marks, he cried, and she was delighted to hear it: “Oh! Then we’ll be partners.”

In spite of this Esch was dissatisfied. The fact that he had got his own way had all at once ceased to matter, maybe because in any case he had renounced Ilona, maybe because there were more important aims at stake, but perhaps only because—and this was the sole reason of which he was conscious—he suddenly had serious misgivings.

“Talk it over first with Gernerth, the manager of the theatre. I’ve only told you about it, I don’t accept any responsibility.”

“Oh yes,” said Fräulein Erna, she knew well enough that he was an irresponsible man, and he didn’t need to be afraid that he would be called to account. He wasn’t much of a Christian, and she thought more of Herr Lohberg’s little finger than of Herr Esch’s whole body. And wouldn’t Herr Lohberg come in now and then for a cup of coffee? Yes? And since it was getting late, and they had already got to their feet, she took Lohberg by the arm. The lamp above them shed a mild light upon their heads, and they stood before Esch like a newly engaged couple.

Esch had taken off his coat and hung it on the stand. Then he began to brush and beat it and examined its worn collar. Again he was conscious of some discrepancy in his calculations. He had given up Ilona, yet he was supposed to look on while Erna turned away from him and set her cap at that idiot. It was against all the laws of book-keeping, which demanded that every debit entry should be balanced by a credit one. Of course—and he shook the coat speculatively—if he chose he could keep a Lohberg from getting the better of him; he was easily a match for the man; no, August Esch was far from being such an ugly monstrosity, and he actually took a step or two towards the door, but paused before he opened it; tut, he didn’t choose to, that was all. The creature across the passage might think he had come crawling to her out of gratitude for her measly thousand marks. He turned and sat down on his bed, where he unlaced his shoes. The balance was all right, so far. And the fact that he was at bottom resentful because he couldn’t sleep with Erna, that was all right, too. One cut one’s losses. Yet there was an obscure miscalculation somewhere that he couldn’t put his finger on: granted that he wasn’t going across the passage to that woman, granted that he was giving up his bit of fun, what was his real reason for doing so? Was it perhaps to escape marriage? Was he making the smaller sacrifice to escape the greater, to avoid paying in person? Esch said: “I’m a swine.” Yes, he was a swine, not a whit better than Nentwig, who also shuffled off responsibility. His accounts were in a disorder which it would take the devil and all to clear up.

But disorderly accounts meant a disorderly world, and a disorderly world meant that Ilona would go on being a target for knives, that Nentwig would continue with brazen hypocrisy to evade punishment, and that Martin would sit in jail for ever. He thought it all over, and as he slipped off his drawers the answer came spontaneously: the others had given their money for the wrestling business, and so he, who had no money, must give himself, not in marriage, certainly, but in personal service, to the new undertaking. And since that, unfortunately, did not fit in with his job in Mannheim, he must simply give notice. That was the way he could pay his debt. And as if in corroboration of this conclusion, he suddenly realized that he ought not to remain any longer with a company that had been the means of putting Martin in jail. No one could accuse him of disloyalty; even the Herr Chairman would have to admit that Esch was a decent fellow. This new idea drove Erna out of his head, and he lay down in bed relieved and comforted. Going back to Cologne and to Mother Hentjen’s would, of course, be pleasant, and that diminished his sacrifice a little, but so little that it hardly counted; after all, Mother Hentjen hadn’t even answered his letter. And there were restaurants a-plenty in Mannheim. No, the return to Cologne, that unjust town, was a very negligible offset to his sacrifice; it was at most an entry in the petty-cash account, and a man could always credit himself with petty cash. His eagerness to report his success drove him to see Gernerth early next morning: it was no small feat to have raised two thousand marks so quickly! Gernerth clapped him on the shoulder and called him the devil of a fellow. That did Esch good. Yet his decision to give up his job and take service in the theatre astounded Gernerth; he could not, however, produce any valid objection. “We’ll manage it somehow, Herr Esch,” he said, and Esch went off to the head office of the Central Rhine Shipping Company.

In the upper floors of the head office buildings there were long, hushed corridors laid with brown linoleum. On the doors were stylish plates bearing the names of the occupants, and at one end of each corridor, behind a table lit by a standard lamp, sat a man in uniform who asked what one wanted and wrote down one’s name and business on a duplicate block. Esch traversed one of the corridors, and since it was for the last time he took good note of everything. He read every name on the doors, and when to his surprise he came on a woman’s name, he paused and tried to imagine what she would be like: was she an ordinary clerk casting up accounts at a sloping desk with black cuffs over her sleeves, and would she be cool and offhand with visitors like all the others? He felt a sudden desire for the unknown woman behind the door, and there arose in him the conception of a new kind of love, a simple, one might almost say a business-like and official kind of love, a love that would run as smoothly, as calmly, and yet as spaciously and neverendingly, as these corridors with their polished linoleum. But then he saw the long series of doors with men’s names, and he could not help thinking that a lone woman in that masculine environment must be as disgusted with it as Mother Hentjen was with her business. A hatred of commercial methods stirred again within him, hatred of an organization that, behind its apparent orderliness, its smooth corridors, its smooth and flawless book-keeping, concealed all manner of infamies. And that was called respectability! Whether head clerk or chairman of a company, there was nothing to choose between one man of business and another. And if for a moment Esch had regretted that he was no longer a unit in the smoothly running organization, no longer privileged to go out and in without being stopped or questioned or announced, his regret now vanished, and he saw only a row of Nentwigs sitting behind these doors, all of them pledged and concerned to keep Martin languishing in confinement. He would have liked to go straight down to the counting-house and tell the blind fools there that they too should break out of their prison of hypocritical ciphers and columns and like him set themselves free; yes, that was what they should do, even at the risk of having to join him in emigrating to America.

“But it’s a pretty short star turn you’ve given us here,” the staff manager said when he gave in his notice and asked for a testimonial, and Esch felt tempted to divulge the real reasons for his departure from such a despicable firm. But he had to leave them unsaid, for the friendly staff manager immediately bent his attention to other matters, although he repeated once or twice: “A short star turn … a short star turn,” in an unctuous voice, as if he liked the phrase and as if he were hinting that theatrical life wasn’t so very different from or even superior to the business that Esch was relinquishing. What could the staff manager know about it? Was he really reproaching Esch with disloyalty and planning to catch him unawares? To trip him up in his new job? Esch followed his movements with a suspicious eye and with a suspicious eye ran over the document that was handed to him, although he knew very well that in his new profession nobody would ask to see a testimonial. And since the thought of his work in the theatre obsessed him, even as he was striding over the brown linoleum of the corridor towards the staircase he no longer remarked the quiet orderliness of the building, nor speculated about the woman’s name on the door he passed by, nor saw even the notice-board marked “Counting House”; the very pomp of the board-room and the Chairman’s private office in the front part of the main building meant nothing to him. Only when he was out in the street did he cast a glance back, a farewell glance, as he said to himself, and was vaguely disappointed because there was no equipage waiting at the main entrance. He would really have liked to set eyes on Bertrand for once. Of course, like Nentwig, the man kept himself well out of the way. And of course it would be better not to see him, not to set eyes on him at all, or on Mannheim for that matter and all that it stood for. Good-bye for ever, said Esch; yet he was incapable of departing so quickly and found himself lingering and blinking in the midday sunlight that streamed evenly over the asphalt of the new street, lingering and waiting for the glass doors to turn noiselessly on their hinges, perhaps, and let the Chairman out. But even though in the shimmering light it looked as if the two wings of the door were trembling, so that one was reminded of the swing doors behind Mother Hentjen’s buffet, yet that was only a so-called optical illusion and the two halves of the door were immobile in their marble framework. They did not open and no one came out. Esch felt insulted: there he had to stand in the glaring sun simply because the Central Rhine Shipping Company had established itself in a flashy new asphalt road instead of a cool and cellar-like street; he turned round, crossed the street with long, rather awkward strides, rounded the next corner, and as he swung himself on to the footboard of a tram that rattled past, he had finally decided to leave Mannheim the very next day and go to Cologne to start negotiations with Oppenheimer, the theatrical agent.