price is paid, I’m to have my property taken from me without so much as a by your leave just because I’m two payments in arrears.”

“Read your contract,” said Theresa. “Every point is stipulated.”

“No wonder people get rich,” the man went on. His voice grew louder and louder, and he glanced angrily at Jason Philip, who at that moment rushed into the shop with his hat crushed and his trousers sprinkled with mud. “No wonder that people can buy houses and speculate in real estate. Yes, Schimmelweis, I call such things sharp practice, and I don’t give a damn for your contract. Everybody knows by this time what kind of business is done here—more like a man-trap—and that these here instalments are just a scheme to squeeze the workingman dry. First you talk to him about education, and then you suck his blood. It’s hell!”

“Pull yourself together, Wachsmuth!” Jason Philip cried sternly.

Wachsmuth picked up his cap, and slammed the shopdoor behind him.

Marian Nothafft’s eyes passed mechanically over the titles of a row of fiercely red pamphlets spread out on a table. She read: “The Battle that Decides,” “Modern Slaveholders,” “The Rights of the Poor,” “Christianity and Capitalism,” “The Crimes of the Bourgeoisie.” Although these catch-words meant nothing to her, she felt in her heart once more her old, long forgotten hatred against machines.

XII

“Fetch me a sandwich, Theresa,” Jason Philip commanded, “I’m hungry as a wolf.”

“Didn’t you eat anything at the inn?” Theresa asked suspiciously.

“I was at no such place.” Jason Philip’s eyes gleamed, and he shook his head like a lion.

So Theresa went to fetch his sandwich. It was queer to observe how much distrust and contradiction she was able to express through the sloth of her movements. But her daughter Philippina was already hurrying down the stairs with the sandwich.

At this moment Jason Philip became aware of his sister-in-law. “Ah, there you are, you shrinking flower,” he said lightly, and held out his pudgy hand. “Theresa will put you up in the little room under the store-room. You have a pleasant view of the river there.”

Theresa handed him the bread. He sniffed at it, and frowned because it wasn’t thickly enough buttered. But he had not the courage to complain. He bit into it, and, with full cheeks, turned once more to Marian.

“Well, that son of yours has disappeared again. A nice situation. Shouldn’t wonder if he ended in the penitentiary. The best thing would be to ship him off to America; but it isn’t clear to me how we’re to get hold of him at all. It was really premature to ask you to come.”

“If only I knew what he’s living on,” Marian whispered, with repressed anguish.

Jason Philip indulged with broad psychical comfort in an anecdote: “I was reading the other day how a giraffe escaped from the Zoo. You’ve heard of giraffes. They are long-necked quadrupeds, very stupid and stubborn. The silly beast had run off into the woods, and the people didn’t know how to capture it. Then the keeper hung the stable-lantern over his chest and a bundle of hay on his back, and at nightfall went into the woods. Scarcely had the giraffe noticed the gleam of the lantern when it came up in its curiosity. At once the man swung around. It smelled the hay, nibbled, and began to feed. Slowly the man went on, and the beast went on nibbling and feeding. First thing you know it was back in its cage. Now don’t you think that when hunger begins to torment him, your Daniel could be tamed with a bit of hay too? It’s worth your thinking about.”

Jason Philip laughed merrily, and Zwanziger grinned. His boss was a source of humour. At night, when he sat in his favourite tap-rooms over his beer, he would entertain his boon companions with the witticisms of Schimmelweis, and always won their applause.

A lean old man with kid gloves and a top-hat entered the shop. It was growing dark, and he had peered carefully about before entering. He hurried up to Jason Philip, and said in a cracked falsetto: “How about the new publications? Anything very fine?” He rubbed his hands, and stared stupidly from under his thin, reddish lids. It was Count Schlemm-Nottheim, a cousin of the Baron von Auffenberg, the leader of the liberal party.

“I’m entirely at your service, sir,” said Jason Philip, holding himself as rigidly as a sergeant who is being addressed by a captain.

He led the count to a corner of the shop, and opened a heavy oaken chest. This chest contained the pornographic publications forbidden by the state. They were sold quite secretly and only to very reliable persons.

Jason Philip whispered, and the old count turned over the heap of books with avid fingers.

XIII

Marian climbed up the steep, dark stairs, and rang the upstairs bell. She had to tell the maid who she was and even mention her name to the children. The latter laughed at her stiff, rural courtesy. Philippina, who was twelve, acted arrogantly and swung her hips when she walked. All three had their mother’s square head and a cheesy complexion.

The maid brought up the bag. Then Theresa came too and helped her sister unpack. With her acrid, unfeeling voice she asked many questions, but without waiting for an answer told the tale of marriage and births and deaths that had taken place in the city. She avoided Marian’s eyes, because she was silently considering how long her sister’s visit would last and to what expense it would put her.

She did not mention Daniel, and her silence condemned him more completely than her husband’s acrimonious speeches. She held firmly an almost religious doctrine of the complete obedience which children owe their parents, and doubted Marian’s power to punish properly a breach of this sacred law.

When Marian was left alone, she sat down by the window of the little room, and gazed sadly down at the river. Without any curl of waves the yellow water glided by and washed the walls of the houses on the other bank. She had a view of the Museum Bridge and another bridge, and the crowding of people on the bridges disquieted her.

She walked through the streets, and stopped at the head of the Museum Bridge. She thought that every human being who lived in the town must pass by here sooner or later. Her attentive glance searched all faces, and where one escaped, she followed the figure as it melted into the dark. But as it grew later the people were fewer and fewer.

At night she would lie awake, and listen to the dull echo of the feet of the last passerby. Next day from morning to twilight she would wander up and down the streets. What she saw weighed on her heart. The city people seemed to her like dumb animals, tormented and angry. The narrow streets stopped her breath; the hubbub deadened her senses.

But she was never tired of seeking.

On the fifth day she did not come home until ten o’clock. Theresa, who had gone to bed, sent her a plate of lentil soup. While she was avidly eating the soup she heard steps in the hall and a knock at the door. Jason Philip entered. “Come along at once,” was all he said. But she understood. With trembling fingers she threw a shawl across her shoulders, since the October nights were growing cool, and followed him in silence.

They went up hill to Adler Street, turned into it and then into a narrow, dark little alley at the right. A lantern hung above a door and on a green glass pane were inscribed the words: “The Vale of Tears.” A greenish light suffused the stone stairs that led to the cellar, the kegs and the desolate room filled with chairs and benches. A sourish smell of wine arose from the