them in." He strikes another chord. "Houses," he says thoughtfully as though he were speaking of Michelangelo. "For as little as a hundred dollars you can buy a house that used to be worth forty thousand gold marks. What a profit you could make on that! Why haven't I a childless uncle in America?"
"Kurt," I say in disappointment, "you're a disgusting materialist. A house owner, that's all you want to be! And what's to become of your immortal soul?"
"A house owner and a sculptor." Bach executes a glissan-do. Upstairs, Wilke, the carpenter, is keeping time with his hammer. He is working hard on a white coffin for a child and is getting paid overtime. "Then I'd never need to make another damn dying lion or ascending eagle for you! No more animals! Never any more animals. Animals are something to eat or shoot or tame or admire. Nothing else! I have had enough of animals. Especially heroic ones."
He begins to play the "Hunter from the Kurpfalz." I see that I will get no decent conversation out of him tonight. Especially not the sort to make a man forget unfaithful women. "What is the meaning of life?" I ask as I leave.
"Eating, sleeping, and intercourse."
I dismiss the idea with a gesture and wander back. Unconsciously I walk in time with Wilke's hammering; then I notice it and change the rhythm.
Lisa is standing in the gateway. She has the roses in her hand and holds them out to me. "Here! Take them! I have no use for them."
"Why not? Haven't you any feeling for the beauty of nature?"
"No, thank God. I'm no cow. Riesenfeld!" She laughs in her night-club voice. "Tell the boy I'm not the sort of person you give flowers to."
"What then?"
"Jewelry," Lisa replies. "What did you think?"
"Not clothes?"
"Only when you're on more intimate terms." She squints at me. "You look miserable. Want me to cheer you up?"
"No thanks," I reply. "I'm cheerful enough. Go along by yourself to the cocktail hour at the Red Mill."
"I didn't mean the Red Mill. Do you still play the organ for those crazy people?"
"Yes," I say in surprise. "How did you know about that?"
"Word gets around. Do you know, I'd like to go with you to that loony bin sometime."
"You'll get there soon enough without me."
"Well, we'll just see which of us is the first," Lisa says carelessly, laying the flowers on the curb. "Here, take these vegetables! I can't keep them in the house. My old man is jealous."
"What?"
"Jealous as a razor! And why not?"
I do not know what is jealous about a razor; but the image is convincing. "If your husband is jealous, how can you keep on disappearing at night?" I ask.
"He does his butchering at night. I make my own arrangements."
"And when he isn't butchering?"
"Then I have a job as hat-check girl in the Red Mill."
"Have you really?"
"God, you are stupid!" Lisa replies.
"And the clothes and jewelry?"
"All cheap imitations." Lisa grins. "Every husband believes that! You can persuade men of anything! Well then, take your green groceries. Send them to some calf. You look as though you sent flowers."
"Never."
Lisa throws me an abysmal glance over her shoulder. Then without replying she walks back across the street on her beautiful legs. She is wearing shabby red slippers; one has a pompom, on the other it is missing.
The roses gleam in the twilight It is an impressive bouquet. Nothing shabby about Riesenfeld. Fifty thousand marks, I estimate. Glancing around cautiously, I pick them up like a thief and go to my room.
Upstairs the window is red with sunset. The room is full of shadows and reflections; suddenly loneliness falls upon me as though from ambush. I know it's nonsense; I am no more lonely than an ox in a herd of oxen, but I cannot help myself. Loneliness has nothing to do with a lack of company. It occurs to me that perhaps I was too hasty with Erna last night. Quite possibly there could be an innocent explanation for everything that has happened. She was jealous; that was clear in everything she said. And jealousy is
"Kurt," I say in disappointment, "you're a disgusting materialist. A house owner, that's all you want to be! And what's to become of your immortal soul?"
"A house owner and a sculptor." Bach executes a glissan-do. Upstairs, Wilke, the carpenter, is keeping time with his hammer. He is working hard on a white coffin for a child and is getting paid overtime. "Then I'd never need to make another damn dying lion or ascending eagle for you! No more animals! Never any more animals. Animals are something to eat or shoot or tame or admire. Nothing else! I have had enough of animals. Especially heroic ones."
He begins to play the "Hunter from the Kurpfalz." I see that I will get no decent conversation out of him tonight. Especially not the sort to make a man forget unfaithful women. "What is the meaning of life?" I ask as I leave.
"Eating, sleeping, and intercourse."
I dismiss the idea with a gesture and wander back. Unconsciously I walk in time with Wilke's hammering; then I notice it and change the rhythm.
Lisa is standing in the gateway. She has the roses in her hand and holds them out to me. "Here! Take them! I have no use for them."
"Why not? Haven't you any feeling for the beauty of nature?"
"No, thank God. I'm no cow. Riesenfeld!" She laughs in her night-club voice. "Tell the boy I'm not the sort of person you give flowers to."
"What then?"
"Jewelry," Lisa replies. "What did you think?"
"Not clothes?"
"Only when you're on more intimate terms." She squints at me. "You look miserable. Want me to cheer you up?"
"No thanks," I reply. "I'm cheerful enough. Go along by yourself to the cocktail hour at the Red Mill."
"I didn't mean the Red Mill. Do you still play the organ for those crazy people?"
"Yes," I say in surprise. "How did you know about that?"
"Word gets around. Do you know, I'd like to go with you to that loony bin sometime."
"You'll get there soon enough without me."
"Well, we'll just see which of us is the first," Lisa says carelessly, laying the flowers on the curb. "Here, take these vegetables! I can't keep them in the house. My old man is jealous."
"What?"
"Jealous as a razor! And why not?"
I do not know what is jealous about a razor; but the image is convincing. "If your husband is jealous, how can you keep on disappearing at night?" I ask.
"He does his butchering at night. I make my own arrangements."
"And when he isn't butchering?"
"Then I have a job as hat-check girl in the Red Mill."
"Have you really?"
"God, you are stupid!" Lisa replies.
"And the clothes and jewelry?"
"All cheap imitations." Lisa grins. "Every husband believes that! You can persuade men of anything! Well then, take your green groceries. Send them to some calf. You look as though you sent flowers."
"Never."
Lisa throws me an abysmal glance over her shoulder. Then without replying she walks back across the street on her beautiful legs. She is wearing shabby red slippers; one has a pompom, on the other it is missing.
The roses gleam in the twilight It is an impressive bouquet. Nothing shabby about Riesenfeld. Fifty thousand marks, I estimate. Glancing around cautiously, I pick them up like a thief and go to my room.
Upstairs the window is red with sunset. The room is full of shadows and reflections; suddenly loneliness falls upon me as though from ambush. I know it's nonsense; I am no more lonely than an ox in a herd of oxen, but I cannot help myself. Loneliness has nothing to do with a lack of company. It occurs to me that perhaps I was too hasty with Erna last night. Quite possibly there could be an innocent explanation for everything that has happened. She was jealous; that was clear in everything she said. And jealousy is
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