Franziska noticed his large grey eyes, which were almost too girlish.

Constanza was still in a rage. “And what about him? What does that man want of us? I’m not a waxwork on show in a panopticon yet! What are young people thinking of, staring like that? Or was he maybe staring at you?” she added.

“I don’t know anyone in Prague,” said Franziska. But at that moment she remembered that she knew that face after all. It was Erwin.

She thought it strange to meet Erwin here, but in reality there was nothing strange about it. On such a day as this anything could happen.

“Now, is there anything else you’d like to tell me, my child?” asked La Constanza. “I think it’s time you left, but I’m sure we’ll see each other again now and then. It’s a small world.” She smiled. “One meets acquaintances everywhere … and I have no objection if you write to me. Write to Naples. They know my name there, particularly at the Conservatory. So goodbye! You don’t have to say goodbye to Einar and Dagmar separately. Is everything in order? Where’s that young man who was giving you such languishing looks just now? I’d have been sorry to be in your way. No, no, I’m only joking! I know very well you haven’t been lying to me. I even know about your past life; your playing said so much. Yes, to return to that subject: your playing was a delightful surprise to me, I really did think it very interesting. No—” (with one last effort to be honest) “it was beautiful, it really carried me away. But that’s only the beginning, isn’t it? So goodbye, and God be with you!”

The train slowly began to move. La Constanza stood on the empty, dusty platform, waving Dagmar’s white handkerchief.

Erwin was nowhere to be seen.

X

NOW THE GLOOMY LIGHT of the concourse opened up—dark night air passed by, a freight train stood there, or no, it seemed to be moving, truck after truck rolling slowly back. Two trucks towered up, covered with coarse tarpaulin, and the light was refracted on the grey fabric as it shimmered faintly in the damp evening air. Now the train thundered over a bridge. Below the grey iron girders lay the dark river with shallow ice floes on it, dull and white like water lilies. A golden row of lights raced along the sloping bank, curved, disappeared into the darkness—and the city was left behind in the distance, a red glow on the horizon.

The lamp hanging from the roof of the compartment was shining with its empty light. Franziska pulled the green silk shade over the slightly warm glass. The landscape glowed mildly in the green twilight. Restless now in spring, the moon rose from the bare ploughed fields. Country roads bordered by poplars marched solemnly along beside the railway embankment, stout wooden barriers with honey-coloured lanterns held hands over the level crossings to protect them. Open-frame horse-drawn carts stopped at these barriers; the horses had lowered their large, damp-maned heads to their chests, and hardly even looked up at the train roaring by.

Everything had a soul, everything was breathing, alive and tired, all the world was tired now, tired with happiness, tired with long journeys, work and everyday life. You could hear the rhythm of the locomotive, a muted underground sound, saying, “Quiet, quiet,” again and again, speaking softly in the gathering dusk and dying away as sleep began. But suddenly a throbbing note sounded in the soft night. It’s La Constanza, thought Franziska in happy alarm, La Constanza is beginning to play the Schubert fantasy again.

She looked up, and saw that the compartment was full of light.