Every spare hour into which she pitilessly crammed more work seemed a gain, every difficulty that she overcame a positive joy, every day was wealth.

The first and last thing, death, remained beyond her comprehension.

She did not put it into words, she felt it: I am not among those who can die. Perhaps I will be some day, but then I’ll be waving to the Franziska of today from the opposite bank, another human being will be left behind, one existence will end and another begin.

One day she was waiting in the pouring rain for her piano teacher Torvenius. She stood in the porch of his small house, looking out at the lawn in the tiny front garden. In the air that was so pregnant with spring, it seemed to be visibly growing. At last Torvenius arrived carrying a suitcase. There was a strange gleam in his eyes, and his hand shook as he unlocked the case.

But Franzi never thought about other people; she played the piano. Torvenius said nothing and watched her. The sonata was finished. Franzi turned to him, waiting for his verdict. He got to his feet, opened the case, and took out the body of his dog.

Everything dies, thought Franzi. Yesterday the dog was running around, chasing past the pedal of the piano with a gnawed bone. Now the animal of today seemed to her a different dog, a double of the live one. But both made her shudder.

“So what now? People will say I beat Orla to death,” said Torvenius. “But I never touched the dog. The little brute used to howl when I just came through the door. The wretched creature howled for pleasure. Parrots live to be a hundred and fifty, but dogs must die like men. Don’t they, Orla, what do you say?’ And he bent over the lifeless animal, which had obviously died of sheer old age, and removed a white cloth that he had wrapped around its neck. No one ever discovered why he had been carrying the dog about in his case. Perhaps he had meant to bury it somewhere.

Torvenius went away next day and did not return for some weeks. Franzi took over his piano pupils. Then he suddenly reappeared in the town. He was no longer drinking, but it was now, curiously enough, that people avoided him, openly showing their dislike. At last the owner of a cinematograph theatre took him on to play the piano. The breathless audience was spellbound by the shimmering screen, and no one listened to the music or noticed anything wrong with the tendons of the pianist’s right hand. Franzi sometimes met him in the street. Now he greeted her meekly, even followed her and tried to talk to her, but Franzi felt that she hated him. She disliked him as much the two dogs he now had, and it was so obvious from her expression that he turned away again without a word. Next evening Franzi would see him in the cinematograph theatre. A tropical landscape, trees moving in the wind, dark boats, water glittering brightly and oars dipping—it all passed her by.