The Social Democrats were planning a parade through the main streets of the city in October, but the police had already forbidden their demonstration. The evening the edict was issued the regiments stood at alert in the barracks; feeling ran high throughout the entire city. In Wöhrd and Plobenhof there had been a number of riots; in the narrow streets of the central zone thousands of workmen had stormed the Rathaus.
Every now and then there would come a long, shrill whistle from the silent mass, followed at once by the heavy rolling of drums at the guard house.
Among those who came down from the direction of Koenig Street was the workman Wachsmuth. In the vicinity of the Schimmelweis shop he delivered an excited harangue against the former member of the party; his words fell on fruitful soil. A locksmith’s apprentice who had lost some money through the Prudentia violently defamed the character of the bookseller.
The mob gathered before the lighted shop window. Wachsmuth stood by the door, and demanded that the traitor be suspended from a lamp post before this day’s sun had set. A stone flew through the air over their heads, and crashed through the window; pieces of glass flew in all directions. Thereupon a dozen fellows rushed into the shop, exclaiming, “Where is the dirty dog? Let us get at the blood-sucker!” They wanted to teach him a lesson he would never forget.
Before Theresa could open her mouth, scraps of books and newspapers were flying in every direction, and pamphlets were being trampled under foot. A forest of arms were reaching out for the shelves, and bundles of books were falling to the floor, like stacks of cards piled up by a child and blown over by the wind. Zwanziger had taken refuge at the top of the ladder; he was howling. Theresa stood by the till looking like the ghost of ages. Philippina came in through the back door, and eyed what was going on without one visible trace of surprise or discomfort; she merely smiled. Just then the policeman’s whistle blew; in less time than it takes to draw one breath, the rebellious insurgents were beating a hasty retreat.
When Theresa regained consciousness, the shop was empty; and the street in front of the shop was as deserted as it ordinarily is at midnight. After some time, the chief of police came up; he was followed by a crowd of curious people, who stood around and gaped at the scene of devastation.
Jason Philip, seeing what was coming, had left the shop betimes and hidden in his house. He had even locked the front door and was sunk down on a chair, his teeth clappering with vigour and regularity.
He returned at last to the shop, and with heart-rending dignity faced the dispenser of justice, who by this time had put in his appearance. He said: “And this is what I get from people for whom I have sacrificed my money and my blood.”
In giving his testimony as an eyewitness, Zwanziger displayed boastful hardiness in his narration of details. Philippina looked at him with venomous contempt from under the imbecile locks that hung down over her forehead, and murmured: “You disgusting coward!”
When Jason Philip came back from the inn, he said: “To believe that people can be ruled without the knout is a fatal delusion.” With that he stepped into his embroidered slippers—“For tired Father—Consolation.” The slippers had aged, and so had Jason Philip. His beard was streaked with grey.