They were near the Cemetery of St. John. The gate was open, and Daniel followed Benda. They walked along a narrow path, until Benda pointed to a flat stone bearing the name of Albrecht Dürer. After this they came to Feuerbach’s grave. A bronze tablet, already quite darkened with age and weather, bore Feuerbach’s face in profile. Beneath it lay a laurel wreath, the withered leaves of which were fluttering in the wind.
“What a life he lived!” said Benda in a low tone. “And what a death he died! The death of a hunted dog!”
As they walked back to the city, night came on. Daniel had removed his hat, and was walking along at Benda’s side looking straight ahead. Benda was as nervous as he had ever been in his life.
“A German life, and a German death,” he exclaimed. “He stretched out his hand to give, and the people spat in it. He gives and gives and gives, and they take and take and take, without gratitude, yea, rather with, scorn. The only thing they study is their consanguinity table. They make the microscope and the catechism copulate; their philosophy and their police systems live in mésalliance. Good demeanour they know not; of human agreements they have never heard. They decide to do something, and they do it. That is all. There is no longer a place for me in Germany. I am leaving.”
“You are going to leave? Where are you going?” asked Daniel, in faithful amazement. Benda bit his lips, and was silent.
“Do you see these big white spots here? They have neither mountains nor rivers on them. Those are places that have never been trod upon by European feet. There is where I am going.” He smiled a gentle smile.
“Really? When?” asked Daniel, filled with dismay at the thought of losing his friend.
“I have not decided when, but it will be soon. I have work to do over there. I need air, room, sky, the free animal and the free plant.”
Benda’s mother came in. She was rather tall, walked with the difficulties of age, had sharp features and deep-set eyes.