I rose after hastily swallowing a single glass, let the officious youth brush my hat and clothes, and then requested him to direct me to the actor's residence. Perceiving my interest in him, he brought me the bill for that night's performance. The "Ancestress," a tragedy by Grillparger, with spectral apparitions: first row, six good groschens[3]; second row, five silver ones; pit, two good ones; children, half price; commencement at six o'clock. I read the names, of which I knew only the manager's: Jaromir--Manager Konstantin Spielberg. An uncomfortable feeling of mingled cowardice and repugnance again overpowered me. For a moment I actually hesitated whether I should not strap on my knapsack again and walk straight out through the opposite gate. But the puppet was fastened to its platform, and the naughty boy pulled till his toy was obliged to roll where he wanted it to go.
The Goose-Market was a rectangular piece of ground, in which grew dusty acacia-trees. On one of the narrow sides stood the colonel's former residence, a by no means ugly two-story building, in the style of the reign of Old Fritz, with a flight of steps leading to the door, and a stone escutcheon on the cornice above. But all the windows were closed with shutters, and a cat lay asleep in the sentry-box beside the steps.
My waiter led me to the side entrance, whose door was unlocked, and through the wide gateway into the shady court-yard, in whose center a large chestnut-tree spread its boughs in front of the windows of the rear building. "Please go up the stairs at the back," he said. "Somebody is always at home; but, if you want the manager, you'll find him now at the rehearsal. A very diligent artist, as the president of the district court says, and the rest of the company do well, too. But our little city deserves it, for everybody here raves about art. Well, you will see for yourself."
He bowed affectedly and left me alone, which made me very happy. For the accursed throbbing of the heart grew madder than ever, and I was forced to lean against the trunk of the chestnut ere I was able to walk through the court-yard.
The lower story of the back building seemed to be wholly occupied by stables and coach-houses. In the upper one, all the windows stood open, and their freshly washed panes glittered all the more brightly from the contrast to the thick dust on the doors and sills. At last I plucked up courage and mounted the dark stairs.
I came to a long, tolerably wide corridor, and wandered helplessly past several closed doors. Behind one of them I heard the rattling of pans and dishes; that must be the kitchen. I did not wish to summon a servant, so I stole softly on. And now I paused before a door through which I heard the sound of a woman's well-known voice--only a few words, but I felt by the hot tide which coursed through my veins that it had not lost its power over me during the four or five years of separation. And now I summoned up my resolution like a hero and knocked. Some one called "Come in," and I suddenly stood inside the apartment, confronting my old, inevitable fate.
She was sitting at the open window, and the sunbeams, piercing the foliage of the chestnut, flickered over her figure, leaving her head in shadow. At the first glance I saw that she had grown even more beautiful--a little stouter and more matronly, of course--but her face was still more instinct with intellect, and her nose had actually lengthened a trifle. She wore her hair in the same fashion as in her girlhood, only she had fastened over the coil behind a black-silk crocheted net, whose ends were knotted at her neck. No one would have perceived either her lineage or her present dignity as wife of the manager by her plain, dark-calico dress. But in her lap she held a red-velvet royal mantle--very threadbare, it is true--trimmed with gold-lace, in which she was mending a long rent, and a pile of knights' costumes, satin bodices, and plumed caps lay in a clothes basket beside her chair.
"Good Heavens, Johannes!" I heard her suddenly exclaim. The royal mantle slipped from her hand, and she rose to her full-height, fixing her large brown eyes on me exactly as I had feared--as if a ghost had rudely startled her from her quiet thoughts.
A little boy, about four years old, who had been playing with a Noah's ark on a piece of carpet at her feet, sprang up at the same time, seized her hand, and was now staring at me with mingled shyness and curiosity.