This story was the family history of the Götzes. Their father had been an officer of justice in the service of a count in the Harz Mountains—a conscientious, delicate man, and inhumanly learned. He would have liked to make of his sons just such gloomy reservoirs of knowledge but succeeded only in the case of his second son, Theodor. He studied law and with untiring industry and ever ready submission to the government finally became Privy Councillor after having married his pious wife, Aurelie, née von Lichtenhahn. There were two children of the marriage; a daughter Kleophea, a girl who would fit into any description of the temptation of St. Anthony, and a son Aimé, born seven years later. The eldest of the three Götz brothers was Lieutenant Rudolf, who was then over sixty. His father had sent him to a school of forestry and he had finally received an appointment in that branch in the count's service. In the unhappy year 1806 he had entered the Prussian army and later took part in the campaigns in Russia and France. The youngest of the three had been Felix who had died five years before, but who in his youth had been a hot-headed, splendid fellow unable to stand any discipline. When the volunteer corps against Napoleon was formed he fled in the night and joined the cavalry. During the war the two brothers met in 1813 on the Elbe, in 1814 in Paris; after the war Rudolf Götz continued to serve in a small garrison but Felix filled and killed his time with sins. Then he tried his luck in America. For years nothing was heard of him, but in 1830 when things began to grow lively in Europe again he turned up once more as a Peruvian or Colombian captain and sought out Rudolf. He had seen much and had come back from America with a wife and a daughter. He had left them in Paris while he himself was on his way to Poland, where he meant to take part in the revolution. He remained till the defeat of the Poles at Ostrolenka. Ill, tattered and bleeding, in 1832, he knocked again at Rudolf's door, thus compromising the Prussian officer—and that was the reason that Rudolf had retired himself so that he might not be retired. Felix went back to his wife and child in Paris, Rudolf made his way through the world as well as he could as a half-beggar and whole vagabond. In 1836 he too went to Paris, arriving just in time for his sister-in-law's funeral. The younger brother had gone even more to the dogs than the elder and the two now combined and gave fencing lessons. Rudolf left Paris as soon as he thought that he had again set his brother on his feet, but soon after his departure the same old story began again. Felix died in misery and Rudolf fetched his niece and brought her to his brother Theodor's house.
During this tale night had come on and, from a hill, the travelers suddenly saw the great city lying at their feet. Hans could not take it in in a moment. It seemed to him as if he were standing at the edge of the sea into which he was to plunge and learn to swim; an irresistible power impelled him and yet he was afraid. The lieutenant encouraged him and steered him, inexperienced, awkward, and often surprised as he was, through the bustle and crowd of the big city, without any mishap, to the "Green Tree" Inn. The landlord, Lämmert, reported in military fashion that the "slayers of nine" were all assembled and at the lieutenant's command Hans had room 13, beside that of the old soldier, assigned to him.
After they had washed, the lieutenant introduced Hans to the company of the "slayers of nine." It was made up of men who had all at one time been connected with the military service and Colonel von Bullau, owner of the estate of Grunzenow and formerly the commander of Rudolf Götz's regiment, presided over it. Its purpose was first of all the promotion of sociability and good-fellowship and it took its name from the rule that, in his real or imaginary tales of war, no member might, in one evening, boast of more than nine victims of his valor. In the society of these good-humored, bluff, thoroughly seasoned old warriors Hans spent his first evening in the metropolis. The next day the lieutenant showed Hans somewhat more of it, that is, he dragged him not only through taverns and pastry cook's shops but also through collections of weapons and art museums. In the evening, after they had again supped in the "Green Tree," they went to the opera and heard "Don Giovanni." The theatre alone with its richly colored life intoxicated the theologian, who at certain moments was all but overcome by the painful feeling of having missed untold experience. But when the real play on the stage went forward he was so spellbound that he himself became the "stone guest" of that evening.
After the performance the two went to a popular wine tavern frequented especially by actors, singers and writers. Among them there also appeared a certain Dr. Stein, who was making a considerable stir just then. In him Hans recognized—the lieutenant was just greeting an acquaintance in the next room—Moses Freudenstein and, much affected, went to his table to greet him. The dapper, bearded gentleman, however, seemed most embarrassed, explained to Hans that he was now Dr. Théophile Stein and begged him not to attract attention to them. He promised to explain everything to him the next day. Hans complied with his boyhood friend's request and later did not respond to the lieutenant's remark that this literary fellow and journalist, Dr. Stein, did not please him particularly and that it seemed to him as if he had already seen his face somewhere. Moses took no further notice of the two men till they were about to leave when he succeeded, after the lieutenant was already outside, in slipping his visiting card, with his address, into Hans' hand. In his room in the "Green Tree" his friend gazed at this card long and thoughtfully before he could make up his mind to go to bed.]
Chapter XVII
Almost all night long Hans Unwirrsch had to listen to all the tower clocks the strokes of which reached his pillow. He heard voices of all kinds as he lay awake. The big city sounded every passing quarter of an hour in his ear with a twelve-fold stroke. The tones came from nearby and from far away;—first came the dull bell from quite close by, then the light, clear tone that rang in the distance and sounded much like the bell in a railway station. This fine, distant little voice was followed by the sonorous rumbling of the clock on St. Nicholas' tower; and so it went on and on, one clock and bell following close on another's heels.
It was a curious thing to lie thus in a strange house, in a strange town, in a strange world, counting the hours of night and recalling his past life in an effort in some way to connect it with the mad events of the present.
What was the relation of Dr. Théophile Stein to the Moses of Kröppel Street, the Moses of the Gymnasium and of the university? Hans Unwirrsch gave up bothering his head about that. Inexplicable as this figure might be that had suddenly risen out of the ground, its outlines were yet too distinct and sharp to admit of any doubt as to its reality.