When he opened the passage door he was greeted by the old landlady, who was shuffling to and fro in her slippers in the semi-darkness like some panic-stricken chicken woken from its sleep in the middle of the night. In her usual whisper she said, ‘Herr Gurdweill, aie, aie, there’s a letter for you. The postman has just left. This very minute. You didn’t meet him? Aie, aie, aie! What a pity! A registered letter. From Berlin, he said. I signed for it. It’s on the table in your room. I just fell asleep, a little afternoon nap, and now — my upper stomach, pssss!’

Gurdweill left her standing in the passage and went into his room. So — there was a reason why he had hurried home, against his will, in the middle of the afternoon! Enclosed in the letter from the editor of the literary magazine was a cheque for fifty marks. The editor sang his praises and predicted a great future for him. The story was already at the printers and would appear in the coming edition, which they would send him, of course, as soon as it came out. And would Gurdweill for God’s sake hurry up and send him something new without delay, etc …

Gurdweill felt like a hero. Although this was not the first time he had heard his praises sung by an editor, he always felt the same elation, the same tremendous surge of hope, which faded as suddenly as it had appeared. Especially when he sat down to work and experienced the usual difficulties (always, as if to spite him, exacerbated after praise!), stopped, despaired, took courage and began again, recognised all his flaws and shortcomings, and reached the certain, depressing conclusion that he would never, ever, succeed in expressing everything that was in his heart, and expressing it the way he wanted to, exactly as it floated before his eyes — and what good would the praises of others do him then?

But today he was happy in spite of it all. Thea was his: exclusively, undeniably his! (He firmly suppressed certain doubts that were beginning to flicker in the darker corners of his soul.) And in a few more days, yes, in nine more days, everything would be finalised! Then a new life would begin, a life laid out in straight, neat lines, a life of calm and contentment. In his leisure time he would be able to work to his heart’s desire. From now on he would work in a different way entirely: he would charge in and attack, aim straight for the heart of things, for the central point — and without a doubt he would prevail!

‘And what about Dr Ostwald, for example?’ A doubt succeeded in suddenly breaking through into consciousness.

Gurdweill started up from the sofa, where he had absent-mindedly seated himself, and began pacing up and down the room.