6 l'HE OPPERMANNS there were, of course, a few things he still wanted. Wish num- her one: Sybil was amistress many people justifiably envied him. The beautiful and clever Ellen Rosendorff was fonder of him than he deserved. Nevertheless, if he didn't get a certain letter from a certain person today, it would be a bitter disap- pointment to him, Wish number two: he really couId not ex- pect the Minerva Press to undertake the publication of his hi- ography of Lessing. Nor was it important in these times whether the life and works of an author, who died a hundred and fifty years ago, were described all over again or not. But a11 the same, if the Minerva Press refused the book, it would be a blow to hirn. Wish number three: He opened his eyes. They were brown and deep-set. He did not feel as peaceful or as resigned as, scarcely a moment ago, he had believed hirnself to be. Deep, vertical furrows above the strongly moulded nose, thick eyebrows angrily drawn to- gether, he scowled gloomily at the ceiling. It was rernarkable how his keen face instantly reflected each change in his impet- uous, ever-changing moods. Should the Minerva people accept the Lessing book, there would still be a year's work on it, If they refused it, he would lock the manuscript, just as it was, in some drawer, In that case, what could he do all through the winter? He might go to Egypt, to Palestine. For a long time he had intended going there. One should have seen Egypt and Palestine. Should one really? Rot. Why spoil this beautiful day by thinking about such things? Thank goodness, it was time for the ride at last. He walked through the little front garden towards Max Reger Strasse. His figure was rather thickset, but in good train- ing. He walked with precise, quick steps, his entire sole firmly pressing the ground, but he carried his massive head high. Sehlüter, his servant, stood in the gateway and wished him many happy returns, Bertha, Schlüter's wife, the cook, came

BOOK ONE: YESTERDAY 7 out too and wished hirn the same. Gustav, beaming, acknowl- edged their greetings in a loud, hearty voice. They all laughed, He rode away, knowing that they were standing looking after hirn. They would have to admit that he kept hirnself in darnned good form for a fifty-year-old. He looked particularly well on horseback, too, taller than he actually was, his legs be- ing a little short, though his body was long, "[ust like Goethe," as his friend of the Bibliophile Society, Headmaster Franccis of Queen Louise School, remarked at least once a month. Gustav met several of his acquaintances along the road, waved cheerfully to them, without stopping. The ride did hirn good. He came back in high spirits, It was fine to have a rub- down and a bath. He hummed lustily and out of tune a few not altogether easy melodies, and snorted mightily under the cold show er . He ate a hearty breakfast. He went into his library and paced up and down a few times with his precise quick step. He felt pleasure in the fine apartment and its tasteful furnishings. At last he sat down before the massive desk. The large windows scarcely separated him from the landscape, he sat as though in the open air. Before hirn, a bulky pile, lay his morning letters, the birth- day letters, Gustav Oppermann always looked at his correspondence with pleasurable curiosity. One had, from one's first youth, put many feelers out into the world. What was the reaction? There were birthday greetings and congratulations. What else? He rather hoped that perhaps among these forty or fifty letters there might be something to bring excitement into his life. He did not open the letters, but arranged them according to their senders, those he knew and those he was not sure of. Now, at last, he feIt a sharp little thrill. Here was the letter from Anna which he had expected, He held it in his hand for a moment, His eyelids twitched nervously. Then a boyish