r again touch a work of that
sort. The mordant smoke of misanthropy blew into the fire of
idolisation; he did not wish to see any one; he left the city, and
found peace only after he had reached a lonely, unfrequented place in
the forest, where he felt he was out of the reach of human feet and safe
from the eyes of men.

At night he would walk rapidly through the streets; his head was always
bowed. If he became tired, he betook himself to some unknown cafe where
he was sure he would not meet any of his acquaintances. If some one whom
he knew met him on the street, he did not speak; if any one spoke to
him, he was blatant and bizarre in his replies, and hastened off as
rapidly as he could, with some caustic bit of intended wit on his
loosened tongue.

To enter the room where Philippina and the child were required much
effort; at first he was able to do it only with pronounced aversion.
Later he came somehow to be touched by the form and actions of the
child: he would come in a few times each day for a minute or two only,
take it up in his arms, have it poke its tiny hands into his face or
even jerk at his nose glasses; he listened with undivided interest to
its baby talk. Philippina would stand in the corner in the meanwhile,
with her eyes on the floor and her mouth closed. He became painfully
aware of his obligations to her because of her inexplicable fidelity to
him, and knew that he would never be able to reward her for her unique
and faithful assistance. He was grieved at the same time to see the
child so motherless, so utterly without the attention that ennobles. The
child's bright eyes, its outstretched arms hurt him: he feared the
feelings slumbering even then in its breast, and was driven away by the
thought of what might happen in the future.

One morning in August he arose with the sun, went to the kitchen and got
his own breakfast, took his walking stick, and left the house. He wanted
to go to Eschenbach on foot.

He walked the entire day, making only very short stops for rest. At noon
the heat became intense; he asked a peasant, who chanced to drive up in
his hay wagon, if he might ride a little. He had no definite end in
view, no plan. Something drew him on; what it was he did not know.

When he finally reached the little town it was late at night; the moon
was shining. There was not a soul on the street. The windows of his
mother's house were all dark. He climbed up the steps, and sat down as
close to