ousehold was
run according to a prescribed routine. It seemed as if Daniel had been
away, not six years, but six days.

He did not feel strong yet, but he worked day and night. The fourth
movement of the symphony gave promise of being a miracle of polyphony.
Daniel felt primeval existence, the original of all longing, the basic
grief of the world urging and pulsing in him, and this he was
translating into the symphony. The eternal wanderer had arrived at the
gates of Heaven and was not admitted. Supernal harmonies had borne him
aloft. Muffled drum beats symbolised his beseeching raps on closed
doors. Within resounded the terrible "no" of the trumpets. The pleading
of the violins was in vain; in vain the intercession of the one angel
standing at the right, leaning on a harp without strings; in vain the
melodious chants of the other angel at the left, crowned with flowers
and all together lovely; in vain the elfin chorus of the upper voices,
in vain the foaming lament of the voices below. No path here for him,
and no space!

One evening Daniel noticed a strange girl at his window. She was
beautiful. Struck by her charms, he got up to go to her. She had
vanished. It was an hallucination. He became afraid of himself, left
the house, and wandered through the streets as in days of long ago.

XI

It was Carnival Week, and the people had resumed their wonted gaiety.
Masked boys and girls paraded the streets, making merry wherever they
went.

As Daniel was passing through The Fuell he was startled: the windows in
the Benda house were lighted. He suddenly recalled that Herr Seelenfromm
had told him that Frau Benda had returned from Worms some time ago, and
was living with her niece; she had become totally blind.

He went up the steps and rang the bell. A grey-haired,
distressed-looking woman came to the door. He thought she must be the
niece. He told her his name; she said she had heard of him.

"You probably know that Friedrich has disappeared," she said in a
sleepy, sing-song voice. "It is eight years since we have heard from
him. The last letter was from the interior of Africa. We have given up
all hope. Not even the newspapers say anything more about him."

"I have read nothing about it," murmured Daniel. "But Friedrich cannot
be dead," he continued, shaking his head, "I will never believe it,
never." Partly in distraction and partly in anxiety, he riveted his eyes
on the woman, w