Lisa clutched the pencil clumsily in her delicate but chafed hands. The pencil wobbled, turning on itself in search of an angle, a thrust. Hans glanced at Lisa's fresh face and saw her wrinkle her brow, screw up her eyes, push the tip of her tongue out of the corner of her mouth. Lisa was concentrating so much, reflected Hans, that she did not even notice himâthere was only an interminable line, a sluggish pencil, a pair of burning
eyes and an unsteady hand. Everything else had vanished. Lisa's powers of concentration never ceased to amaze him. Up until ten minutes ago she had been running back and forth to the market, hastily scrubbing floors, sewing incessantly, as she would soon go back to doing until evening. And yet now, sitting at Hans's desk, staring intently at her writing, she looked like a schoolgirl who spent her whole time in a classroom. Considering how little time they had for lessons, half-an-hour twice weekly, she had made remarkable progress. She made few mistakes, and if she did, she would be the one to scold herself and impose minor punishments from which an astonished Hans tried to dissuade her. If I get that verb wrong once more, Lisa had said the week before, I'll burn myself with the candle flame, how will I ever do anything in life if I can't even conjugate the verb
to do
! Hans had tried to encourage her by explaining that the verb
to do
behaved erratically, and therefore it was logical that she got in a muddle with the different tenses. Lisa had insisted this was no excuse, because her behaviour was also erratic, sometimes she did things one way and sometimes another, so she oughtn't to get into such a muddle.
Hans became distracted as he remembered this exchange. When he looked again at Lisa's exercise book, he raised his eyebrowsâshe had completed the table of verbs in the present and past tense; furthermore, of her own accord, Lisa had added the verb
to finish
in the column for the verb
to do.
When you do things, she said, you have to be able to finish them, don't you?
As Lisa was reading back with laborious pride the sentences Hans had just dictated to her in the present and past tense, a roar came from the floor beneath. Lisa immediately dropped her pencil and leapt to her feet in terror. Herr Zeit was shouting his daughter's name as he lumbered up the stairs. Lisa closed her exercise book, said goodbye to Hans with a swift kiss on the cheek (a kiss, which, on the other hand, Hans reflected, proved
she wasn't very scared), ran across the corridor and hid in one of the other rooms. Hans stood behind his door listeningâwhen Herr Zeit found her, she pretended she had been changing the sheets up on the second floor. But her father refused to be placated, he had come up in a terrible rage.
Wretched girl! he bellowed. Where did you get this? Lisa looked down at his hands and recoiled in horrorâit was her new make-up. Where did you get it? Herr Zeit repeated, you don't have money for this! He seized his daughter by the hair and dragged her from the room.
Frau Pietzine turns into Archway. She has spent the afternoon in church, meditating. This has made her late and she needs a carriage. There are no empty ones in the market square, so she must either wait there, or try her luck at the stand on the north side. When she hears the bell in the clock tower strike seven-thirty, Frau Pietzine pauses. She thinks about how neglectful of her motherly duties she has been of late, and how much her children hate having to eat their supper with the servant. And so she walks back the way she came, making her way to the stand on the north side, taking short cuts through the side alleys.
Once inside their apartment, the innkeeper slams the door, releases his daughter and looks around for a bag. When she sees her father hurl her make-up and perfumes into it, Lisa begins to cry. Herr Zeit bears down on her, fist raised. How did you pay for this filth? he bawls. With the change from the shopping? Have you been robbing your own family? Answer me, you wretched girl, is this how you make your father happy?
The masked figure hears the sound of Frau Pietzine's hurrying shoes behind him as she turns into Wool Alley. As it is not quite dark yet, instead of waiting for her, he walks on, hands in pockets, careful not to make any strange movements, even quickening his pace slightly in order to get farther ahead. It
would be rash to do anything before they reached the bend in Jesus Lane.
What's more, Herr Zeit screamed, it isn't right for a young girl, a girl like you, to be perfuming herself! As well as giving the money back to your mother, I forbid you to bring another bottle of perfume into this house. That's the last time you disobey me, the last, do you hear me! Do you hear me!
Backed into the dark corner in Jesus Lane, the shadow tilts his hat, puts on his mask and checks he has all his tools. The sound of heels draws closer and closer. The mask moves at cheek levelâthe masked man is smiling. He is very lucky. For several weeks he has been avoiding the side streets as a precaution. Policemen have been patrolling the neighbourhood, he has seen them when he has been walking through without his mask. He has even greeted them with a polite nod. But for a few days now the police have stopped patrolling, and this is the first evening he has gone out wearing his long coat and black-brimmed hat. Fewer and fewer women walk out alone after seven o'clock.
Biting her lips until they bleed, Lisa shuts herself in her room and blockades the door from inside. She lies on her bed, presses her face into the pillow and tries to ignore the stinging in her arms, back and buttocks. She struggles to stifle the sobs she feels neither her father nor her mother deserve to wring from her. She must stop crying like a child and learn to weep like a young ladyâsoundlessly, without gasping or snivelling, letting the tears roll down her cheeks dispassionately, as though she were thinking about something quite different. Groping around, she finds one of her old rag dolls. She sits up, holds it before her eyes and stares intently at it. Then she notices a seam unravelling between the doll's arms and chest.
The first thing she sees when she comes round the corner is the blade. For a split second Frau Pietzine is so startled by the knife close to her neck she forgets to scream. When she does
try to cry out, someone has already stopped her mouth with a handkerchief.
Herr Zeit is still haranguing Lisa from the other side of the door. Lisa doesn't listen, she doesn't want to listen to him, she concentrates on her old rag doll and the hole in its chest. As the pounding on the door continues, Lisa begins to pull at the loose threads. She pulls harder and harder, watching the doll's chest gradually unravelling. She experiences a searing joy, a bitter sense of superiority, and begins making the hole bigger, ripping apart the doll's chest.
Frau Pietzine's dress tears slightly. She thrashes her legs about, waves her arms, then suddenly freezes as she feels the knife prick the side of her neck. She lies motionless, gasping, as though waiting for two different guillotines to drop. She does not begin to pray then. She thinks first of her children, then of the supper, and then of death. She feels no remorse, but that she is being punished. At the first touch of cold air on her legs, she begins to pray silently.
Lisa tears the doll in two and probes its entrails. Does it hold some hidden secret? What is it hiding? But she finds nothing of interest inside her beloved doll. Pieces of thread, cloth and cotton wool, nothing. On the other side of the door, trying to force the handle, her father is shouting her name.
In a final gesture of resistance, Frau Pietzine tenses her thighs and presses her arms to her sidesâshe has discovered a brute strength she didn't know existed. The masked man gives a start. He freezes for a moment. He faltersâthis is the first time he has known the victim. He is on the point of letting her go. Withdrawing. But it feels too late to stop now. Besides, he is excited. Very excited. And deep down it is this unexpected element that thrills him. And so, in order to ease his struggle, the masked man finally pulls off a glove, releasing a faint smell of lard. As she lies doubled up, a shiver of panic coursing through
her, Frau Pietzine thinks she recognises the hand, or that it is in some way familiar. Afterwards she thinks she is mistaken. She thinks she is hallucinating, having a terrible nightmare from which she will awake, that everything is spinning very fast, that the pain is filtering through a crack. Then she has the impression of slipping down a steep slope, and that nothing will matter to her any longer.
Herr Zeit bursts angrily into the room and remains motionless for a momentâhis daughter Lisa is holding the rag doll's torn off head, smiling absently, as if he weren't standing there brandishing a leather strap.
Â
As Frau Levin sat down and noticed the empty chair, she asked after Frau Pietzine. Over time she had grown to respect her, and, underneath all their differences, suspected they had much in commonâFrau Pietzine's compulsive chatter was nothing more than a manifestation of the same paralysing shyness she suffered from, and widowhood had plunged her into a state of solitude with which she, a married woman of many years, was only too familiar.
As she poured the first serving of tea, Sophie informed her guests she had received a note from Frau Pietzine, who was indisposed and excused herself from attending that Friday. When Sophie stopped next to Hans and leant over to fill his cup, she had the impression that he had raised his shoulder in order to brush against her breast. Although Rudi had his head turned and was talking to her father, Sophie decided to caution Hans by letting a few drops of tea splash into his saucer. Hans sat up with a start and whispered: Oh, never mind, Mademoiselle, never mind. Elsa and Bertold brought trays laden with bowls of consommé and fruit compote. There was a sound of scraping chairs and clinking spoons. Ãlvaro tried to catch Elsa's eye, but she avoided him. Hans attempted to strike up a conversation
with Rudi. He responded amiably and began regaling Hans with stories of his latest hunting expedition. Seeing them chatting together, Sophie gave a sigh of relief. Elsa left the garden. Ãlvaro rose to his feet and said he needed to go up to the bathroom.
After a scholarly tribute to Schiller from Professor Mietter (which earned him the praise of both Herr Levin and Herr Gottlieb), Hans said without thinking: Schiller studied for the priesthood and ended up being a doctor! For your information, young man, Professor Mietter replied sharply (at which Hans looked at him almost with gratitude, because he was bored), Schiller was one of our most eminent men, the only man equal to Goethe, he spent his life writing in defence of freedom and strove to fight disease, working until the day he died, I don't see why you should find that amusing! I can see, said Hans with a grin, you would prefer us all to be serious. All right. Hölderlin, who was Schiller's disciple, says that philosophy is the hospital of the poet, and I agree with him there. Schiller died ill, and still philosophising. This seems to me worthy of the greatest respect. What I don't understand is why Schiller wrote odes to happiness in his youth, and then spent his life admonishing young poets, who, incidentally, were better than he. That is your view, protested Professor Mietter. No, said Hans, that is the view of poetry. Don't be so conceited! Professor Mietter rebuked him, folding his arms. Sophie interceded gently: Do go on, Professor. Well, he nodded, straightening his wig, let us see. Schiller was merely pointing out the basic rules of art to the young poets, he was not censuring them, but reminding them of the need to study these rules. In doing so he was merely following the
Critique of Judgement
, and, if I remember rightly, Monsieur Hans has defended Kant on more than one occasion. Sophie turned to Hans, amused: Do you have anything to say, dear Hans? Hans, who had decided to remain silent to avoid generating further tension, saw the congratulatory pat Rudi
gave Professor Mietter, his mocking smile, the haughty way he inhaled his snuff, and, fixing his eyes on Sophie, he replied: Our inestimable professor claims that Schiller followed Kant. True. Yet Kant was an independent critic, because he established his own norms. Thus, to obey Kant is to betray him. Do any of you truly believe we can speak of a universal judgement, an objective aesthetic, an inadequate use of beauty? What the devil does that mean? What was Schiller so afraid of? If it was the differences between the social classes then I understand, because those are imposed (Rudi, my love, Sophie distracted him, how do you find the compote?) but to say there can be no different aesthetics, to propose a consensus on taste is grotesque! Or should we create a law governing taste? Hasn't Metternich given us enough laws already? Holding his pince-nez on his nose Professor Mietter countered: You are confusing censorship with rules. All freedom, whether in art or in society, requires order. And true fear derives from the denial of this self-evident fact. All right, replied Hans, waving his cup so that his tea spilt over into the saucer, but that order can never be permanent. As Kant said, that would be a return to infancy. The surrender of reason, the death of
räsonieren
. You have clearly misread Schiller, Professor Mietter concluded with a shrug. Perhaps, said Hans, and until the law takes it away from me, I assume I can still enjoy that privilege.
Calm yourselves, gentlemen, insisted Sophie, here our greatest privilege is to disagree without losing our manners. Well said, my child, Herr Gottlieb said approvingly, twirling the tip of his moustache around one finger, and incidentally, if our guests are in agreement, I would like to propose that next Friday, by way of closing this salon for the summer, we read a few passages from one of Schiller's plays. (Rudi looked at Hans and gave a snigger.) I might add that although we are no experts, we are particularly fond of Schiller in this house, and. (Dear father-in-law, Rudi
interrupted, where will you have the pleasure of taking your summer holidays?) What? Where? Ah, well, we shall find somewhere! You know what August is like, dear son-in-law, people everywhere! We are waiting to hear from various friends before we make any plans (very wise, nodded Rudi, very wise), orâwho knows!âwe might simply stay here and relax, when you get to my age the crowds at the spas become a bore. (Forgive me, ahem, Herr Levin picked up the conversation, and which work of his do you prefer?) Which work? Ah, yes, I beg your pardon, well, of course one perhaps hasn't read Schiller's entire works, I don't know, how about
William Tell
? (An excellent choice in my view, father, said Sophie, if everyone else agrees â¦)