Money and other stories/The Bully

HE Counting-house, with its electric lamps lighting it like an operating theatre, rumbled and shook with the roar of the factory, but as the clock was on the stroke of six, the clerks were leaving their stools and washing their hands. The house-phone sounded, the cashier lifted the receiver and heard one word: “Bliss.” “Bliss.” Replacing the receiver, he winked at a young man, who, leaning on the office safe and bright with golden dentistry, chatted with a couple of typists. The young man showed all his teeth, threw away his cigarette, and went out.

Taking three stairs in a stride he ran up to the first floor. In the ante-room, nobody. Bliss stood a moment, shifting from one foot to the other, coughed, and passed through the double door into Pelican’s private office. Beside Pelican’s table he saw the Works Manager, standing as a soldier stands making his report.

“I beg your pardon,” Bliss purred quickly and stepped back.

​“Stay,” shot the command after him. The Works Manager with a spasmodic contraction, his nerves strained by the mere effort of sustained attention, twitched one side of his face. Pelican was writing. Through one corner of his mouth he spoke abruptly, while at the other was a cigar at which he bit. Suddenly he threw down the pen and said: “To-morrow announce a lock-out.”

“That means a strike,” observed the manager gloomily.

Pelican shrugged his shoulders.

The manager’s face twitched nervously; evidently he had much on his mind. Meanwhile, Bliss discreetly looked out of the window, as if trying to give the impression that in reality he was not there. He knew well all that was at stake. For a year now he had closely watched Pelican’s struggle for life. German competition had day by day been killing this huge roaring factory which to-morrow would perhaps be silenced for good. Do what they would, the Germans were thirty per cent cheaper. A year ago Pelican had extended the plant and sunk capital on a grotesquely large scale in new machinery for the purpose of cheapening output. He had purchased new patents, calculating that production would be increased by one half. It had not increased at all; opposition from the ​workers had made itself felt. Then Pelican, throwing himself against the new enemy, had victimized the men’s leaders and expelled them from the works. There had followed two unnecessary strikes. In the end he had increased wages and sought by premiums on output to purchase willing work. The cost of production grew to an absurd extent and output decreased all the time; the silent enmity between the workers and their employer broke out into open war. A week ago Pelican had called together the shop-stewards and offered the workers a share of the profits. At the same time, though choking with hatred, he said exceedingly gracious things—” increase output, show a little goodwill and the factory will be one-half yours.” The shop-stewards refused. Very well, then, there must be a lock-out. Bliss knew that Pelican only wanted breathing space, and that he did not feel himself defeated.

“That means a strike,” the manager attempted to begin once more.

“Bliss,” called Pelican, as one calls a favourite dog, and started writing again.

The manager took his leave, wavering as though still expecting to be called back, but Pelican did not heed him.

Bliss leaned upon a desk and waited in silence. He smiled at his glossy boots, at his fingernails, at the pattern of the carpet. . . . His ​melting Jewish eyes blinked like those of a contented cat, half-lulled to sleep by the heat and by the scratching of the pen on the paper.

“A trip to Germany,” uttered Pelican without ceasing to write.

“Whereabouts?” smiled Bliss.

“Among our competitors to have a look around . . . you know what for.”

Flattered, Bliss smiled. He was an industrial spy, a born intelligence man. Had there been a statesman to make use of him with his effeminate elegance, his amazing impudence, and his girlish eyes, he would have been the tool of any party or any treachery. As it was he slipped through various countries, drinking in through his half-shut smiling eyes the secrets of industrial organization, production, patents and markets, to sell them to rivals. He was curiously and devotedly grateful to Pelican, who had discovered him, a Polish refugee in wretched penury, and had set him on his feet. Now he gathered that it was a question of playing some underhand trick on their German competitors. It was the first time that Pelican had asked such a service of him.

“To Germany,” repeated Bliss with his gold-stopped smile. “No further?”

“If you should have the opportunity, certainly,” Pelican seemed to chew the words between his teeth. “But be back soon.”

​There was a moment’s silence. Bliss with noiseless steps went to the window and looked out. The factory, already silent, with its great windows lit up, looked like a palace of glass. Pelican wrote on without ceasing.

“I saw your wife this morning,” came from the direction of the window in a restrained and serious voice.

“Indeed,” let out Pelican without moving, but the scratching of the pen ceased suddenly as if in expectation.

“She went to Stromovka Park,” continued Bliss without turning round. “There she got out and took the ferry to Troja. At the castle there was waiting for her . . . .”

“Who?” asked Pelican after a moment.

“Professor Jezek. They walked along the embankment. . . . Your wife was weeping. At the ferry they parted again.”

“What were they talking about?” said Pelican as if not asking a question.

“I don’t know. He said, ‘You must decide, now it is impossible, impossible like this. . . .’ She wept.

“His manner———”

“His manner suggested intimacy. At the end he said, ‘Till to-morrow, then.’ This was at eleven o’clock this morning.”

“Thanks.”

The pen scratched the paper anew. Bliss ​turned his half-closed eyes and smiled as before. “I will have a look at Sweden,” he grinned, “the steel people there have something new.”

“Pleasant journey!” answered Pelican and handed him a cheque; and it was evident that he still wished to work. Bliss stole quietly away. But now there is silence in the room, as though Pelican were turned to stone. Under the window the waiting chauffeur, numb with cold, can be heard stamping his feet. In the courtyard occasional voices die away as if turned to icicles—seven o’clock struck with a pleasant metallic tinkle. Pelican locked his desk, seized the telephone and called the number of his own flat.

“Is your mistress at home?”

“Yes,” replied the ’phone. “Am I to call her?”

“No,” and hanging up the receiver again he sat down.

“This morning,” he repeated fixedly. “That’s why Lucy was so upset . . . so . . . heaven knows. . . .”

When he had come home at midday she had been playing the piano. He had listened in the next room, and never had it occurred to him that there could be in the world anything so terrible, disturbing, ravishing, until he heard the rapture and the sobbing that she put into her playing. She had come to lunch, ​pale, her eyes burning feverishly. She had eaten practically nothing. They had not talked much; for generally nowadays he had nothing to say, being too much taken up with the struggle at the works, of which she knew nothing. She did not hear him come or go. After lunch she played again. What dreadful force, what supreme, desperate resolution, what secret sign was she trying to find in those rolling hurricanes of sound; what intoxicant did she derive, or with whom was she conversing, in such wild ecstasy? Humbly, he bent his head. His own hard brow was callous, deafened by custom, his brain had learnt to work calmly amid the clash of steam hammers, the penetrating whine of the lathes as they rent the iron, but this outcry of tenderness and sadness which streamed from the open piano was to him like a foreign language which he strove in vain to decipher. He had waited for her to finish playing and stand up; he would have called her to him on the sofa and told her that he was tired, that what he was doing now was beyond the strength of man; he did not light a cigar lest it should annoy her. However, she had taken no notice of him; she was lost in a world of her own, and in the end he had looked at his watch and had crept out on tip-toe to come to the factory.

Pelican clenched his teeth, as though he ​were biting through something with all his strength. So now Jezek, the friend of his youth. . . .

He recollected how he had introduced Jezek to his wife’s drawing-room. Shaggy, bearded, round-shouldered, a somewhat ridiculous and embarrassed scholar with a child-like look of surprise behind his spectacles. He had introduced him almost by force, with good-humoured superiority, a new and amusing plaything. Jezek came rarely; he was shy in a way, and yet soon desperately in love with his young hostess. Pelican had noticed this with the pleasure of a man of property, for he was proud of his brilliant, vivacious wife, with her imperious, impulsive ways. He had urged his friend to come oftener. Jezek had avoided him nervously, had blushed with embarrassment and torment. He would willingly never have shown himself again. Nevertheless, he returned after a time, racked, speechless, more ill at ease than ever, boundlessly happy, and torn by conflicting emotions, when his hostess picked him out from among the other guests and drew him to the piano, where, while her white hands danced a prelude, she talked, talked, talked, her half-mocking eyes fastened upon the bristling head of the unhappy professor. Even then, Pelican felt not the least compassion for the tortured man. ​He had amused himself royally at the expense of his friend; his own vitality, he felt, was so much too forceful for him ever to have imagined. . . .

The heavy clenched jaws trembled. Indeed, it was not only at the house that these things happened, Pelican remembered now for the first time. On rare occasions he accompanied his wife to concerts. Knowing that she was beside him, he was happy sitting there and thinking of his own affairs. And there too Professor Jezek was always to be seen, leaning against the wall with head half bent. What the meaning of such music was he could not tell, but in a short time Lucy would shiver and grow pale and agitated, and then Jezek would raise his head and fix upon her a strange, wild, faraway look as though all that music were flowing from his heart. And Lucy would raise her eyes to his or drop her lids in silent response. They understood each other as it were from afar; they conversed with one another in superhuman tones which flooded space. Then on the way home Lucy would not speak to him; she would not even answer him, but covered her face and eyes with her furs, as if with all her strength she were trying to delay as long as possible the moment of parting with the images created by the music and—who can say what besides?

​Pelican dropped his head in his hands and groaned in anguish. Indeed, it was probably his own fault that things had gone so far! For the last few months he had really neglected Lucy; he had indeed built a wall of silence round himself, but there were so many demands made on him by work and by this terrible struggle! He had had to be at his place at the works; he must be at the bank, at a dozen board meetings. Money was needed and the business did not keep pace with the need. Money was needed . . . before all for Lucy. Lucy spent far too much. He had never told her so, but damnation! it took all his time to provide the means for her to live this life. All his time, every day. Ah, in these last few months he had felt at times that something was going on, that something had already happened. Why was Lucy sad and evasive, why pale and lost in thought, why grown so thin, and why so distant with him? He had seen all these things clearly, and with deep concern, but he had thrust them on one side by sheer force. He had had other, more urgent matters to think of. Suddenly there flashed across his mind with painful vividness the last visit of Jezek. He arrived late, with hair dishevelled, moving as if in a trance. He sat apart and spoke to no one. The young hostess, a little pale, with a tremulous smile ​drew near. Then Jezek rose up and as though compelling her with his eyes to advance, made her withdraw into a window recess. He said a few words to her in a whisper. Lucy inclined her head as though in a mournful “yes” and returned to the others. It was then that Pelican with uneasy apprehension had determined to be on his guard—to take precautions. But there had been so much work, so many immediate worries.

A pleasant-toned bell struck eight.

On the stone terrace by the river near Troja two people are standing; a beautiful woman is weeping, her handkerchief pressed to her lips, and bending over her is the bearded face of a man whose teeth are bared by grief and passion. He is saying to her . . . “You must, you must resolve, no longer possible—like this———” This picture tortured Pelican with all its terrible reality. Things have gone so far with them, he said to himself, quite overwhelmed. But, good God! what ought I to do about it? Shall I speak to Lucy or to him? And what am I to do if they say: “Yes, we love one another.” And why ask that, when it is so clear already? His heavy hands contracted on the cover of the desk—he thought that he was going to be seized by a mad fit of rage and fury, but instead a boundless weariness seemed to smother him. From this desk of his he had ​decided many contests. From here he had commanded men and events; here he had parried and given so many blows with the startling instantaneous promptitude of a well-trained boxer. And now with horror and witha kind of gloomy hatred of himself he felt that he was not capable of answering this blow in any way. In his weakness he measured the completeness of his defeat. “Something must happen, I will do something,” he repeated stubbornly. But suddenly he seemed again to see Lucy at the piano with her eyes feverish and clouded; Lucy pale and shrinking, the beautiful woman on the terrace by the river, and once again he was borne down by a flood of painful and intolerable helplessness.

At last he overcame this weakness and managed to stand up and go down to his car. The automobile glided silently to the centre of Prague. Then Pelican’s eyes grew suddenly bloodshot and he began to shout to the driver, “Faster, faster!”

He foamed and snorted in a sudden flood of fury. He felt that he must fly like a projectile through the people, crush them, rush on, colliding against some obstacle with a frightful crash. “Faster! faster! You idiot of a driver, why do you avoid them?” The astonished chauffeur put his car to top speed, the horn sounded without ceasing, there were ​cries from the people; they had almost run over a man.

He entered his home in apparent calm. Supper passed in strained silence. Lucy, depressed and absorbed in her own thoughts, did not speak. She had eaten only a few mouthfuls when she wished to go. Wait,” said Pelican, and with his cigar alight came over to her and looked into her eyes.

Lucy raised to meet his her eyes which were filled with sudden opposition and fear. “Let me go,” she begged, and pretended to cough as though the smoke choked her.

“You are coughing, Lucy,” he said, not taking his eyes from her, you must go away from here.”

“Where to?” she whispered in terror.

“To Italy, to the sea, anywhere. You must go to the baths. When can you start?”

“I won’t go away,” she said vehemently. “I don’t need to go away anywhere! Really there is nothing the matter with me!”

“You are pale,” he went on with a steady inquiring gaze. “It does not suit you here. You must have two or three years’ cure.”

No, no, no, I won’t go away anywhere,” she cried in dreadful anguish. “No! please, please! I will not go,” she exclaimed in a voice full of tears, and ran from the room in order not to burst out weeping.

​Pelican with his shoulders hunched went to his study.

That night, in the ante-room of the master’s bedroom an old servant was waiting to prepare the evening bath for him. It was midnight and his master had not come. The servant stole to the door of the study on tip-toe, and listened. He heard heavy regular steps from wall to wall, up and down unendingly. Then he went back to his lackey’s arm-chair and fell into a broken sleep, waking every now and then with the cold. At about half-past three he started from a deep sleep to see his master getting into a fur coat. He ran to him stammering apologies for having fallen asleep.

“I must go away,” interrupted Pelican. “I shall be back this evening.”

“Shall I call the car, sir?” asked the servant.

“No need.” Pelican went on foot to the nearest railway station. It was freezing slightly; the street was empty as in a dream, and desolate with the loneliness of death. At the station some people were lying asleep on the seats and others, freezing patiently in silence, sat huddled together like dumb animals. Pelican picked out on the “departure” board the first train to anywhere and went striding up and down the long platform. Thus occupied, he forgot all about his train, selected another and was off at last in an empty carriage, ​he knew not where. It was a still night; he turned off the light and settled himself in a corner.

Everything combined to overwhelm him in floods of infinite weariness. Each rattle of the train seemed to bring another and yet another wave of weakness; he was sunk in deadly depression and at the same time in extreme ease, as though for the first time for years he were resting profoundly and passively. He did not defend himself. For the first time in his life he accepted a blow, feeling with amazement something like satisfaction that the deadly wound went so deep. He had come right away from home to be alone for a whole day, so that he might consider clearly, and without being disturbed, what was to be done about Lucy, how to deal with this dreadful entanglement, but now he was incapable of decision and hardly desired anything more than to remain passively entranced by his own weakness. Low down in the sky glimmered the first glow of the new day. People were waking up, abandoning with regret their warm unconsciousness. Now—now Lucy is still asleep. He sees her wide pillow, her fair hair pressed beneath her cheek, perhaps still wet with tears, the tears of a tired child. She is pale and beautiful, ah, Lucy! truly such weakness is nothing else but love! In heaven’s name, what decision ​did I want to arrive at? Indeed, there can be no doubt that I love you still!

Do something! do something! do something! pounded the clanging wheels emphatically. No! No! No! What is to be done? Why, there is nothing to be done but to love again! But if Lucy be unhappy, something must be done to prevent it. Do something! do something! do something! Wait a little, Lucy, only wait a little, I will show you what love is. You must be happy and even if I . . . Is there any decision to make at all? If I love her, then I must prove it. What sacrifice is great enough to offer her?

Over the country the dawn began.

Quietly, powerfully, beat the heart of the man bearing its great sorrow. Lucy, Lucy, I will give you back your freedom; follow your love and be happy. I will make even this sacrifice. You are frail and beautiful—go, Lucy, and be happier. Landscape followed landscape; the powerful, stubborn forehead was pressed against the frozen pane that he might overcome the intoxicating pain, and his heart seemed, already, through a wide, wide, gaping wound, to drink in the peace of a decision made.

“I will tell her this evening,” meditated Pelican, “I will tell her that we will separate. After her first alarm she will agree to it. Inside six months she will be happy. Jezek will ​satisfy her every desire; he will understand her better than I, and Lucy will be{}{...|4}}”

Pelican jumped as though he had been struck. How on earth could Lucy be happy in poverty? Lucy, who is luxury itself; Lucy, the very essence of expensive whims; Lucy, who had been introduced to his own wealthy home from all the luxury of a great mercantile family just before her father’s bankruptcy. Lucy, who from some kind of instinct, passion or need of her being, from simplicity or from some other cause, must throw about ridiculously large sums of money. In fact, all that Jezek could earn for her would not be enough for one frock! . . . But what does it matter, he objected to himself. In the case of a separation, I will pay alimony, and I will give her as much———

But as to alimony, he recollected suddenly, of course she will be marrying Jezek and naturally I cannot pay. She cannot possibly marry Jezek! She must remain free, so that she can go on receiving at my hands. But what will become of her? The intimacy with Jezek will naturally take its course. If they do not marry, it will lead to publicity . . . an open liaison. The society in which she lives will make her feel her position; they will cast her out and humiliate her. And she herself, haughty, spirited Lucy, will suffer terribly in ​her own mind. She has been brought up simply with strict ideas. . . . That cannot be! Let us separate and let her marry Jezek and learn to live in poverty if she can; and from time to time, thought Pelican, I will offer Jezek an allowance. Then he felt ashamed; that was something which Jezek really could not accept!

Full of perplexity he jumped out of the train at the first station. He did not know in the least where he was. He could not remain sitting any longer. To bring himself back to his senses he must flee over the black fields striped with hard snow. The dawn was grey and damp. No sooner was Pelican out of the station, than he seated himself on a stone by the highroad and recommenced his meditating.

I might perhaps say to her: I will go away from you, but I give you so much as a dowry, you understand? She could then live on the interest. Then she would be able to marry! Quickly he reckoned how much money he could realize. There was no help that way. He lived, as a matter of fact, from day to day. No use, Lucy, you must economize. You will have to make your own clothes, you your own clothes, you will stand over the kitchen range. Each evening you will count up with anxiety how much you have spent.

He began to shiver with the cold. He stood ​up and proceeded at random along the road. Lucy, Lucy, what am I to do about you? Really I could not leave you to such penury! No, that is not for you. Ah, child, you do not know how matter-of-fact and how exacting is poverty! Be sensible, Lucy; just think of all you are accustomed to have——— Deep in painful meditation, he grew warm with quick walking. He did not know himself how it came about, but he began to form new plans on a grand scale, some prodigious industrial campaign which would throw fresh millions into his hands. In a flash he saw the necessary operations and details, he calculated, he broke down future opposition. Through it all there stirred the wild idea that perhaps Lucy would look at everything in a different light if he were to overwhelm her with new and yet greater riches. He stopped short, breathless, at the top of a hill which he had taken in one rush. Neither the highroad nor the railroad was to be seen now. All around undulated the russet-coloured hills of southern Bohemia, alternating with black woods. He set out across the fields, frozen and weary beyond measure. At last he reached a village and tumbled into the nearest inn.

He was alone in the low-ceilinged tap-room, served by a scrubby boy who brought him reddish tea with rum, which smelt of snuff. ​He drank down the scalding abomination at one gulp and thawed by degrees back to life. No! Lucy shall not suffer. It is to prevent that, Lucy, that I am here. Perhaps at this very moment she is waking up; she is getting up already, looking like a little child, and she remembers yesterday’s sorrow. He was so weary that he felt himself as old as though he were her father. You shall not go to live in poverty, Lucy; nothing, nothing must happen. Neither by word nor behaviour will I let it be seen that I know anything. Live in your luxurious dream, love, do what you wish. After all, I am away from home the whole day, and can give you nothing but riches. Have everything, Lucy, everything that you wish, and be happy. Your proud heart will keep you from sinning too seriously. . . .

At intervals the boy came in from the passage with unkind caution. What did he want here, this big gentleman in the fur coat, sitting there in the corner, twisting his empty glass in his fingers, and smiling away to himself? Why didn’t he pay and take himself off?

But that is impossible, Pelican suddenly realized with a shock. Lucy already suffers from her intimacy with Jezek, already now, when there is scarcely anything between them but vain talk. Already she runs away from me in guilty fear and weeps from exaggerated ​sensitiveness. What will she come to to-morrow or the day after when things have gone farther? Why, Lucy, ardent and haughty Lucy, could she bear—even—even—faithlessness? She would be overwhelmed by self-abasement, torn by terror and disgrace to the depths of her heart! Can I allow that? Pelican asked himself in anguish. Why—can I not prevent it in any way———?

“Don’t you wish to pay?” asked the youth gloomily.

Pelican pulled out his watch. It was eleven o’clock. “At what time does the first train go to Prague?”

“At half-past eleven.”

“How far is it to the station?

An hour’s walk.”

“Can I get a car?”

“No.”

Eleven o’clock, remembered Pelican. Now, exactly at this moment they are to meet on the embankment by Troja Castle. He saw a long stone terrace. Lucy turning away to the grey water and weeping into her handkerchief. Perhaps even now they are making up their minds, madly, unreasoningly, perhaps foolish Lucy is choosing her fate now, while I here. . . .

He sprang to his feet, bereft of reason. “You must get me a car.” The youth went out grumbling.

​Pelican took his stand in front of the inn, his heart beating, his watch in his hand. Good God is no one ever coming? He raged impatiently; ten minutes passed without result. At last there rattled up a rustic little cart, drawn by a white pony. Pelican threw himself into it, crying: “Quickly! I will give you anything you like to ask if you catch the train!”

“Surely,” replied the grey-haired driver as he mildly urged on his steed.

Up hill and down, along the highroad jogged the pony. “Faster!” Pelican would say, and each time the old man would gently pull the reins and the little white mare would swing her legs a little more quickly. At last a powerful form arose behind the old man, snatched the reins and whip from him, and flogged, flogged, flogged the mare, over the head, round the legs and along the back. The wretched animal sprang forward and dashed along the road, stung to the quick. There is the railway at last, but at a bend in the road one of the back-wheels collided with a milestone, the stone was uprooted, the cart turned on its side. The wheel broke off like a toy and the little cart, dropping on to its belly, abandoned the race. Pelican shouted with rage, struck the mare on the jaw with his fist and just as he was, in his fur coat, ran at top speed to the ​station. The train was drawing up to the platform.

“Do something, do something, do something,” thudded the throbbing wheels. In the crowded carriage, Pelican, covered with perspiration, stamped and clenched his fists in mad fits of impatience. How slowly it goes, slowly, slowly, compared with the human will. Stations glided away; behind them sped tree-lined avenues, a little bridge, woods—one thing after another-telegraph poles. . . . Pelican pulled down the window and looked straight down at the wheels of the train. Here at least the endless belt of gravel and sleepers rushed along drunkenly, furiously, in blind speed as in a feverish dream.

Prague Pelican ran from the station and drove straight to Jezek’s address. Breathlessly he rang at the door.

“The professor’s not at home,” the landlady declared, “but he will be in to luncheon, probably about half-past two.”

“I’ll wait,” muttered Pelican, and sat down in Jezek’s room.

Three o’clock had struck long since and it was drawing near four. Jezek had not returned. In the room it began to grow dark. Pelican breathed hoarsely as though someone were pursuing him. Perhaps already he was too late. At last, long past four, the door flew ​open and Jezek stood on the threshold. He recognized Pelican and grew rigid.

“You—waiting here,” he gasped in something that could hardly be called a voice. . . .

“Why!—you went away!”

Pelican suddenly recovered his balance. “How do you know that I went away?” he asked coolly.

Jezek understood that he had said too much. He flushed crimson and his brow grew moist with anxiety, but he said nothing.

“I have come back now,” began Pelican after a while, “and there is a matter which I wish to straighten out. Do you mind if I smoke?”

Jezek was silent. His heart beat so loudly that he felt that it must be audible, and his trembling fingers drummed a surreptitious tattoo on the table. The tiny flame of the match lit up clearly the savage face of Pelican with its half-shut eyes and brutal jaws.

“To cut matters short,” said Pelican, “there must be an end to this, you understand? You will ask for a transfer from Prague.”

Jezek still stood silent.

“My wife must be left in peace,” said Pelican. “I trust you will not dare to write to her—from the scene of your future labours.”

“I will not go away from here,” broke out Jezek, in a quivering voice. “Do what you ​please, I will not go away. Oh, I know you think differently. . . . You don’t understand the situation! You don’t understand at all. . . .”

“I understand nothing,” said Pelican, except this, that there must be an end. All this leads to nothing. You must go away.”

Jezek sprang to his feet. “Give her back her freedom,” he rasped passionately, “release her, release her from your golden cage! It is not for myself that I am asking; but have mercy on her! Man, for once in your life have a heart! Don’t you feel that she cannot endure you, that she is desperate in your presence? What is your object in keeping her bound? You two have not an idea in common, not one single interest! Tell me, have you anything to say to her, anything more to give her than . . . money?”

“No,” came the reply from out of the darkness.

“Give her back her freedom! I know—she knows, that you are fond—that you may be fond—of her in your own way, but that is not it . . . and then these last few months . . . you two have been strangers to each other! If only you would consent to a separation!”

“Let her ask for that herself.”

“Ah, why will you not understand? She has not the courage, she cannot say it to you herself. . . . You are so generous to her! ​You do not understand her, you do not know how sensitive she is; she would sooner die than tell you. She is such a tender, delicate thing—so dependent on others! She could not do such a thing herself. . . . But suppose you were to say to her yourself that you were setting her free! It is a question of her happiness. . . . Pelican, I know that you are not accustomed to all this talk about love. For you it is all probably nothing more than a lot of phrases . . . and so . . . really . . . you cannot understand such a woman! You yourself are not really happy either! Tell me, what does she give you of herself? What can she be to you? You merely torture her with your attentions—how can it be that you don’t feel how terrible that is?”

“You would marry her, then?” muttered Pelican.

“I am not—oh God!—how gladly,” gasped Jezek, intensely relieved and full of hope. “If only she consents! I would think of nothing but her happiness. . . . If only you knew how we understand each other. If she would but decide,” he was almost weeping with joy as he spoke, “I would do anything for her! . . . Really, I have almost lost my senses; I breathe for her—Man, you don’t know. . . . I never thought that it was possible to love so much!”

“How much do you get?”

​“What did you say?” questioned Jezek, confused.

“What income have you?”

“As for that,” stammered Jezek at a loss, you know I have not much—but she would economize; we have talked that over already. . . . If only you could know of how little importance money is to us! That is something you don’t understand, Pelican; there are other and greater things. . . . With her, money does not count. You see, she doesn’t even want to talk of how it will be . . . afterwards. Really she absolutely despises money!”

“But you! What do you think?”

“I? Oh, you see, you are of a different type from us; you are only able to think of your material affairs. . . . Lucy is so much above you. She would not take even a pin of yours away with her, if you let her go. Above all, I want her to bring nothing, you understand? It would be an entirely new life for her.”

The red tip of the cigar rose up. “What a pity,” said Pelican. “I would have listened to you longer with pleasure, but I must go to the works. So listen to me now a moment, Jezek.”

“Really your wealth enslaves her.”

“Yes. Now, you will ask for that transfer—good-bye—Jezek. And if you come to our house, don’t be surprised if you are watched. ​And don’t walk on the embankment if you don’t want to be thrown into the river. You will not speak to my wife any more.”

Jezek was breathing with difficulty. “I will not go from Prague.”

“Then she shall go. If you want to force matters to that point. But you will not meet my wife again—Good-bye!”

A few minutes later, when the porter’s wife was coming down from the top of the house, she found a gentleman in a fur coat seated on the stairs.

“Are you ill?” she asked sympathetically.

“Yes—no———” said the gentleman, as if he was only just waking up. “Please call me a cab.”

She ran for a cab, and as he was climbing into it heavily it occurred to her that he was probably drunk. Pelican gave the driver the address of his home, but after a few moments he tapped the man on the shoulder: Turn back, I am going to the works.”