Towards Morning | Page 4

too. He had not thought about the child at all. He had only thought about Clarchen. He began to see things in their proper perspective.
"We'll do our best," he said.
"That's good. Look here if it is a boy I will stand god-father I'll I'll do what I can. We must make something of him. Something first class. If we realised that every child is a cog in the national machine, there would be fewer failures. Young Felde mustn't be a failure, eh?"
"No no. It's very good of you. Very good. I shall tell Clara. Thank you, Herr Geheimrat" Though they were brothers-in-law, he could never have said, "Thank you, my dear fellow," or patted the great man on the back. "It will comfort Clara," he added unsteadily.
"Ach was! She shouldn't need comforting. She should be only too glad. But no doubt she is. A sister of Mathilde's is sure to know her duty. You're too soft, Felde just a little too soft. It doesn't do. These are stern times. One must carry one's head high."
The Herr Amtschreiber lifted his head involuntarily.
"Assuredly, Herr Geheimrat."
"Na also! Good luck. And when the happy event takes place you must let us know."
"Assuredly."
The two men bowed and shook hands. Then the Geheimrat walked on at the head of his procession, and the Herr Amtschreiber turned out of the quiet street into the Ludwig's platz.
He did not hurry any more. It was so late that a few minutes either way had ceased to matter.
III
The Rathaus looked out onto a wide, old-fashioned square. It was a grave building, but neither austere nor arrogant. Its windows were full of flowers and two tall shrubs, like sentinels, kept guard over the stone steps. Across the way and on either hand its lowroofed neighbours bore it goodly company. They were of the same generation. They had known the old Rathaus from their childhood and respected it, though without servility. They knew what was due to it and to themselves.
In the midst of the square stood the tomb-stone of the Grand Duke who had given his name to the town. He had loved the place and had wished to be buried in its heart. For that reason perhaps his tomb-stone had a quaint air of having grown up out of the cobbles to be a part of them.
The townsfolk were rather ashamed of their Rathaus and of the square generally. They told strangers they were going to pull the whole place down and build up something that would be more in keeping with the massive, flamboyant modernity of the Kaiserstrasse. The square troubled them. It held aloof from their clanging trams and vociferous motor-cars, wrapping itself in grave civic dignity.
The Herr Amtschreiber went in by a side entrance. He had seen the sober carriage and pair with the goldbraided footmen and the little knot of idlers and he knew just what had happened. He could not think of Clarchen any more. A cold fear had laid hold of him. But he could not hurry. He was like a truant school-boy, dragging leaden feet.
The Staatszimmer was full of his colleagues. They stood in a long row, very stiff and upright, giving their elderly figures a martial bearing. In front of them the Grand Duke paced up and down with the chief officials, like a general on parade. He was tall and greyhaired, with the remote and melancholy expression of a man forever playing a part which wearies and disgusts him. The grey military coat and spurred heels did not make him a soldier.
"I thank you, gentlemen," he said. The Herr Amtschreiber stood at the end of the row. He had forgotten to take off his overcoat and his soft hat was clutched convulsively in his right hand. The Staatszimmer was thick with a murky twilight, but through the long windows opposite he caught a glimpse of the square glittering in winter sunshine. The Grand Duke and his civilian staff moved against the light like faceless shadows. But the Herr Amtschreiber knew that they were looking at him staring at him as though he had been some strange animal. He knew that his colleagues were thinking of him with a mixture of gloating self-satisfaction and pity.
"Poor devil! Glad I'm not in his shoes." The Grand Duke, cap in hand, had reached the door.
"I wish you good-morning, gentlemen." They bowed stiffly and expressionlessly. When the door closed they relaxed, stamping their feet and moving their arms like schoolboys after a long restraint. The Herr Amtschreiber stood apart. He tried to say something, to laugh and look unconcerned, but he knew that they saw through him and knew that he was sick with the premonition of disgrace. "Well," he thought, "he can't kill me." They heard the clatter of hoofs on the cobbles and presently