Towards Morning | Page 4

seriously. He felt suddenly stern and
stiffened as though the Geheimrat had rammed a poker down the back
of his coat.
"Yes, yes, of course."
"Na, gut. It must be a boy, eh? You know the good old custom the first
child to the Kaiser. A fine boy. See to it, my dear fellow."
The Geheimrat laughed and the Herr Amtschreiber laughed 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