The evening stands before my window, grey man!  It would be best if we went to sleep-Then he tried to remove her blouse.  Schulz was utterly stunned by the blow.  He said, almost weeping, that she must have noticed that he loved her.  Moreover, he was her cousin.  She said that she didn’t like someone opening her blouse.  Besides, he had torn off a button.  He said that he could no longer stand it.  If one loved someone, one must yield to him.  He would try to lose himself with other women.  She did not know what to answer.  Groaning, he thought:  Oh, oh.  She sat next to him dejectedly.

For the next few days he was nowhere to be seen.  When he returned, he was pale and grey.  His bloodless red eyes lay tearfully in grimy shadows.  His voice had only a sing-song tone, with a mannered melancholy.  Schulz spoke mournfully, dreamily, about despair, whoredom, and being torn apart inwardly.  He said that he was fed up with the joy of life, that he would soon catch up with his own death.  He avoided showing signs of tender feelings, but he often sighed painfully.  He flirted theatrically with a longing for dying.  He brought his friend to corpse-strewn tragedies, to gloomy film-dramas, to serious concerts in darkened halls.

Perhaps a week had gone by.  A woman had sung.  The hands of the listeners applauded loudly and long.  Gottschalk Schulz passionately grasped Lisel Lilichlein’s fingers, laid them gently on one of his thighs, and said:  “Isn’t it strange how a woman’s song grips the soul!” Then he again began to speak imploringly and tearfully of love and yielding.  Lisel Liblichlein said that this was boring or disgusting to her.  Out of pity—­and because she wanted to go up—­she finally declared that she would agree to the love if he would give up the business of surrender.  Schulz happily pressed her to himself.  He stood there dreaming for a long time.  He sang:  “O tears.  O goodness.  O God.  O beauty.  O love.  O love.  O love...”  He dashed through the streets.  He had disappeared into the Cafe Kloesschen.  But Lisel Liblichlein sat in her small room, awkwardly smiling under a reddish tallow lamp.  She did not understand these city people, who seemed to her strange, dangerous animals.  She felt abandoned and more alone than before.  She thought with longing about her innocent homeland:  about the breezy sky, about the laughing young gentlemen, about tennis matches, and she felt nostalgia for the Sunday afternoons—­she took off her garters, placed her little bodice on a chair.  She was inconsolable.

II

On a transparent summer evening the Cafe Kloesschen was bathed in light.  The city sky of dark blue silk, upon which the white moon and many small stars lay, enveloped it.  At the rear of the cafe, alone, a long time before he suddenly died, smoking at a tiny table, on which something stood, sat the hunch-backed poet Kuno Kohn.  People crouched around other tables.  Among them moved people with yellow and red skulls:  women; writers; actors.  Everywhere shadowy waiters darted.