“People like Hahlstroem,” he continued, “are actually not worthy of the healthy limbs with which God endowed them.  Of course, even if one has a figure like a statue by Myron, it is awkward if there is too little up here”—­he tapped his forehead.  “That is what is the trouble with Hahlstroem.  There is too little up here.  Look at me.  I don’t say everybody, but at least nine out of ten, in my position would have succumbed as a child.  Instead of that, I have a wife, I own a villa in the Kahlenberg Mountains, I support three children of my step-brother and an older sister of my wife, who was a singer and lost her voice.  I am absolutely independent.  I remain on the stage because I want to bring my wealth up to a certain point.  If the Roland were to sink to-day, I could go down with perfect equanimity.  I have done my work.  I have invested my money at a high rate of interest.  My wife, my wife’s sister, and my step-brother’s children are all provided for.”

The actor’s attendant appeared, to help his master to his cabin for his afternoon nap.

“My days are mapped out like a time-table,” Stoss explained.  “My attendant here, Bulke, served his four years in the German navy.  With all the ocean crossings I have to make, I couldn’t get along with a man who wasn’t used to the water.  I need a perfect water rat.”

X

A little spell of dizziness came over Frederick when he went to his cabin to fetch his heavy overcoat.  On deck it was very quiet as compared with the morning.  Hahlstroem was nowhere to be seen, and Frederick seated himself on a bench near the entrance to the main companionway.  With his collar turned up and his hat drawn over his forehead, he succumbed to the state of drowsiness characteristic of sea trips, in which, despite the heaviness of one’s eyelids, one feels and perceives with a restless lucidity of the inner vision.  Images chase through one’s mind, a kaleidoscopic stream, shifting incessantly, going and coming, and finally reducing the soul to a state of torture.  The sybaritic meal with its clatter of plates, its talking and music, was still whirling through Frederick’s brain.  He heard the vaudeville actor declaiming.  The half-ape was holding Mara in his arms.  Hahlstroem in all his height was looking on, smiling.  The waves were rolling heavily against the tiny dining-room and pressing hard on the creaking hull.  Bismarck, a huge figure in armour, and Roland, the valiant warrior in armour, were laughing grimly and conversing.  Frederick saw both wading through the sea.  Roland was holding Mara, the tiny dancer, on his right palm.  Every now and then Frederick shivered.  The ship careened, a stiff southeaster heeling her to starboard.  The waves hissed and foamed.  The rhythm produced by the rise and fall of the pistons finally seemed to turn into the rhythm of Frederick’s own body.  The working of the screw was distinctly audible.  At regular intervals the stern would rise out of the water, carrying with it the screw, which would then buzz in the air, and Frederick would hear Wilke from the Heuscheuer saying: