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on a piece of paper—doodling, and drawing decorative letters; when I stopped, there on the paper was the song. It’s in a completely different handwriting from the one in which I generally write; see for yourselves!”
    He gave the paper to Erich, who was sitting beside him. Erich held it up to his eyes and could hardly believe what he saw. He looked at it a second time, more closely, then sank back into his chair, exclaiming loudly, “Lulu!” Ugel and Hamelt rushed over to have a look at the paper. “Good heavens!” Ugel exclaimed. Hamelt, however, sank back on the settee, eyeing the extraordinary page and exhibiting every sign of utter astonishment. Supreme joy and profound gloom alternately passed over his features.
    â€œNow tell me, Lauscher,” he said at last, “is this our Lulu, or is it the Princess Lilia?”
    â€œWhat tripe!” the poet cried in anger. “Give it back to me!”
    But while he held the page in his hand and looked at it once again, quite suddenly a strange, cold terror came over him, making his heart skip a beat. The erratic, mutable letters mysteriously ran together to form the contours of a head. As Lauscher continued to pore over the page, the fine features of a girl’s face emerged, in the likeness of none other than the strange and beautiful Lulu.
    Erich sat, as if turned to stone, in his chair; Karl lay mumbling on the settee; beside him sat Ludwig Ugel, who could do nothing but shake his head. The poet stood in the middle of the room, pale and lost. Then a hand tapped him on the shoulder; frightened, he turned around to find the philosopher Turnabout, who doffed his shabby, pointed hat in greeting.
    â€œTurnabout!” the poet exclaimed in astonishment. “My God, did you fall through the ceiling?”
    â€œWhat do you mean, Herr Lauscher?” replied the smiling old man. “Whatever do you mean? I knocked twice. But let me see what you’ve got there. Aha, a splendid manuscript.” He took the song, or rather the picture, carefully from Lauscher’s hands. “You’ll permit me to examine it, won’t you? Since when did you start collecting rare manuscripts?”
    â€œRare manuscripts? Collecting? So you think you’ll learn something from that scrap of paper?” The old man continued to examine and finger the page with great delight.
    â€œWell, really,” he said with a grin, “it is a lovely fragment of a text, even if corrupt, and late. It’s Askian.”
    â€œAskian?” Hamelt called out.
    â€œNo doubt about it, Herr Student,” the philosopher replied in a friendly tone. “But tell me now, my dear Herr Lauscher, tell me where you came upon this exceedingly rare find. Further investigations are in order!”
    â€œCome, come now, Herr Turnabout, stop telling tales,” the poet rejoined with a nervous laugh. “It’s brand-new, I penned it myself last night.”
    The philosopher measured up Lauscher with a suspicious look. “I must confess,” he replied, “I really must confess, my fine young man, that I have a strong distaste for this sort of tomfoolery.”
    Lauscher became earnestly indignant. “Herr Turnabout,” he cried vehemently, “I must beseech you not to take me for a buffoon, and in the event that you yourself, as it appears, would like to play that merry role, kindly select some theater other than my lodgings for your performance.”
    â€œNow, now.” Turnabout smiled good-naturedly. “Maybe you’d like to give the matter some more thought! Meanwhile, farewell, fare you all well, my good sirs!” So saying, he righted his shimmering green cap on his head of white hair and quietly left the room.
    Downstairs, in the empty tavern, Turnabout found the lovely Lulu standing alone, drying wineglasses with a towel. He went over to the keg and helped himself to a mug of beer; then he sat down at the table