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opposite the girl. He did not try to make conversation, but from time to time his friendly, old, bright eyes looked into the beauty’s face; and she, sensing his kindly intentions, went calmly about her work. The philosopher then took one of the empty cut-glass goblets, poured in some water, moistened the glass’s rim, and began to run the tip of his index finger around it. Soon a humming arose, then a clear ringing tone, which alternately swelled and diminished, filling the whole room with its sound. The lovely Lulu enjoyed the glass’s singing; her hands stopped what they were doing, and she listened, completely captivated by the eternally sweet, crystal-clear tones. From time to time, the old man looked up from the glass and into her eyes, amiably and searchingly. The whole room rang with the singing of the glass. Lulu stood calmly in the middle of the room, her mind a blank; she listened intently, her eyes growing wide as a child’s.
    â€œIs the old King Sorrowless still alive?” she heard a voice ask, not knowing if it came from the old man or from the singing glass. Not knowing why, she had to nod in assent.
    â€œAnd do you still remember the Song of the Harp Silversong?”
    She had to nod and did not know why. The crystal tones rang even more softly. The voice asked: “Where are the strings of the Harp Silversong?”
    The tone grew fainter still and died away in delicate, shallow waves. And then, not knowing the reason, the lovely Lulu began to weep.
    A hush fell over the room, and so it remained for some time.
    â€œWhy are you weeping, Lulu?” Turnabout asked.
    â€œOh, have I been weeping?” she shyly answered. “I was trying to remember a song from my childhood; but I could only recall half of it.”
    Suddenly the door flew open and Frau Müller burst in. “What’s going on here? Still on those same glasses?” she scolded. Lulu began to cry again, the hostess went on grumbling and grouching at her; neither of them noticed the philosopher—who was smoking a short-stemmed pipe—blow a huge ring of smoke, enter into its midst, and, on a gentle draft of air, imperceptibly vanish through the open window.
    4
    T HE MEMBERS of the petit cénacle had gathered in the neighboring woods. Even the junior barrister Oscar Ripplein had joined them there. A great many enthusiastic words about youth and friendship issued from the mouths of the comrades, who lay on the grass; and their discussion was interrupted as often by laughter as by contemplative pauses. Most of the talk centered on the poet’s thoughts and opinions; for the next day he would set off on a journey, and none of them knew when or if they would see him again.
    â€œI must go abroad,” said Hermann Lauscher. “I need to go off by myself and once again breathe fresh air. Perhaps one day I’ll be only too happy to return; but, for the time being, I’ve had about all I can take of the narrow confines of student life; I’m sick to death of the abominable groves of belle academe. Everything seems to stink of beer and tobacco; besides, these last few years I’ve absorbed more knowledge than is good for a poet.”
    â€œDo you hear what you’re saying?” Oscar broke in. “I thought we had enough uneducated artists, particularly poets.”
    â€œPerhaps,” Lauscher retorted. “But education and knowledge are two very different things. What I had in mind was the danger of gradually studying yourself into that damned state of self-consciousness. Everything must go through the brain, everything must be grasped and measured. You put things to the test; you measure yourself, seeking out the limits of your talents; you become your own experimental subject, and finally you see—too late—that you’ve left the better part of your self and your art far behind you, in the oft-ridiculed, subconscious impulses and emotions of early youth. Now you