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Goethe. He interviewed many friends and acquaintances of the Great Man. The Sibyl aided his researches. She had yet to write a word of fiction. The couple arrived in Berlin in November 1854, delighted with the city, when Sophie was barely a month old. Her father, driving home at speed, anxious to see his beloved wife and tiny daughter, actually passed before their very door, where they were reading The Merchant of Venice aloud to one another. Lewes took the part of Shylock, which, given his love of theatre, he performed with resonating gusto and exaggerated affectation.
    Sophie and the Sibyl belonged to two very different generations of Victorian women. Thirty-five unbridgeable years lay between them. They were born in different countries, grew up in different social classes, and learned to think in different languages. The Sibyl earned her wealth; Sophie inherited cash and lands in plenty. The Sibyl taught herself languages and philosophy; Sophie studied at home, surrounded by tutors of every nation. One woman assumed her right to wealth and privilege, the other clawed her way back into Victorian respectability by denying her fictional women the satisfied ambitions and desires that she claimed for herself. Cautious, conservative, of uncertain health and confidence, the Sibyl peddled a sententious wisdom that proved utterly seductive. Her novels sold and sold and sold and sold.
    And Countess Sophie von Hahn, bewitched by the writer’s omniscient authority, lost in adulation and illusions, continued to be one of her most enthusiastic readers.
     
    END OF CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE
    in which Our Hero strives to redeem himself.
    Wolfgang Duncker lurched to and fro between his desk and his father’s towering bookshelves, fuming with wrath against his younger brother. The rage achieved parental dimensions. Too many piled books and boxes of manuscript cluttered the floor to allow the infuriated publisher an unencumbered free passage round his office. But his fury required movement. And so he blundered between the curved oak steps, which enabled him to reach the upper levels of the shelves, and the fireplace, which contained nothing but a few charred sticks. He kicked the coal scuttle, sending a little puff of black dust into the air. Max, cowering on the low chair in the corner, tucked his boots beneath him, and attempted to remain invisible.
    ‘You live off this firm, Max. And I think you might try to contribute something useful rather than bringing us all to ruin.’
    Wolfgang thumped the desk.
    ‘Think of everything our father put into this house. All his time, all his savings. I don’t think he ever set foot in Hettie’s Keller. In fact I’m quite sure he didn’t.’
    Max agreed. His father didn’t need to do so. He kept a mistress in some style, even purchased a new apartment in Leipzig for her. Rumour had it that she was still alive, furnished with an adequate pension, that she paid visits to and received them from respectable ladies of means, and worshipped her benefactor’s portrait in the evenings. But Wolfgang had now reached his climax of righteousness.
    ‘Where do you think I am going to dig up the ready cash to pay off these debts? The end of the rainbow? The terms you agreed with Graf von Hahn are far too generous. This is the third edition, Max. The third! Everybody who wanted to do so has already read it. It will sell, but slowly, and we have to cover our costs.’
    Wolfgang began rubbing his tonsure and swallowing hard. The office closed in around him, small, hot, stifling. And the clerk, lying low in the first room off the entrance hall, which also served as a warehouse, was listening hard to every thundered denunciation of the spendthrift brother. Wolfgang thought about his original reasons for sending Max out to the Jagdschloss and the charming letter he had received from the old Countess, urging him to visit them all again very soon, and be sure to bring Max. Sophie will be delighted to see him. All