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Updated: May 18, 2025
Herr Carovius went to his lumber-room, which also served as the kitchen, took down a jug of vinegar, came back, looked around with all the caution he could summon, and then poured half of the contents of the jug into one can and the other half into the other. Two days later he decided not to give Cæsar anything to eat, so that he would terrify the neighbours by his howling. This worked.
Herr Carovius went home and made a lime-blossom tea; such a tea had often helped him when he had not felt well. The rain dripped down on the kitchen window sill. Herr Carovius said to himself: “That is my last funeral.” Along in the evening Dorothea came in and after her Philippina Schimmelweis.
Herr Carovius stopped stock still, and opened his mouth and his eyes: “Baron, you are taking the liberty of jesting with me.” But when Eberhard indicated that he was quite serious, Carovius continued, blank amazement forcing his voice to its highest pitch: “But my dear Sir, your father has an income of half a million. A mere income! The tax receipts show it.”
In his voice there was a noticeable trace of that reluctant and unwilling humility which the poor display in the presence of the rich. “Good, good,” he said, “come right along.” He blew the air before him; for he was warm. “Greetings, greetings,” he exclaimed, and waved his hand, “what are you doing here?” It was Herr Carovius to whom he spoke.
He knew the philosophic cynicism of the student who felt that he was the Socrates of the nineteenth century, and who looked back on twenty-five wasted semesters as on so many battles fought and won. The most interesting personage was Herr Carovius. He was a well-read man. That he knew a great deal about music was plain from many of his chance remarks.
“Perhaps,” replied Jordan gently and bent over the table. “You are after all not entirely wrong, my honoured friend. Do you wish to be convinced? Will you honour me with a visit?” Herr Carovius had become curious. They paid their bills and left for Ægydius Place. Having entered Jordan’s room, the old man lighted a lamp and bolted the door.
Was the feeling of Herr Carovius for Andreas Döderlein one of hatred? It was hatred and more. It was a feeling of venomous embitterment with which he thought of him, his name, his wife, his child, the thick, bulky wedding ring on his finger, and the gelatinous mass of flesh on his neck. From that evening on he never again visited his sister.
But what concerned the Baron in this case concerned also Herr Carovius. A passion that had taken possession of the Baron had to be guarded, studied, and eventually shared by Herr Carovius himself. Herr Carovius’s loneliness had gradually robbed him of his equanimity. Suppressed impulses were stifling his mind with the luxuriant growths of a vivid and vicious imagination.
Give me time, time, and,” swinging his hands cloudward, “the eagles above would greet me!” Herr Carovius and death were intimate friends. Whenever death had an errand to run, it always knocked on Herr Carovius’s door, as if to find a person who approved of its deeds and who had a just appreciation of them, for there were so many of the other kind.
This time he had spent in looking over the unsealed documents of the incautious young Baron. Then it was that he discovered the letter. What words! And oh, the passion! Herr Carovius would never have believed that the reserved misanthrope was capable of such a display of emotion. He felt that Eberhard had disclosed to him the most secret chambers of his heart.
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