e days are past, you
will have learned not to see me; and then, from time to time, you will
come to see your poor Erik!' He pointed to a chair opposite him, at a
small table, and I sat down, feeling greatly perturbed. However, I ate
a few prawns and the wing of a chicken and drank half a glass of tokay,
which he had himself, he told me, brought from the Konigsberg cellars.
Erik did not eat or drink. I asked him what his nationality was and if
that name of Erik did not point to his Scandinavian origin. He said
that he had no name and no country and that he had taken the name of
Erik by accident.

"After lunch, he rose and gave me the tips of his fingers, saying he
would like to show me over his flat; but I snatched away my hand and
gave a cry. What I had touched was cold and, at the same time, bony;
and I remembered that his hands smelt of death. 'Oh, forgive me!' he
moaned. And he opened a door before me. 'This is my bedroom, if you
care to see it. It is rather curious.' His manners, his words, his
attitude gave me confidence and I went in without hesitation. I felt
as if I were entering the room of a dead person. The walls were all
hung with black, but, instead of the white trimmings that usually set
off that funereal upholstery, there was an enormous stave of music with
the notes of the DIES IRAE, many times repeated. In the middle of the
room was a canopy, from which hung curtains of red brocaded stuff, and,
under the canopy, an open coffin. 'That is where I sleep,' said Erik.
'One has to get used to everything in life, even to eternity.' The
sight upset me so much that I turned away my head.

"Then I saw the keyboard of an organ which filled one whole side of the
walls. On the desk was a music-book covered with red notes. I asked
leave to look at it and read, 'Don Juan Triumphant.' 'Yes,' he said, 'I
compose sometimes.' I began that work twenty years ago. When I have
finished, I shall take it away with me in that coffin and never wake up
again.' 'You must work at it as seldom as you can,' I said. He
replied, 'I sometimes work at it for fourteen days and nights together,
during which I live on music only, and then I rest for years at a
time.' 'Will you play me something out of your Don Juan Triumphant?' I
asked, thinking to please him. 'You must never ask me that,' he said,
in a gloomy voice. 'I will play you Mozart, if you like, which will
only make you weep; but my Don Juan, Christine, burns;