t was correct, certain though they were that to have gone
beyond the allotted limit would have brought swift and irremediable
ruin. The money was paid out with such studied caution, and taken in
with such a sense of victory! There was something touching about it all.
This daily life of these small people seemed so strange, so very
strange, and at the same time so in accord with established order: it
seemed indeed to be a practical visualisation of the sanctity of the
law.

In all the transactions due respect was paid to the formalities of life,
and nothing was veiled. There was fulness, but no confusion; many words,
but no misunderstanding. There were the wares and there were the coins.
The scales showed how much was being given and how much taken. The fruit
wandered from basket to basket, and human arms carried it home. Each
bought as much as could be paid for; there was no thought of going
beyond one's means.

The clock in the tower struck on the hour, and the shadows moved in a
circle about the objects on the square. So it was to-day; and so it had
been four hundred years ago.

Four hundred years ago the houses stood there just as they stood to-day,
and people, men and women, looked out of the windows, some with kindly,
some with embittered faces.

Is that not Theresa Schimmelweis creeping around the corner? How old,
decrepit, and bent with years! Her hair is stone grey, her face is like
lime. She is poorly dressed; she does not notice the people she meets.
She sees nothing but the full baskets of fruit; for them she has a
greedy eye. And she looks at Daniel behind the iron fence with an
expression of painful astonishment.

And is that not Frau Hadebusch hobbling along over there! Though her
face is that of a crafty criminal, in her eyes there is a panicky,
terrified look. She has no support other than the ground beneath her
feet; she is a poor, lost soul.

There comes Alfons Diruf, who retired years ago. He has become stout and
gloomy. He is out for his morning walk along the city moat. There goes
the actor, Edmund Hahn, seeking whom he may devour. Disease and lust are
writ large across his jaded face. There is the sculptor, Schwalbe. He is
secretly buying a few apples to take home to roast, for otherwise he has
nothing warm to eat. And there is Herr Carovius, ambling along. He looks
like a wandering spirit, dejected and exhausted.

Beggars pass by, and so do the rich. There are respected people who are
gre