stay to be a burden to his mother with her
small resources. She was poor and dependent on the judgment of a
tyrannical kinsman. Mastering his passionate impulses, he forced himself
to cool reflection and made a plan. He would have to work and earn so
much money that after a year or more he would be able to go to Andreas
Doederlein and remind him of his magnanimous offer. So he studied the
advertisements in the papers and wrote letters of application. A printer
in Mannheim wanted an assistant correspondent. Since he agreed to take
the small wage offered, he was summoned to that city. Marian gave him
his railway fare.

He endured the torment for three months. Then it grew unbearable. For
seven months he slaved for an architect in Stuttgart, next four months
for the municipal bath in Baden-Baden, finally for six weeks in a
cigarette factory in Kaiserslautern.

He lived like a dog. In terror of having to spend money, he avoided all
human intercourse. He was unspeakably lonely. Hunger and self-denial
made him as lean as a rope. His cheeks grew hollow, his limbs trembled
in their sockets. He patched his own clothes, and to save his shoes
hammered curved bits of iron to the heels and toes. His aim sustained
him; Andreas Doederlein beckoned in the distance.

Every night he counted the sum he had saved so far. And when at last,
after sixteen months of self-denial, he had a fortune of two hundred
marks, he thought he could risk the fateful step. As he reckoned and
according to his present standard of life, he thought that this money
would last him five months. Within that period new sources might open.
He had come to know many people and had experienced many circumstances,
but in reality he had known no one and experienced nothing, for he had
stood in the world like a lantern with a covered light. With an enormous
expenditure of energy he had restrained his mind from its native
activity. He had throttled it for the sake of its future. Hence his
whole soul had now the temperature of a blast furnace.

On his trip his fare was the accustomed one of dry bread and cheese. He
had made a package of his few books and his music, and had despatched it
in care of the railway station in Nuremberg. It was early spring. In
fair weather he slept in the open. When it rained he took refuge in
barns. A little bundle was his pillow and his ragged top-coat shielded
him from frost. Not rarely farmers received him in kindly fashion and
gave him a