And they wrote of human merit and human unworthiness and broke hearts as if they were breaking egg-shells.
Falk felt an indescribable longing for fresh air; he opened the window which looked on the yard; it was dark and narrow like a tomb; all he could see was a small square of the sky if he bent his head far back. He fancied that he was sitting in his grave, breathing brandy fumes and kitchen smells, eating the funeral repast at the burial of his youth, his principles and his honour. He smelt the elder-blossoms which stood on the table, but they reeked of decay; once more he looked out of the window eager to find an object which would not inspire him with loathing; but there was nothing but a newly tarred dust-bin—standing like a coffin—with its contents of cast-off finery and broken litter. His thoughts climbed up the fire-escape which seemed to lead from dirt, stench, and shame right up into the blue sky; but no angels were ascending and descending, and no love was watching from above—there was nothing but the empty, blue void.
Falk took his pen and began to shade the letters of the headline "Theatre," when a strong hand clutched his arm and a firm voice said:
"Come along, I want to speak to you!"
He looked up, taken back and ashamed. Borg stood beside him, apparently determined not to let him go.
"May I introduce...." began Falk.
"No, you may not," interrupted Borg, "I don't want to know any drunken scribblers, come along."
He drew Falk to the door.
"Where's your hat? Oh, here it is! Come along!"
They were in the street. Borg took his arm, led him to the nearest square, marched him into a shop and bought him a pair of canvas shoes. This done, he drew him across the lock to the harbour. A cutter lay there, fast to her moorings, but ready to go to sea; in the cutter sat young Levi reading a Latin grammar and munching a piece of bread and butter.