e interior preserved a soft down of memories along with the furrier's opulence of taste. In the beginning the _Frau Professor__ had been somewhat daunted by the total impact of her establishment and surroundings. For, quite apart from the pressure of monumental furniture, the house faced the more formal, or park side of the _Stadtwald__, with the result that the owners, standing at a first-floor window, looked out over shaven lawns and perfectly distributed gravel, across the beds of tuberous begonias and cockscombs, or down a narrowing _Lindenallee__, lined with discreet discus throwers and modest nymphs, to the deep, bulging, indeterminate masses of the _Wald__ proper. The public setting, however incidental, increased the value and importance of the solemn property, and in the years which followed the migration from Bienenstadt, while an illusion of solidity might still be entertained, it was only his sense of irony which saved Professor Himmelfarb from being impressed by his material condition, in particular when, returning from his walks in the _Wald__, he was confronted with the gradually expanding façade of what was apparently his own house, reared like a small caprice of a palace, at the end of the _Lindenallee__. Thus exposed to the danger of complacency, a noise, half ribald, half dismayed, seemed to issue out of the professor's nose, and he would be forced to glance back over his shoulder, embarrassed by the possibility that someone had heard, amused to think that someone might have. In time, and his responsible position, he grew greyer, thicker, deeply scored, until those who watched him on the podium were sometimes less conscious of his words, however subtle and illuminating, than of his rough-hewn, monolithic figure. On his regular walks he took to carrying a stick-it was thought to be an ashplant-for company rather than support, and was always followed by a little, motheaten dog called Teckel, whom he would address at intervals, after turning solemnly round. He dressed usually in a coarse, and if truth were told, rather inferior tweed, but was clothed also in an envelope of something more difficult to assess, protective and provocative at once. Those who passed him would stare, and wonder what it was about the large and ugly Jew. But, of course, there were also many to recognize and greet a person of his standing. Until the decade of discrimination, Germans as well as Jews were pleased to be seen shaking Professor Himmelfarb by the hand, and ladies would colour and show their teeth, no doubt remembering some story of his disreputable youth. As for his wife, the _Frau Professor__ never on any account accompanied him on his walks through the _Wald__, and was only rarely seen strolling with her husband over the red, raked gravel of the park. Her upbringing had not accustomed her to walk, except to the approved shops, where in a light of bronze fish and transparent oils she would celebrate the mysteries of which she was an initiate. In her middle age, she had grown regrettably heavy of body, while preserving a noticeable gaiety of mind. And would lift up many who were cast down. On occasions, for instance, when the women sat and sewed garments for those of them who had been taken too soon, when young girls trembled and pricked their fingers over the _tachriechim__, and older women grew inclined to abuse their memories, it was Reha Himmelfarb who restored their sense of continuity, by some remark, or simply by her presence. That which the women knew, all that was solid and good, might be expected to endure a little longer, in spite of the reminder of the white linen garments in their laps. "Fat people have an advantage over thin; they float more easily," was how the _Frau Professor__ chose to explain her powers. Although her own doubts and fears would sometimes rise, as perhaps her husband alone knew. Returning from a walk he would catch sight of her standing at a first-floor window. Looking. Then she would notice, and lean out, and wave, with her rather dark, plump hand, breathless, it seemed, with happiness and relief that she had not been called away before he had returned. Then, in the distance between the window and the street, their two souls were at their most intimate and loving. "What did you see today?" Frau Himmelfarb would often ask. "Nothing," her husband would usually reply. Though by this time he suspected that she, too, was not deceived by the masks of words. Indeed, all substances, of which words were the most opaque, grew more transparent with the years. As for faces-he was moved, touched, amazed, shamed by what he saw. In all his dealings with his colleagues of the faculty, in the lectures to his students, in the articles he published, and the books he wrote, Professor Himmelfarb appeared a man of straightforward character, of thorough, sometimes niggling intellect, and often epigrammatic wit. Nobody watching him tramp slowly, monotonously, over the fallen leaves of the _Stadtwald__, or along the well-kept pavements of the town, would have suspected him of morbid tendencies and reprehensible ambitions. For he was racked by his persistent longing to exceed the bounds of reason: to gather up the sparks, visible intermittently inside the thick shells of human faces; to break through to the sparks of light imprisoned in the forms of wood and stone. Imperfection in himself had enabled him to recognize the fragmentary nature of things, but at the same time restrained him from undertaking the immense labour of reconstruction. So this imperfect man had remained necessarily tentative. He was forever peering into bushes, or windows, or the holes of eyes, or, with his stick, testing the thickness of a stone, as if in search of further evidence, when he should have been gathering up the infinitesimal kernels of sparks, which he already knew to exist, and planting them again in the bosom of divine fire, from which they had been let fall in the beginning. So he would return home, and, knowing himself to be inadequately equipped, would confess in reply to his wife's inquiries, "Nothing. I have seen, I have done nothing." And she would hang her head, not from annoyance at his concealing something, or because there were matters that she did not understand, but because she sensed the distance between aspiration and the possibility of achievement, and she was unable to do anything to help him. Yet, in their relationship, they shared a perfection probably as great as two human beings are allowed to enjoy together, and would spend whole evenings of contentment in the library of the house on the Holzgraben, while Professor Himmelfarb read, or corrected, inclined at his characteristic angle, and his wife occupied herself with sewing, or knitting, usually for the family of some Jew whose circumstances had been brought to her notice. One evening when they had sat silently absorbed to the extent that the clock had withheld its chiming, Reha Himmelfarb suddenly scratched her head with a knitting needle-an act which many people might have considered coarse, but which her husband found natural-and broke their silence. It was unusual behaviour on her part. "Mordecai," she asked, "what became of the old books?" "Books?" He could have been contemptuous, as he stared back at his wife through the thick glass of his spectacles. "The Judaica." She sounded unnaturally jovial. Like some woman who, for secret reasons, was trying to insinuate herself into her husband's mind by matching his masculinity. "You don't always express yourself, Rehalein." Because, by now, he was annoyed. He did not wish to answer questions. "You know what I mean," Reha Himmelfarb replied. "The old cabalistic volumes and manuscripts in Hebrew, which you found at Rutkowitz's." Professor Himmelfarb put aside the book he had been reading. He was cruelly interrupted. "I left them in Bienenstadt, " he answered. "I had no further use for them." "Such valuable books!" "They had no particular value. They were, at most, intellectual curiosities." Then Reha Himmelfarb surprised her husband. She went so far as to ask, "You do not believe it possible to arrive at truth through revelation?" Himmelfarb's throat had grown dry. "On the contrary," he said. "But I no longer believe in tampering with what is above and what is below. It is a form of egotism." His hands were trembling. "And can lead to disorders of the mind." But his wife, he realized, who had begun in a mood of gentleness and light, had suddenly grown dark and aggressive. "You!" she cried, choking, it seemed, with desperate blood. "Much will be made clear to you! But to us, the ordinary ones?" "There is no distinction finally." He could not bring himself to look at the horrible, erratic movements her hands, the needles, and the wool were making. "When the time comes," her dark lips began to blurt, "you will be able to bear it. Because your eyes can see farther. But what can we others hold in our minds to make the end bearable?" "This table," he replied, touching it gently. Then his wife put down her knitting. "Oh, Mordecai," she whispered, "I am afraid. Tables and chairs will not stand up and save us." "God will," he answered. "God is in this table." She began to cry. "Some have been able to endure the worst tortures by concentrating on the Name," he heard his voice mumble. And it sounded merely sententious. For he knew that he himself could do nothing for the wife he loved. At most, he could cover her with his body.