But in the room in which the mother of Gunderam had died, there stood a beautiful inlaid table, an antique piece from a convent of Siena. The mosaic showed two angels inclining palm-branches toward each other, and between the two sat an eagle. Upon the table lay the dead woman’s jewels. Brooches and chains, rings and ear-rings and bracelets, had lain here dust-covered for many, many years. The reputation of the old house as being haunted had protected them more effectually than barred windows. Letitia was frightened, and thought: “Am I to live here where ghosts may appear at night to don their old splendour?” But when Stephen explained his plans for rebuilding and redecorating, she recovered her gaiety, and her imagination transformed these decayed rooms into inviting chambers and dainty boudoirs, cool halls with tall windows and airy, carpeted stairs. “It depends quite simply on you whether we can have a happy and beautiful home very soon,” Stephen declared. “I’m doing my share. I wish I could say the same of you.” Letitia looked away. She knew the condition which old Gunderam had made. Again and again she had to disappoint Stephen. The Escurial lay in its deathlike sleep, and her husband’s face grew more and more sombre. He sent her to church to pray; he strewed her bed with ground wall-nuts; he made her drink a powder of bones dissolved in wine. He sent for an old crone who was gifted in magic, and Letitia had to stand naked, surrounded by seven tapers, and let the woman murmur over her body. And she went to church and prayed, although she had no faith in her praying and felt no devotion and knew nothing of God. Yet she shuddered at the murmurs of the Italian witch, although when it was all over, she laughed and made light of the whole thing. In spirit she conceived the image of the child which her body denied her. The image was of uncertain sex, but of flawless loveliness. It had the soft eyes of a deer, the features of one of Raphael’s angels, and the exquisite soul of an ode by Hölderlin. It was destined to great things, and the dizzying curve of its fortune knew no decline. The thought of this dream child filled her with vaguely beautiful emotions, and she was amazed at Stephen’s anger and growing impatience. She was amazed and was conscious of no guilt. Stephen’s mother, who was known as Doña Barbara to every one, said to her son: “I bore your father eight living creatures. Three are dead. Four are strong men. We need not even count your sister Esmeralda. Why is this woman barren? Chastise her, my son, beat her!” Stephen gritted his teeth, and took up his ox-hide whip. XIX It was evening, and Christian went to the forester’s house. The way was very familiar to him now. He did not analyze the inner compulsion that drew him thither. Amadeus Voss sat by his lamp and read in an old book. Through the second door of the room the shadow of his mother slipped away.