Christian walked up and down for a while. Then he sat down beside the table and rested his head on his hand. He thought: “Ruth has summoned Karen, as she will summon many more. What is the world without Ruth? For Ruth was the kernel and the soul of all things. And what is it that happened to Ruth, what really happened? Something unspeakably horrible, immeasurably depraved, but also impenetrably mysterious. To fathom it, one must subordinate every other feeling and occupation, all delight, all pain, all plans, and even eating and sleeping and seeing.” He reflected over the confusion that Karen’s death had created within him. There was so much empty space about him since she was gone. The empty space cried out after her and was not to be silenced. No mournfulness arose that was not reluctant. Her existence had been as violent and garish as a burning mountain. The earth had swallowed the mountain, and in its place stretched a great waste. Steps resounded, the door opened, and Niels Heinrich came in. He nodded contemptuously toward the table at which Christian sat. He had pushed his bowler hat far back and kept it on his head. He looked about like some one examining quarters that had been advertised to be let. He walked into the second room, came back, stood impudently in front of Christian, and made a grimace. “What do you want?” Christian asked. He had come for Karen’s things, Niels Heinrich announced. The widow had sent him. He always called his mother that. His falsetto voice penetrated to every corner of the room. Everything of Karen’s would have to be handed over to him, he said, and counted and taken away. Very calmly Christian said: “I shall not hinder you. Do as you please.” Niels Heinrich whistled softly through his teeth. He turned around and saw Karen’s wooden box standing in a corner. He pulled it into the middle of the room. It was locked. First he struck it with his fist, then with his heel. Christian said it was not necessary to use force; Isolde Schirmacher had the key. Rudely Niels Heinrich swung around, and asked whether the pearls were in it. As Christian was silent in his surprise, the other added with growing irritation that the widow had told him a long story about a rope of pearls the size of pigeon’s eggs. He wanted to know who’d inherit those? Undoubtedly they’d belonged to Karen, had been given to her, in fact. Who’d inherit them, he’d like to know! Surely the family who were the rightful heirs. He hoped there’d be no damned nonsense on that point. “You are mistaken,” Christian said coldly. “The pearls did not belong to Karen. They belong to my mother, and I am bound by a promise to return them. At the first opportunity I shall send them to Frankfort.”